One Young Fool in Dorset

by Victoria Twead

  At lunch times, I would often choose not to sit in the staffroom with the other workers. Instead, I would stretch out in the long grass at the edge of the pasture, staring up at the Dorset sky, sharing my sandwiches with Nig-Nog and telling him all my troubles.

  “Can you believe that Tony could be such a rat, Nig-Nog?”

  “Meooowww-purrp-meow.”

  “If he was really a rat you’d catch him for me, wouldn’t you?”

  “Purrrp-meoeeew.”

  “Thank you, I knew you would.”

  “Purrrp.”

  * * *

  During the school holidays I worked full-time at the animal sanctuary, and during term time, I just worked weekends. I should have been studying, but I set aside very little time for that. So when the offer of an additional part-time job came along, I seriously considered it.

  “They were talking in Cullens,” said my mother. “There’s a waitress job going on the quay. It might suit you better than the animal sanctuary, it’s much closer.”

  “I don’t want to give up my job there,” I said, “but perhaps I could do both?”

  “Ach, what about your studying? You want to get into that Teacher Training College, you know.”

  I did know, but I didn’t really care. At least when I was working, I didn’t have time to think about Tony and the way his long hair curled over his shoulders, or brood over how horrible men were.

  Wareham is an ancient, historic town situated on the River Frome which leads out to Poole Harbour. (The smaller River Piddle, whose name still makes me giggle, also flows past Wareham.) Excavations have produced axe heads and flint workings, evidence of settlements dated around 9000 BC. Up until the 12th or 13th century, Wareham had been quite a major port, but as the river began to silt up, most of the foreign trade transferred to Poole.

  Although, as a youngster, I may not have appreciated it, I was aware that Wareham quay was extremely picturesque. Steeped in ancient Saxon and Roman history as it is, Wareham is a place that tourists flock to, and the quay is seldom quiet. A white arched bridge spans the Frome and the scene, with its little boats, historic buildings and water reflections has been reproduced on postcards countless times. My book-jacket designer, Nick Saltmer, chose to paint Wareham quay as the cover to this book.

  There were, and still are, two pubs on the quay, The Quay Inn and The Old Granary. The job vacancy was for a waitress at The Old Granary, a lovely old building right beside the water. I already had a little experience waitressing, and therefore got the job, but I was never a good waitress.

  The Old Granary offered a delicious menu which attracted a mixed clientele; some locals, some regulars and numerous tourists. Most of the customers were utterly polite and charming, particularly the Americans who gazed around wide-eyed, drinking in the history we Brits so take for granted.

  However, I remember an instance with customers who were so rude, I never forgot them.

  23 Gits and Goats

  Coq au Vin

  The Old Granary had a family atmosphere, so when I walked up to attend a particular table, I was surprised to see two men sitting there, staring at me belligerently.

  “Good evening,” I smiled. “I’m Vicky and I’ll be serving you this evening.”

  “You don’t look like a Vicky,” said the one who was wearing a green shirt and a Mickey Mouse tie. “We’ll call you Josephine.”

  “Josephine! Haw-haw, you look like a Josephine,” said his companion, a balding man sporting one of those flashy new digital Casio watches.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  Well, they can call me whatever they like as long as they leave a decent tip, I thought.

  I said nothing but my eyes strayed to a tower of 50 pence pieces in the middle of the white tablecloth.

  “Ah,” crowed Mickey Mouse, “you’ve noticed these little beauties then! That’s your tip there, Josephine! There’s five nice British pounds here, but every time you displease us, I’m going to take one away.”

  “Haw-haw!” guffawed Casio Watch.

  My mouth dropped open.

  “You’re joking!” I blurted.

  They weren’t. Mickey Mouse’s hand shot out and removed the top coin from the pile.

  “Haw-haw!” guffawed Casio Watch. “Careful, Josephine! He did warn you!”

  “You haven’t given us a menu yet, Josephine,” said Mickey Mouse, removing another 50 pence piece from the dwindling tower and slipping it back in his pocket.

