One Young Fool in Dorset

by Victoria Twead

  Unfortunately, the raiding of my sister’s wardrobe backfired somewhat. It sparked conversation, but, sadly, I was no closer to integrating.

  “You live in one of them big houses, up beyond the almshouses, eh?” asked one girl.

  “Er, yes…”

  “Your parents rich then?”

  “Er, no, not really, why?”

  “Well, ’cos you talk funny, all posh like, an’ you got so many clothes you wear sumfin diff’rent every day.”

  I persevered for a few months, and even developed a crush on a spotty youth called Barry, but I was never really happy at the Youth Club. Barry never noticed me, and when he started dating a tiny platinum blonde called Janice Parry, I gave up. She had pierced ears and a skirt shorter than Twiggy’s and I knew I was wasting my time.

  My sister, being four years older, was beginning to date boys. She was a good tennis player, and like my mother before her, began to meet boys at the Tennis Club.

  “Ach, bring your boyfriends back home to meet us any time,” my mother told her.

  It was summertime, and my mother spent most of her time in the garden and greenhouse, absorbed by seedlings, shrubs and propagation projects. My father did the digging, built small walls, erected fencing and took on any of the heavier jobs that needed doing.

  Both my parents loved the sun, and they were both, unlike me, totally unselfconscious about their bodies. As soon as the sun came out, they threw off their clothes and carried on with their household and gardening chores completely naked. Our garden was big, and the fences and hedges were high, so nobody could see in.

  I’m very glad I wasn’t home the time it happened, but my sister told me all about it. She’d been playing tennis with a boyfriend, and when he dropped her off at our house, she’d invited him in.

  “Come in and have a cold drink,” she said, “and I’ll introduce you to my parents.”

  He agreed, parked the car and the pair of them went inside.

  “I’m home! Anybody in?” she called, but nobody answered.

  Dumping her tennis racquet in a corner, my sister poured them each a lemonade.

  “Where are your parents?” asked the young man.

  “I don’t know, probably outside working in the garden. We’ll take them a lemonade.”

  They stepped out of the French doors into the garden. My sister looked around but could see neither of my parents. Then she caught the sound of hedge shears.

  “Oh, I think my father’s at the bottom, cutting the hedge,” she said. “Follow me.”

  They found my father standing on a stepladder, clipping the hedge. Apart from shoes, he was completely starkers.

  “Um, I’ve brought Peter to meet you,” said my sister, “and here’s some cold lemonade.”

  My father climbed down the steps and gravely shook hands with Peter.

  “How do you do,” he said.

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” said Peter, deadpan.

  “Good game of tennis?”

  “Oh, jolly good! We played doubles, and it was a very close game.”

  As Peter spoke, he looked neither left nor right, and certainly not down.

  “Oh good, who did you play with?”

  “James Graham and his cousin, Susan, do you know them?”

  “I believe I do,” said my father, sipping his lemonade. “Isn’t that the Grahams from Stoborough? Let me see, Susan would be the oldest daughter?”

  “Yes, Susan is the oldest, then there’s Katherine, I think. Of course James has brothers and sisters, too. All members of the Tennis Club.”

  My sister, telling me all about this after the event, was chuckling.

  “Both of them were pretending there was nothing abnormal about the situation at all,” she said. “They were both being so British!”

  I laughed like a drain at her description.

  “And the really funny thing was, both of them were so determined to act as though there was nothing unusual, neither of them could find a way to finish the conversation. So they just kept on talking about the Tennis Club, weather, politics, everything!”

  “Well,” I said, “it’s a good thing you didn’t decide to introduce him to Mother too. I know she was planning to pull out all the seed trays from under the bench in the potting shed for sterilising. She didn’t have a stitch on either, and she’d have probably been on all-fours when you and Peter went to find her.”

  We laughed until we had to hold our stomachs.

  * * *

  In 1969, I was fourteen years old when two momentous things happened. Humans walked on the surface of the moon, and I got my first part-time job.

