by Diane Allen
‘Thank you. I’d expected Maggie to be here. I’d better get a move on, in that case.’ Polly stared at the good-looking man in front of her.
‘Oi, you watch them kits – the lid nearly came off that one,’ he shouted, as another wagonload of milk came into the yard and the delivery man roughly unpacked his load. ‘Excuse me, I’ll have to go.’ He rushed forward to have words with the delivery man, shouting as he crossed the yard.
Polly watched for a second and then realized she didn’t know his name. ‘What’s your name?’ she shouted.
‘It’s Matt. Matt . . .’ The clatter of the milk-kits drowned out his last name and she watched as he squared up to the delivery man, who was swearing at him.
So that was Matt. Maggie had told her all about him and his winning ways. He obviously had manners, because he’d saved her from more blushes as she’d tried to free herself from the cart. Polly looked at her skirt. It was torn and wrinkled, with red markings of rust halfway above the hemline. Thankfully it was at the side of her skirt, so perhaps no one would notice. She brushed it down again and quickly walked the few steps to the wooden doors that led into the main dairy. Immediately the smell of cheese and souring milk assaulted her nostrils, nearly making her stomach hurl. She liked to drink milk, but when it was on the turn, there was no smell worse. The huge empty wooden troughs and baths were now filled with curdled milk, and an army of women was chopping the curds up and draining the whey into buckets for the nearby piggery. Polly held her nose while she watched, as the curdled milk was then salted and put into round wooden tubs lined with fine cheesecloth, then squashed between presses to make a firm cheese.
‘So, you’ve decided to show your face. You were supposed to report to me straight away, not gape at those women making cheese. And you’ll have to get used to the smell, if you are to stay working with us.’ The tiny form of Beattie Swaine looked at her new employee. ‘What have you done to your skirt? You’d think the first day in your employment you could look a bit smarter. You’re on the shop’s counter: the customer expects you to be smart, and it’s our reputation that you are maintaining. It doesn’t matter so much for the lasses back, if they aren’t smart, but you have to set the standard.’ She looked Polly up and down, scrutinizing every inch of her.
‘Sorry, Miss Swaine. I got my skirt caught on the cart and . . . ’ Polly tried to explain.
‘I don’t want excuses – excuses mean nothing to me. Now come on through here and I’ll show you what I expect of you today.’ Miss Swaine obviously didn’t listen to anything she didn’t want to hear. Her small body set off at a quick pace, past the women making cheese and the huge vat of milk that was supplying them, and through the double doors that led to the shop frontage. ‘Right, this is your world for two days a week.’ She folded her small hands on the top of her stomach and looked around her and at Polly. ‘I presume you know how to churn butter, like all farm lasses do?’ Beattie nodded to two huge butter-churns. They were bound wooden barrels on a pivot, with a handle that had to be turned when it was full of cream, until the butter had separated from the buttermilk.
‘Yes, I make it for my mother, but only in a small glass churn with wooden paddles that turn when you turn the handle.’ Polly looked at the churns; this was going to be back-breaking work, as the churns must hold more than a gallon of cream at a time.
‘Well, you get your cream from out of the area we have just walked through. Churn it in one of these, drain the buttermilk from the butter when you know it’s separated, and add salt, just like at home. You only need to do this when your stock is low. I then expect you to weigh the butter into pounds, pat it and pattern it, and wrap it in our greaseproof-paper wrapping, which you find under the counter here.’
Beattie Swaine lifted a pile of wrappers out from under the serving shelf. They were all thin leaves of greaseproof with the lettering Bill Sunter’s Finest Yorkshire Butter – the very best from Wensleydale on them.
‘Now, look, this is how you fold them.’ Beattie reached for a pound of butter ready-wrapped, from the pile that was at one end of the counter, and nimbly unfolded it from its wrappings and refolded it again. ‘You unfold it now – see if you can do it – and then we’ll open the shop door. It must be nearly eight.’
Polly nervously held the butter, unwrapped it and wrapped it again. It was easy practising on an already-wrapped packet, as the creases had already been made, but she was sure she would get the hang of it.