  Nothing went right.

  The water jug was too full and splashed the cloth.

  The wine was corked.

  The food arrived too slowly.

  There wasn’t enough vin in the coq au vin.

  The peas were overcooked.

  “Oh dear, Josephine, you won’t have much of a tip left unless you buck your ideas up,” said Mickey Mouse, slipping yet another 50 pence piece into his pocket.

  I’d already come to terms with the fact that I would not be earning a tip from this table. In my head, I called them the Gruesome Twosome, and it wasn’t only their tipping strategy that irked me. Throughout their meal, they kept calling for me.

  “Josephine! Over here! You haven’t refilled the bread basket!”

  “Josephine! Where’s the tartare sauce?”

  Then, when I served them, they wouldn’t stop talking, even when I tried to back away to serve other tables. To make matters worse, Casio Watch invaded my personal space and grabbed my wrist, preventing me from getting away.

  “Excuse me, I need to check your order in the kitchen,” I protested, and tried to pull away.

  By now, the Gruesome Twosome had consumed two bottles of wine between them and were even louder and more unruly.

  “They are impossible!” I ranted to the other staff in the kitchen.

  “They sound like a couple of gits,” agreed the chef.

  ‘Git’ was a rude word, commonly used in Dorset, meaning a contemptible person. I thought it fitted the Gruesome Twosome perfectly.

  “Josephine!” said Mickey Mouse, plucking at my apron ties as I served a neighbouring table. “Are you going to give us a discount?”

  “No,” I said flatly, and saw the last 50 pence piece disappear into his pocket.

  “Well! How very rude!” said Mickey Mouse, affronted. “And after we’ve been so nice to you, too! You mark my words, we’ll never come back to this restaurant.”

  I cheered inwardly but said nothing as I watched them count out exactly the right money for the bill and leave it on the table. They were the last customers to leave. I stood with the other members of staff as they blundered their way out, bumping into tables, reaching the coat stand, collecting their jackets, stepping out onto the quay, and finally slamming the restaurant door behind them. Forgive me, but I hoped they’d fall into the River Frome. I wouldn’t be jumping in to rescue them. Nasty little gits.

  “Good riddance!” I muttered, then smiled to myself.

  “Did they leave you a good tip?” asked the chef, catching my smile.

  “No,” I said, “but I left them one.”

  I wondered how long it would take them to find the fish heads I’d picked out of the kitchen dustbin and pushed into their coat pockets.

  Would they work out where the fish heads had come from?

  Of course they would.

  Would they come back the next day and get me fired?

  Probably.

  I didn’t care. It was worth it. And anyway, I had decided that waitressing was not for me. If I wanted to be a teacher, perhaps I should concentrate a little harder on my school work and passing my exams.

  * * *

  I enjoyed my days in the cattery, but occasionally I would be asked to help in other departments, to cover for absent members of staff. Sometimes I took over the kennels but I was nervous of some of the dogs and I never attempted to take bad-tempered Pepper for a walk.

  More often I’d help out at the goat stable, and the first time this happened, I needed to be taught what
to do. Nobody was forced to work in any department, but I volunteered, thinking working with goats might be fun. Julie usually cared for the goats and she showed me what needed to be done.

  The goats had their own large stable where they spent the night. The cement floor was lined with straw.

  “Right,” said Julie. “First thing in the morning, open the top half of the stable door and look inside. Check them out, make sure they all look okay. Take care, because goats are jumpers. If you’re not careful, they’ll take a flying leap at the door and try to escape.”

  “Okay,” I said, as she demonstrated how to do it.

  “Next,” said Julie, “slip in, closing the door firmly behind you. Come on!”

  I followed her closely. Julie swung the door closed and switched on the light. A dozen horned heads swung in our direction. A few of the braver ones stepped forward.

  “Morning, goats!” said Julie. Then to me, “They are naturally curious, they’ll come up and sniff you, and probably start chewing on your clothes, so watch out!”