  The teachers at school were very excited. Televisions (black and white, of course) were set up in various places in the school building and some of the teachers allowed us to watch. The moment was captured. Neil Armstrong stepped onto the lunar surface, and the world gasped.

  “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,” he said, and history was made.

  Of course I was interested, but fourteen-year-olds are very self-obsessed, and I’m sure I was no different. Getting a job and making some money to pay for new loons was at the forefront of my mind. My mother thought loons, brightly-coloured hipster bell-bottom trousers, were hideous, but we loved them.

  “Ach, you look like crazy carthorses,” she said in disgust.

  Later on, Levi or Wrangler jeans became the fashion. We would wear them so tight that we’d need to lie back on our beds and hook a coat-hanger in the zipper and pull hard to fasten them. And to ensure they were moulded exactly to our bodies, we sat wearing them in the bath. My mother rolled her eyes.

  A vacancy for a chambermaid arose at a hotel on the outskirts of Wareham. I went for an interview knowing there were two applicants for the job. I was the second to arrive, just as the first applicant was finishing her interview.

  “Thank you, Janice,” said the hotel proprietor. “I’ll let you know if you have been successful.”

  Janice looked at me just at the same moment as I looked at her. Our eyes locked in horror. It was Janice Parry from the Youth Club, my rival in love. She left and the hotel owner turned to me.

  “Victoria? Come about the chambermaid job?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you’re a student?” asked the proprietor, glancing at my application form.

  “Yes, I’m still at school actually.”

  “But you’re available to work on Saturdays and Sundays?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “What experience do you have with housework?”

  “Um, I always tidy my room.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I often clean the house.” Blatant lie.

  “And are you used to cleaning bathrooms?”

  “Oh yes.”

  My fingers were crossed behind my back.

  “Beds?”

  “Yes, I make my bed…” Inspiration suddenly hit me. “Oh, and when I went to boarding school I learned how to make hospital corners.”

  I’m pretty sure it was the hospital corners that landed me the job.

  So although Janice won spotty Barry, I won the job. I decided I had the much better deal and began to dream of the loons I would buy.

  It was only a small hotel, but it catered for a steady stream of visitors who arrived to enjoy Dorset and its many attractions. Wareham is an attractive market town surrounded by Saxon walls and steeped in history. The walls still remain, encircling the original town, and it is possible to walk almost the entire circle.

  Any tourist visiting Dorset, as well as enjoying more sunshine than most counties of England, will be spoilt for choice for places to visit. Castles, prehistoric remains, ancient monuments and hundreds of miles of spectacular coastline beckon.

  Of course, Dorset, or Wessex as it was known in Medieval times, is Hardy country. Thanks to Mrs Hall’s English lessons, I had a passion for Thomas Hardy’s books and poetry. I had visited Hardy’s cottage in Bockhampton, and Max Gate, his
former home, many times. Hardy’s hometown of Dorchester is called Casterbridge in his books, most famously in The Mayor of Casterbridge.

  Plenty of tourists came to the hotel intent on viewing Hardy country, many of them American.

  Max Gate, the former home of author Thomas Hardy,

  located in Dorchester, Dorset, England.

  One Saturday, the hotel proprietor handed me some keys.

  “Morning, Vicky, could you start with Number 7 today, please? It’s that American couple. They’ve already checked out, so it’ll need a complete change.”

  I took the keys, gathered my cleaning products and made my way to Room 7, stopping on the way to pick up clean sheets and towels from the linen cupboard.

  Inside Room 7, I stripped the bed and noticed that the occupants had left a book behind on the bedside table. I picked it up and read the title. Hardy’s Dorset, I believe it was called.

  Resisting the urge to flick through it, I cleaned the bathroom, then opened the mini-fridge. On a plate in the fridge sat perhaps two-thirds of a beautiful Dorset clotted cream chocolate cake.

  I stared at it for a moment, and it stared back.

  Well, Cake, the occupants of Number 7 have already gone, so I imagine it wouldn’t matter if I just had a little taste of you?