‘Aye, you look as if you’ll make a do of it. Now put yourself an apron on, from behind the door, and you can go and unlock the door.’ Beattie put the pound of butter back on the pile, and watched Polly as she put her apron on and walked across the empty shop floor to unbolt the door and turn the sign on the door to ‘Open’.
Polly felt nervous. She’d never been under such scrutiny, and she had expected Maggie to be there with her. She climbed the two steps that separated the shop floor from the counter and the way into the dairy, and stood next to Beattie, waiting for her next instructions.
‘That churn’s full of made butter. I made it myself last night. Now I want you to add some salt to it. I’m not going to say how much – I want you to judge it for yourself. Then I want you to weigh out a pound in weight, pat it with these Scotch hands, and pattern it with the dairy’s name with this stencil.’ Beattie held up a pair of wooden butterpats and a piece of wood with the name Bill Sunter carved in relief on it. ‘And then wrap me it, ready for sale. If I’m satisfied, I’ll watch you serve a customer.’
Polly looked at her instructor. It was only what she had done at home a thousand times for her mother, but this strict little old woman was putting her off her stride.
‘Go on then. Salt’s in the barrel, over there. You’ll need that big basin on the back shelf, and you can wash your hands with the water in the sink.’
Just then the shop bell rang and the first customer of the day entered the shop. Beattie greeted her, and Polly decided to make her move. She got hold of the heavy earthenware basin and put it on the floor under the churn. Turning the handle so that the churn lid was nearly level with the bowl, she unscrewed the lid and pulled the greasy yellow butter into the bowl, before lifting it up and putting it onto the back shelf. It weighed a ton, and she could hardly lift it. She then made a hollow in the middle of the butter, added a good scoop of salt from the barrel and began to blend it in.
‘And how’s your old man? I hear he’s not been so well. His lumbago’s been playing up again, I hear.’ Beattie was busy talking, as well as keeping an eye on her new ward.
‘Aye, he’s not been so good, but it’s what you expect at our age.’ The customer leaned on the counter and watched Polly, as well as passing the time of day. ‘Got a new worker then, Beattie?’
‘I have. This is Polly, she’s just working for us two days a week. Polly, this is Mrs Ward, she lives over the bridge across from the fosse. If you leave that butter now, I’ll have a taste, before you go any further’. Beattie smiled as she watched Polly wash her hands under the tap and Polly acknowledge her customer.
‘I don’t envy you, Beattie, training a young lass. They have minds of their own nowadays. Young lasses are not like we used to be when we were young. The world’s gone mad!’
‘It has indeed, Mrs Ward. Do you need anything else this morning?’ Beattie waited patiently as Mrs Ward reached for her purse.
‘No, that’s it, thank you. I’ll see you another day, Polly. Miss Swaine will keep you straight.’ After paying for her goods, Mrs Ward made her way out of the shop.
‘Thank you, Mrs Ward.’ Beattie watched as she closed the door behind her. ‘Now, let me sample this butter.’ She put a small piece on her finger end and then placed it in her mouth.
Polly held her breath. Had she given it the right amount of salt? She waited while Beattie looked at her with a straight face.
‘Aye, that’ll do. Your mother’s taught you well. We’ll keep you for another day. Now let’s get it packaged.’
‘A bit tighter on the corners, but not bad for a first attempt. You’ll pass. Now, the price list is here in this drawer. We don’t give tick, if anyone asks, but we can deliver. If you run out of cheese, go and ask for Ruby in the back dairy, and she’ll bring you more out. You cut and weigh the cheese, just the same as the butter, and wrap it up in greaseproof. If somebody wants cream, they bring their own jug and you measure it out in that quart ladle hanging up above the barrel. What’s left in your barrel on an evening you put into the churn to make butter with the following day. Nothing is wasted, and the biggest rule to remember is: the customer is always right.’ Beattie rattled off all the dos and don’ts, showing Polly where everything was kept. Polly followed her like a trained dog, nodding her head in agreement to all she said. ‘Right, I think I’ve shown you everything. Anything you want to ask?’ The beady-eyed little woman looked at Polly and waited.