  Soon I was in the thick of the baaing, hard-headed herd. The goats stepped on my feet with their sharp hooves, and their long teeth plucked at my T-shirt.

  “Quick!” said Julie. “Grab that little brown one by the horns before she skips away. That’s Jemima. She has a phantom pregnancy and we need to milk her before we take the goats to their field.”

  I grabbed Jemima, and Julie pulled the little goat towards her, then leant her against the wall. Jemima’s udders were tight, but a few expert squeezes from Julie relieved the pressure.

  “You milk her every morning?” I asked.

  “Yup! It’s not hard though, as soon as you’ve caught her she’ll let you do it.”

  “Okay, so what’s next?”

  “We need to get the whole herd out of the stable and down the lane to their field.”

  “Does anybody help?”

  “Nope. There is only one way to do it and you only get one chance. When you open the stable door, they could run out and go left or right. We need to make sure they turn left, go down to the bottom of the lane, and turn into their field.”

  “How on earth do you do that with no help?”

  “Goats are really inquisitive, and they love chasing things. Especially old Butch here.” She scratched the head of a particularly large white-bearded goat beside her. “And if Butch runs, the whole herd will follow.”

  “So what does Butch chase after?”

  “You.”

  I gaped at her.

  “Me? Chase me?”

  What? No dog to round them up or chase after?

  “Yes, you. I do it every morning and evening. It’s not difficult, you just need to know what to expect.”

  “So this is the only way to get the goats to their field?”

  “Yup. You shouldn’t have any problems. Big Denise can’t do it, of course, because she can’t run.”

  This conversation was not filling me with confidence and I suddenly wished I’d made more of an effort in PE at school.

  “Right, first we need to get out of the stable without letting any goats out. Follow me.”

  We squeezed out and stood outside.

  “Bring some carrots with you tomorrow, it’ll make things much easier.” She grabbed a bunch from a bucket by the door. “Now watch, and follow me closely. Do everything I do. When we get to the field, dart behind the gate.”

  Before I had time to ask any more questions, Julie swung open the upper half of the door.

  “Goaties!” she called, jiggling the carrots. “Look what I’ve got!”

  All the goats swung round and eyed the carrots.

  “Come and get them!”

  She threw open the lower section of the stable door, turned, and pelted down the lane. I sprinted after her, and right behind me galloped the herd of goats. It was only a short lane, with high hedges either side, but that day it felt a full mile long.

  Once in the field, she flung the carrots as far as she could, then darted behind the gate, with me close on her heels. The goats galloped to the carrots, but Butch had reached them first and was already munching. The goats spun round, looking for Julie, the carrot provider.

  “Quick, close the gate,” panted Julie.

  Together we pushed it closed, then leant on it, catching our breaths and watching the goats lose interest in us and begin to graze on the grass and hedges.

  “And you do this every day?”

  “Yup. Evenings are easier. You don’t have to bribe them because they know there’s a feed waiting for them in the stable. You still have to let them chase you though, otherwise they’d take all evening because they’d stop to graze the hedges, and some might wander off.”

  I sighed and wished that I’d never volunteered to help with the goats, and hoped tomorrow would never come.

  Julie showed Nig-Nog and me how to muck out the stable and prepare the evening feed.

  “You’ll be fine tomorrow. Even if they catch you, they won’t hurt you. They might head-butt you a bit, specially old Butch, but that’s all.”

  “I’m really not looking forward to tomorrow,” I told Nig-Nog later as I shared my cheese sandwich with him.

  “Meooowww-purrrpp.”

  The next day arrived much too quickly. I made my way to the goat stable and let myself in, while Nig-Nog sat on the fence watching proceedings.

  Catching Jemima proved easy, in spite of the other goats pushing and nuzzling me curiously, and old Butch searching my pockets. I was glad I’d left my carrots outside. Jemima let me grab her udder and I imitated Julie’s action, pleased to see a few squirts of milk hit the straw at my feet.

