by Alice Taylor
Once she fell seriously ill and it was agreed amongst the neighbours that hers could be the next funeral, but when another neighbour died the prospect of attending a funeral soon lifted her out of her sick-bed. As she stood at the graveside watching the coffin being lowered she remarked with a sob to Dan, who happened to be standing beside her, that she supposed she’d be next.
“That’s what they’re all saying anyway,” he assured her.
Bessie-Babe had a farm back the valley and sometimes Dan worked with her but declared that he could not stay too long or he would die from hunger. She was a widow woman and Dan firmly believed that she had starved her husband to death.
“That woman,” he would say, “was born in a grumbling month and is the manest woman who ever wore shoe leather; as a matter of fact, she is the tightest and most miserable strap under the canopy of heaven, and that’s a wide territory.”
Another of Dan’s pronouncements about her was that she was “too clane to be dacent”, and her house was indeed spotless. “A place for everything and everything in its place” was her motto, and whenever I was in her house I was always afraid to sit down in case I would upset something. She believed so strongly in keeping everything in its place that she would not allow Dan into her own kitchen but fed him in the scullery where she kept her pots and pans. We were not sure whether she did this out of an over-enthusiastic concern for hygiene, which she certainly possessed, or notions of grandeur. She undoubtedly considered herself a touch smarter than the rest of us, and Mrs Casey used to say of her, “That one has high ideas, like Taylor’s gander when he gets on top of the dunghill.”
Always looking for bargains, she kept the shopkeepers in town on their toes. Indeed, if Ned wanted to recommend something as representing great value he would say, “Bessie-Babe bought this.” She bought, in fact, very little, being a devotee of patching patches and darning darns. She took large baskets of eggs into town where she bargained with the shopkeepers to get the best possible price for them. If she succeeded in extracting a high price then she would buy the neighbours’ eggs at the old, lower price and resell them to the shop. Rabbits could also be sold to shops, and young fellows would often be seen cycling into town with rows of them hanging off the crossbars of their bikes. The rabbits provided them with good pocket-money but Bessie-Babe moved in on their territory for if there was money to be made she wanted to be in on it, and she became the only woman around who dealt in rabbits.
Every conversation with her opened with the same words: “Whisper here a minute”, and then she would deliver herself of an endless litany of complaints. My father dreaded an encounter with her and would run a mile to avoid it; he used to say that she put years on him. One day, after having been cornered by her for a long session, he came in home and threw himself into the chair, quite exhausted.
“That woman,” he declared, “is like a waxy hen’s shit: there’s no getting rid of her, she just clings on.”
At a ripe old age she finally died and, having enjoyed burying so many, it was only right that she had a huge funeral herself. Dan was there, of course, and delivered the opinion that her burial bonnet should have been placed on top of her coffin like a soldier’s cap.
Anyone For Pandy?
MY MOTHER BOILED a big, black pot of potatoes for the dinner every day except Sunday. Whether there were to be ten or twenty for the dinner, the same big pot was hung over the fire; the dangling pot-hangers were threaded through its ears while flames licked around its black bottom. A tin bucketful of purple potatoes was then poured in, thumping off the bottom and sides before being packed down under the iron cover. These spuds came straight from the bosom of mother earth and there was no need to limit the supply as there were plenty more where they came from. Another reason why so many went into the pot was because hungry spud-consumers came in five successive categories: human beings, cats, dogs, fowl and pigs. We, as befitted the supposedly most civilised of the five species, got the first bite.
The flowery spuds were judged ready for removal when they started to smile across the top of the pot. A huge ware dish, reminiscent of a feast Henry VIII might have held, was then placed in the centre of the kitchen table and potatoes were poured into it until there was a mountain of them. Smaller, younger members of the household facing each other across the table had to wait for the mountain to be demolished before they could gain sight of each other again. As the potato mountain diminished small hills of skins arose, until all were satisfied.
Jacket potatoes were the order of the day, but occasionally the luxury of pandy came our way. You were not judged worthy of pandy unless you were very young, very ill or “feeling delicate”, as my father termed the state of being out of harmony with the world. Today pandy might be called mashed potato by the unenlightened, but it was not quite the same thing.
Pandy first required a big, soft, flowery spud with a long smile across its face. Starting at the smile, the skin was eased off gently and the naked spud, almost too hot to handle, was transferred fast by hand into another plate, leaving its clothes in a heap behind it. Next a lump of yellow butter was placed on top, from where it ran in little yellow streams down the sides. A gentle little poke with the fork opened up a cavity into which went a drop of milk or a spoon of cream skimmed off the top of the bucket, followed by a shake of salt. Finally, the entire slushy combination was lightly whipped together and frequently tasted to ascertain that the correct balance was being achieved. It took great care and a discerning palate to make really good pandy; it had to be yellow, soft, delicately flavoured, and as light as thistledown on the tongue. When you were sick or not feeling happy you judged how much your mother and the world loved you by the quality of her pandy. It was our antibiotic, our tranquilizer and our sleeping potion.