‘Miss Swaine, I thought Maggie was going to be working with me. Is she not here today?’
‘What – the boss’s daughter, working in here! Lord help us, we wouldn’t have a customer left, she’s such a mouth on her.’ Beattie laughed out loud. ‘She’ll be showing her face, no doubt. She likes to make her presence known to the young men in the yard. If she comes in here, you can talk to her, but not for long, mind. And only if we have no customers in. Have I made myself clear?’ Beattie looked at Polly’s long face.
‘Yes, Miss Swaine. I thought she was going to be working with me. I must have misunderstood.’
‘Aye, well, happen she led you on. She’s not keen on work, isn’t that ’un. Takes after her mother, not her father. But there’s me, talking out of turn. I shouldn’t happen have said that. Now can I leave you to make the rest of that butter into saleable pounds, stack it on the counter, like the rest? If you’ve time between customers, keep on top of keeping the floor clean. It just looks better than being greeted with muddy footprints.’ Beattie looked at the young lass as she closed the door behind her. She’d be all right on her own; a lot better off than working with that flibbertigibbet Maggie. That would never have worked.
Polly looked at the shop around her, now that Miss Swaine had gone. It wasn’t that big, and the window looking down to the bridge gave her a clear view of customers on their approach to her. The floor was wooden, but freshly varnished, and the walls were whitewashed and clean. All that she wanted was there: butter wrapped and ready for sale, and Wensleydale cheese in huge rounds, ready for cutting or selling whole, in the cabinet on the wall. The only thing that wasn’t there was Maggie. Polly was going to have words with her the next time they met, that she was sure of. She set about weighing the butter and patting it into shape, but was soon interrupted by the shop bell tinkling and her first customer.
‘Oh, you are a new one. It’s usually Beattie that serves me.’ Her customer eyed Polly over, as she asked for half a pound of Wensleydale cheese. ‘Now whose lass are you? I bet I know your father and mother. I’ve lived here all my life, and I’m seventy-five now.’
‘I’m Polly – Polly Harper from Paradise Farm, down Garsdale.’ She cut and weighed the cheese and parcelled it up, smiling at her first customer.
‘Now would you be Edmund’s lass? But no, wait a minute – they had a lad and he’d be older than you. I’m sure it was a lad?’ The old woman looked at her, with her head to one side, reminding Polly of a sparrow about to attack a worm.
‘Yes, I’m Edmund’s. And Ada’s my mother. But I’m definitely not a lad, and I’m the only one.’ Polly smiled, passed over the cheese and took her change.
‘Aye, it’s me, lass. The mind plays tricks when you get to my age. I remember your mother well, now you say her name; she was a right bonny woman when she was younger. Remember me to her. I’m Mrs Ewgill – Edna – she’ll know who I am.’ The old woman put her cheese in her basket. ‘I could have sworn she had a lad,’ she muttered, while shaking her head. ‘Thank you, dear.’ And she closed the door after her.
Polly returned to her butter-packaging, thinking to herself that she never wanted to get to that age, when everything became confusing. Her mother and father had never had a son and, as for her mother being bonny, she had always been covered with wrinkles. Mrs Ewgill must have been thinking of someone else.
The morning went by quickly, with no sign of Maggie, but with Miss Swaine popping back and forth between the dairy and the shop, checking up on Polly’s progress. Customers were plentiful, some coming for the first time since the opening more than a week ago, and some returning for a fresh supply of butter, cream and cheese, which Miss Swaine said was a good sign. It was soon lunchtime, and Polly turned over the ‘Open/Closed’ sign hanging in the shop window with relief. She had half an hour to herself before starting the afternoon shift.