  As the cake didn’t reply, I guessed it was giving me permission to eat it. I grabbed a knife, and took the plate with me over to the bed. I sat down, cut myself a sliver, and munched happily.

  What do you think, Cake? It’d be okay to have another slice, wouldn’t it?

  No reply. Definitely no argument.

  This time the slice of cake I cut was much more generous. I swung my feet up onto the bed and picked up the book from the bedside table. It looked interesting, so I leaned back on the pillows.

  I was absorbed in the book and munching happily on the cake when the door handle turned

  16 Wales

  Welsh Rarebit (Cheese on Toast)

  I stared at the opening door in sheer horror. My mouth was full of clotted cream chocolate cake but my jaws had frozen, mid-chomp. The book fell into my lap.

  In the doorway stood my boss, the hotel owner. Time stood still.

  Oh no, Janice Parry is going to get this job after all.

  He stopped, and his mouth dropped open when he saw what I was doing. I was supposed to be making up the bed with fresh linen, not leaning back on the pillows of a guest bed, reading a book, stuffing my face with chocolate cake.

  But worse was to come. Behind him I could hear the American couple, Mr and Mrs Matthews, approaching.

  I dropped the book, jumped off the bed and swallowed my mouthful of cake, all in one movement. My boss’s face had turned an unhealthy shade of purple.

  “I cannot believe…” he started, as Mrs Matthews popped her head round the door, then came in.

  “Gee! I sure am glad you’re eating that cake!” she said, eyeing the much-reduced cake on the plate. “We hoped somebody would eat it, didn’t we, Chuck? Too good to waste and we couldn’t take that on the airplane with us really.”

  My boss was still doing a codfish impression, but he closed his mouth, although his eyes were still bulging alarmingly.

  “And y’all found our book on your Thomas Hardy!” chimed in Mr Matthews. “That’s what we came back for. Wanted to show the folks back home where we’d been.”

  “Much obliged to y’all for cleaning our room and finding our book,” said Mrs Matthews. “We’ve really enjoyed our stay in your quaint little hotel. Now we must hurry or we’ll miss that airplane.”

  They bustled out, but not before Mr Matthews had stuffed a crisp £5 note into my uniform pocket.

  My boss shook his head, stared at me for a moment, then hurried after them. Somehow I’d got away with it, and after I’d been scolded by my boss, the matter was never mentioned again. Janice Parry didn’t get my job after all, but I’d learned my lesson.

  * * *

  I wasn’t very good at tennis, or any sport, but I always wanted to ride a horse. Even the criminal New Forest ponies hadn’t put me off. I continued to plead but my parents wouldn’t allow it, saying that it was far too expensive. Although I now had a job, I couldn’t afford regular lessons. However, another opportunity to ride horses presented itself.

  “Why don’t you go on this Youth Hostel holiday?” asked my mother, waving a newspaper advertisement in my direction.

  “You know I didn’t like the Youth Club much.”

  “Ach, this is completely different, nothing to do with a Youth Club. Youth Hostels are a way of staying in wonderful places in England and Wales. You can stay in a castle, or mansion, or farm, all very cheap!”

  My mother liked to save money.

  “I don’t think…”

  “Read it! It’s a pony trekking holiday in Wales.”

  “Oh!”

  I read the details and decided it did look rather appealing.

  “Now that you have your new job, you can save up and go if you want. Your father and I will help.”

  I mentioned it to Annabel, and she rather liked the idea too. Auntie Jean and Uncle Frank had no objections, so we both booked.

  The description ran something like this:

  Enjoy six days riding our native Welsh cobs and ponies on treks across the picturesque Black Mountains. Enjoy the Brecon Beacons with its wonderful views, interesting riding trails and mountain streams. We cater for riders of all abilities.

  We would be staying at one particular Youth Hostel in the Brecon Beacons national park. On one of the days, we’d trek to another Youth Hostel and stay there the night. It sounded perfect.

  Annabel and I spent ages planning and deciding what we needed to pack. It was summertime, but good weather can never be relied upon in Britain. Therefore, rain-proof jackets and wellington boots were essential, as were jeans, T-shirts and sweaters. Then came the question of underwear.