  Good. That was done. All I had to do now was slip out of the stable. Easy. My confidence was returning.

  “All going well so far,” I told Nig-Nog cheerily.

  I grabbed the bunch of carrots from the bucket by the door, and took a deep breath before opening the upper section of the stable door.

  “Goaties!” I called, holding the carrots up just like Julie had done. “Look what I’ve got!”

  The goats all swung round and stared. Old Butch’s eyes narrowed and he launched himself at the carrots. But I was too quick. Swiftly pulling back the bolt securing the bottom half of the door, I swung it open and tore down the lane as though my life depended on it, pursued by Butch and the entire goat herd.

  Surely the lane was longer than yesterday? I could hear the hooves thundering behind me. I risked a glance over my shoulder, and that was my undoing. Somehow, I tripped over my own feet and stumbled. The ground came up to meet me.

  Something snatched the carrots from my hand. Butch.

  Sharp hooves pawed me. Whiskery faces nudged me.

  I stood up quickly, furious with myself. Now what? Some of the goats had circled Butch, hoping for a bite of carrot, but the last traces were fast disappearing.

  Quick! I had to act fast or the goats would start wandering. I patted my pockets, searching for inspiration. I had nothing except a red handkerchief. I drew it out.

  “Goaties!” I yelled, waving the hanky. “Look what I’ve got!”

  And then I ran.

  The goats lifted their heads and stampeded after me. Seconds later I was in the field. The hanky was balled in my hand by now and I flung it as far as I could. It landed just a few feet away but still gave me enough time to get behind the gate and push it shut while the herd investigated the hanky.

  “Whew! I did it!” I said aloud as I leaned on the gate looking back into the field.

  Some goats had already lost interest, wandered off and busily cropped the long grass and dandelions. Butch was swallowing the last remnants of my red handkerchief. I sighed. That’s why I loved this job; no two days were ever the same.

  Working at the animal sanctuary, Nig-Nog, the cattery, and the goats, all filled my mind most of the time, but I still mourned the loss of Tony and just thinking about him would make my heart ache with hurt pride.

  24 Surprising Visitors
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  In the afternoons, the sanctuary would open to visitors and we all hoped that some of our charges would find new homes.

  It was unlikely that anybody would give homes to our retired pit ponies. These ponies were little more than 12 hands high and over twenty years old, unsuitable for riding.

  Working conditions for pit ponies had improved over the years, but in the old days, shaft ponies were usually stabled underground, only surfacing during the colliery’s annual holidays. They could work an eight-hour shift daily, during which they might haul 30 tons of coal. How wonderful it was to see them end their days cropping the lush Dorset grass. It’s unbelievable and shameful to think that the last pit ponies were retired as late as the 1990s.

  It was doubtful that anyone would re-home the retired beach donkeys, either. These plucky little beasts of burden had spent their lives trudging up and down the sands, giving children rides. At least the sanctuary could give them a peaceful retirement in the green fields of Dorset.

  No, it was much more likely that visitors would adopt a cat or dog. The puppies and kittens in the Special Care unit never stayed long, somebody always fell in love with them and offered them a forever home. Sometimes the adult cats in my cattery found new homes, always a cause for celebration. Nobody ever wanted Nig-Nog, but I didn’t mind that because he already enjoyed a good life, and was a favourite with the staff.

  Occasionally one of the older dogs would find a home, which was always good news. However, there were some, like ferocious Pepper, who would never know what it was like to belong to someone. There was nothing endearing about the poor chap. Not only was he deformed, but his vicious snarl would chase any prospective owner away.

  On one particular afternoon the visitors were milling round the animal sanctuary and families chatted as they viewed the cats and dogs in their pens. Big Denise was on hand to answer any questions when she noticed an elderly man leaning on his walking stick, staring at each dog in turn.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. “Are you looking for a particular type of dog? We have small dogs over here, and…”

  “No,” said the old man, cutting her short. “I don’t want any of these.”