She reached for the battered tin that held her mother’s lovingly prepared sandwiches and decided to go and sit out in the early summer sunshine next to the bridge and eat them. She closed the door behind her and walked the short distance to the river bridge, then leaned over watching the foaming waters below, before opening her sandwich tin. Cheese-and-chutney sandwiches; she couldn’t believe it. She was sick of the sight of cheese already, and she had only been there for half a day. She smiled as she took a bite, but found the smell of the curdling cheese in the dairy reminding her that she was eating soured milk. She doubted if she’d ever eat cheese again, as she tore her sandwich up into crumbs for a family of ducks below her in the foaming waters.
‘Now, my mother would call that a waste.’ Her rescuer from earlier in the morning caught her by surprise, as she watched the ducks fight over the last remaining crusts. ‘Let me guess: they were cheese, and you couldn’t face them?’
‘How did you know?’ Polly turned round, embarrassed that she had been found throwing away good food, when it was hard-earned.
‘Because it’s the good, staple diet of all us farmers. That and eggs, I don’t know which I hate the most: the smell of cheese in the making, or that of stinky boiled eggs. You’ll get used to the smell of curds and rennet in a bit, and think nothing of it, then soon go back to eating cheese. How are you finding your first day then? Beattie got you working hard?’ The tall blond man smiled and lit a cigarette.
‘Aye, she has that, but at least she leaves me to it, so I must look as if I can be trusted. She speaks her mind, though, doesn’t she? I don’t think she reckons much to my friend Maggie, even though she is the boss’s daughter!’ Polly looked at her companion. He was about her age, but acted as if he was a man of the world, in his smart tweed suit and polished brogues. She watched as he smoked his cigarette and leaned back on the arch of the bridge.
‘So, you’re friends with Maggie. Well, don’t boast about it to old Beattie. She can’t stand the lass, and calls her a trollop out of earshot, because Maggie’s always flirting with the fellas. That’s all she does, like. They wouldn’t dare touch her, with her being the boss’s daughter.’
‘And what do you think of her . . . ? Er, I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name this morning, for the noise of the kits being unloaded.’ Polly watched as he stubbed out his cigarette butt under his foot.
‘Just call me Matt – everybody else does. Your mate Maggie’s all right, just a bit forward. Fellas prefer their women shy and modest, or most of us do.’ He looked at Polly and noticed her blushing, as he explained what he thought men wanted.
‘Well, I wouldn’t know. But Maggie does have a mind of her own. And she told me she was going to work with me, and she’s nowhere to be seen. I’m a bit cross with her really. She said she would
be working with me.’ Polly was trying hard to forgive her friend for not being that honest with her.
‘Never mind, Polly. It’s her loss. Look, we are having a good natter and getting to know one another – that’s what counts.’ Matt leaned over the bridge and looked down into the water. ‘By, the ducks are hungry buggers. Do you think anyone would miss one of ’em, if I caught it for me and my gran’s dinner?’ Matt leaned on his elbows and smiled at Polly, who was leaning over the bridge right next to him.
‘You can’t do that – they are too bonny. Besides, you’d never catch them!’ Polly was horrified.
‘Don’t ever say “no” or “never” to me. I don’t know the meaning of either word, and it’s like a red rag to a bull, especially coming from such a bonny lass as you.’ Matt grinned at Polly’s horrified face, showing his sparkling set of white teeth, which matched his fresh good looks.
‘Well, you’d better not go near them, else I’ll tell Beattie. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll tell Bill Sunter.’ Polly looked crossly at him, a frown puckering her brow.
‘Do you really think I’d go down there and wring the neck of a duck, for my supper? Nay, I’m not like that. I was joking, Polly. I’m a soft lump really. Besides, they’ll be as tough as old boots, they will. I bet they’ve been here since this bridge was built.’ Matt grinned at his new friend with the temper; she was a bonny lass, with her long dark hair.
‘Oh! I don’t know why I’ve bothered talking to you, you’re just a tease.’ Polly picked up her packing box and started walking back towards the shop, as her half-hour had nearly finished.
Matt ran after her and caught her arm. ‘Share dinner with you tomorrow – same time, same place – Polly?’ He brought her walk to a halt as he tugged on her arm, and smiled as she turned round.