The royal spud ruled in the kitchen, but the king was also democratic, for he came down a step from the kitchen table into the dogs’ bucket, where he was joined by surplus cabbage and turnips – the regular vegetables on our unvaried menu – and bits of bacon which were too fat or grizzly for us to eat. The various leftovers were hand-mixed to a gooey mess with the aid of vegetable water and fed in disused churn covers or rusty pans to a motley collection of cats and dogs. The dogs got the first round, starting with the biggest because all dogs, like most humans, believe in the survival of the fittest. When the little dogs had finished the cats came into their own, daintily licking around the edges and picking up delicate morsels that the slashing dogs’ tongues had missed. Any leftover pandy was saved for the cats as they were considered discerning enough in their tastes to appreciate it. The pandy was placed in a saucer and surrounded by a river of milk, so the cats had eating and drinking in it.
The fowl tucked in next and the leftover potatoes with their jackets still on them were hand-mashed, oozing stickily between bruising fingers which crushed them out through their skins. This was then mixed with crushed oats and produced a grainy, substantial meal which the hens gobbled down appreciatively. The remaining pandy was reserved for the chickens whose taste-buds and beaks had not yet been coarsened by the pickings of the great outdoors; they pecked timidly at the fluffy pandy, its delicate consistency ideal for their baby stomachs. The tiny young chicks and the pandy blended together in a soft yellow colour combination.
Pigs provided the final destination of the potatoes. In the centre of their house was a circular iron trough, its base curled up saucer-like, with iron dividers to keep hungry heads apart and prevent bad manners in the trough. All surviving leftovers from the kitchen table were indiscriminately dumped in here, where they were wolfed down with total disregard for either flavour or finesse. Pigs were certainly not numbered amongst the connoisseurs of pandy, which provided comfort and sustenance to delicate humans, cats and, especially, the females of the species.
Molly’s Cottage
ON TUESDAY EVENINGS we cleaned the eggs with damp cloths and bread soda, and the following morning we took a big basket of them down to Molly’s, because Wednesday w
as the day the egg lorry came to her cottage. I always looked forward avidly to what was for me one of the highlights of the week: the visit to Molly’s cottage.
There was no gate between the road and her garden, only a gap in the mossy ditch which in the spring was covered with daffodils and in the summer was smothered with buttercups. Despite her goat’s best efforts to devour everything in sight, Molly’s flowers tumbled and climbed over the low stony ditch that surrounded her cobbled yard. The orange shafts of her donkey cart in the open shed contrasted with the black rick of turf. Often there was a bicycle or two in the shed which had been left by neighbours because behind Molly’s cottage was a hill road which was easier to walk up without the encumbrance of a bike.
When we visited her on Wednesday mornings I always ran ahead as soon as her thatched roof came into view in order to get a few extra minutes to peer in over her half-door. The stillness of the shadowy kitchen reached out to me over the half-door and never failed to intrigue me. At first I could see nothing but the glow of the turf fire; I could smell the fire’s peaty fragrance, and I could hear the ticking of her clock and the clicking of her knitting needles. But gradually my eyes adjusted to the dimness and the dark objects inside came into focus.
Directly opposite the door her dresser displayed all Molly’s ware, and I was familiar with every item. Blue saucers stood proudly on the top shelf, matching bread-plates beneath, and cups hung off the hooks on the edge of each shelf. Below them were her dinner plates and, at the base, her big meat-dishes. At the corner of one of the shelves was a special set of ware which she never used. Her mother had given it to her as a wedding present, having received it from her own mother. The cups were paper-thin china with pale pink roses and the whole set was Molly’s pride and joy. It was seldom taken down but sometimes she allowed me to hold a cup just to feel how delicate and beautiful it was. In the open section at the bottom were stacked her kettles and pots.
She had a wonderful pair of hands that embroidered, knitted and sewed, but most beautiful of all was her lace. It covered a little table under the small, deep-set window and on the table was a brass lamp, her spare glasses, and whatever she happened to be working on at the time. The shelf over the fire which she called the “clevy” had a lace runner over an edged oilcloth; a pair of glass dogs sat there beside her clock, in front of which I used to sit waiting for its lovely, mellow chime. Every chair in the room was softened with plump feather cushions in embroidered and lace covers.
Much of her time she spent sitting beside her glowing turf fire, always busy with her hands, the clicking of needles often the only sound apart from the ticking of the clock and the clucking of the hens outside. A knitted shawl curved around her shoulders, and over her long, black, satin skirt a white, lace-edged apron rested when she was sewing. Peeping from beneath her long skirt her kid-leather shoes glinted in the firelight; a small, dainty figure, she seemed almost like a doll and was the first adult whom I was tall enough to look down on.
She was always delighted to see us and when she wrapped her arms around us in welcome she was as soft as a ball of her own knitting wool and smelt of lavender. As soon as she had us seated by the fire she hung the kettle over it; nobody ever called to her without getting a cup of tea coloured with rich goat’s milk and a slice of the delicious cream-cake which she baked in a very small bastable.