  “I think I’ve had a brilliant idea,” I said. “Rather than taking lots of pairs of knickers, or less and then having to think about washing and drying them, why not take paper pants?”

  “Paper knickers?”

  “Yes, I saw them at Boots the Chemist. They come in packs. I’m going to buy a couple of packs, I think! They’re disposable so I won’t have to worry about washing and drying them, I’ll just throw them away at the end of the day.”

  Genius.

  Annabel didn’t follow my lead, which was probably very wise.

  Our holiday took place about 45 years ago, so I’m a little fuzzy over exactly where we stayed in the Black Mountains. I believe we slept in a ‘bunkhouse’ and I remember that there was a roster sharing out the chores. Some cooked, others cleared up after the meal. Those not working were free to sit on beanbags and sing Where have all the flowers gone? while one of our fellow guests, a German with long hair, strummed his guitar.

  When we arrived, all our mounts were tethered in a line outside in the yard and we were allocated a pony each. Annabel was given Dougal, and my mount and companion for the week was a sturdy little mare with calm, liquid eyes and a shaggy mane. Her name was Megan. She sized me up briefly then carried on munching hay from the rack on the wall.

  We were handed a bundle of reins, rugs, brushes, hoof-picks, saddles, and additional horsey paraphernalia, all baffling to a novice like me.

  Annabel and Dougal

  First we had to put a halter on our ponies, then take it off again. Megan didn’t mind that, so long as I didn’t get in the way of her hay munching.

  “Good,” said Jack, our trek leader. “Now you will groom your ponies. Give your pony a good brushing down.”

  I enjoyed that, and I think Megan did too, although she didn’t stop munching long enough to tell me.

  Megan and me

  “Now,” said Jack, “pick out each foot with your hoof pick. Avoid the frog and the quick, and as you groom, check the horse for lumps, bumps or swellings.”

  Obediently, we did as asked. Megan didn’t seem to mind sta
nding on three legs while I picked her hooves. It certainly didn’t spoil her appetite.

  “Is your pony still munching?” I asked Annabel, beside me. “Mine never seems to stop.”

  “No, he stopped ages ago.”

  “Right,” said Jack, “now for the bridles. Put the reins over your pony’s head, like this.”

  Done.

  “Put the bit in the horse’s mouth.”

  For the first time, Megan objected, and I knew why. I was interfering with her food intake.

  “Put a finger on each side of the bit and gently push against the horse’s mouth,” said Jack.

  “Ouch!”

  I think Megan mistook my novice fingers for a bunch of carrots.

  “Victoria, it’s a good idea to put your thumbs in the very corner of Megan’s mouth, where she has no teeth.”

  Now he tells me!

  We succeeded in the end, after much fumbling. By now, Megan had finished her own hay and had started on Dougal’s.

  “Well done, everyone,” said Jack, as I rubbed my bruised fingers. “And now for saddling up.”

  We all watched as Jack demonstrated with his pony.

  “Put on the blanket first. Place the front on the horse’s withers, and slide it down a bit so the hair isn’t pushed into an unnatural position. Place the saddle gently on the horse’s back and buckle up the girth.”

  That looked simple enough. I followed his instructions and as Megan munched, I slipped the girth around her sturdy middle and buckled it quite tightly, allowing space for just two (bruised) fingers, exactly like Jack showed us.

  “And now it’s time to mount! Stand next to your pony’s left front leg.”

  We did so.

  “Hold the reins in your left hand. Put your left foot in the stirrup. Stand on your left foot and swing your right leg over … and there we are!”

  Jack was astride his mount, and our party began to copy his movements.

  “I did it!” called Annabel, patting her Dougal’s neck.

  Megan stood munching quietly as I positioned myself correctly. I placed my foot in the stirrup and swung myself up. The next thing I knew, I had landed with a thud on my backside on the ground on the other side of Megan. The entire saddle had rotated; the girth was much too loose. Megan probably rolled her eyes but she didn’t even stop chewing.