Molly was the same age as my grandmother but I never thought of her as old, only as kind and rather frail. Her face was wrinkled with smiles and her brown eyes twinkled with humour. The biggest treat she could give me was to let me into her bedroom where her lacemaking really came into its own, edging the pillow-cases and draping down over the bed in the most gorgeous bedspread. Her dressing-table, chest of drawers and window-sill all had lace cloths, and on a whatnot in the corner lace cloths peeped over the edge of the little shelves on which family photographs stood in silver frames. Beside the bedroom fireplace was a clock with weights and chains and if the weights were far enough down she would allow me to pull the chains.
It was an entirely feminine house lacking any trace of male influence. As a young girl Molly had spent many years in America where she had married a man “with wanderlust in his legs”, as she said herself. When she had returned to the home cottage he had stayed there with her for a few months but soon became restless and set off on his travels again, coming and going several times but never remaining long. And then one day she had received a telegram informing her that he had been killed in an accident. She brought him home and buried him in the graveyard overlooking the river. One day she gave me a present of a little white china jug with a gold rim, saying, “Pray that my wanderer is at peace.” I took her at her word: I called it my praying jug and kept holy water in it.
I often thought that heaven could well be Molly’s cottage on a larger scale. One evening my father called to visit her and found her asleep in her chair, as it seemed; Molly had left her cottage and had gone, undoubtedly, to the real heaven. When next I entered the house, for once I did not pause at the half-door but went instead directly through the kitchen to her bedroom where she had been laid out in her lovely bed of lace with her crochet shawl around her shoulders. All her clocks had stopped and I thought that my heart would break, knowing that I would never again sit with her waiting for them to chime.
The Second Step
I LEFT THE old stone school across the fields and moved on to the local secondary school in the nearby town; I left my childhood behind and stepped into adolescence. My new school was three miles from the main road entrance to our farm, and our house was almost another half-mile back from the road. Every morning we walked to school, leaving the house at about half past eight, and every evening we started the return journey at about four, arriving home at around five. In the half-light of winter mornings we dragged ourselves out of bed and gathered together some kind of packed lunch while eating our breakfast. There was no question of my mother preparing lunches as she was already out milking the cows, so self-reliance came early to us.
I was definitely not a morning person and it took the three and more miles into school to bring me gradually into touch with the world around me. As we walked down the road we drove the cows of one of the neighbouring farmers back to the fields after milking. When we reached a field further down the road they turned in at a gap, and sometimes I was so far removed from reality that I drifted in amongst them. Occasionally a slash of a tail across my face shocked me into sudden wakefulness and I came to my senses only to find that I was wedged between two large, round-bellied cows and it would take a good thump on the rump of one of them to open the trap I had entered.
Horses and carts with tall milk churns trundled by and sometimes, if we were few in number, might give us a spin. If we got a lift on a cold winter’s morning we could warm ourselves then against the warm milk churns, standing between them or sitting on top. If, however, the cart jolted going over a stone or because the horse suddenly quickened at a slap of the reins, this could bring a spray of milk out from under the churn covers, resulting in a warm footbath. Or, if you were sitting in comfort on a piece of hay or a coarse bag on the setlock, you could enjoy the doubtful privilege of receiving this shower of milk down the back of your neck. By evening, in summer at least, the milk would have dried to a tacky and uncomfortable consistency and would be exuding a strong sour smell, causing others to do their best to avoid you.
When there was a pig market in town we drove the pigs before us on our way to school. But on arrival at the edge of the town we abandoned them to the adult in charge as we felt it beneath our dignity to be seen chasing pigs along the streets. Thick-skinned, stubborn animals, the pigs often created chaos by paying unwelcome visits through open shop-doors. Their baby bonhams were brought to market in a pony crib where they squealed in protest when jobbers poked amongst them testing their potential for developing into grade A bacon. The pig market filled the early morning air of the town with grunts and squeals and perfumed it with pungent farmy
ard smells. As the bonhams were confined to cribs and the sows were usually restrained by reins, only a small number of pigs actually ran around disrupting the normal life of the town, but even these few could make a mighty contribution to the general mayhem.
The fair days when calves and cows poured into the town created real havoc. On our way to school we would meet jobbers out on the road waiting to catch an unwary farmer and secure a bargain. These jobbers, wily operators who were well versed in the skills of bargaining and who moved from fair to fair trading livestock, were different in their appearance from farmers; they always seemed to wear fawn overcoats and brown leather boots, they generally had slick, suave appearances, and they were smooth talkers. Bargaining could go on all day with much toing and froing, and often a middle-man called a tangler clinched the deal and took his own reward from it.
I would watch the varieties of men at the fair as they struck the poses that seemed an essential part of their business, never quite getting used to their habit of spitting on to their hand before offering it for the final handshake to seal their agreement. Despite all the spitting and handshakes, arguments about luck money usually ensued; the man who had sold was expected to return some token amount to the buyer to give him luck with the animal, but this luck money could often be the cause of another protracted argument. The entire bargaining session, which often lasted many hours, was an exercise in debating skill, oratory and one-upmanship, all occasioned by the simple necessity of selling a cow. The grand finale of the whole performance could take place in the middle of an admiring circle of onlookers, all of whom felt free to voice their own opinions on the deal. Sometimes hidden within the ranks of the onlookers might be a “puffer”, whose function it was to raise the price despite having no intention of buying.
