Hi Cass!
How’s things in darkest Africa? Wierd & wonderful – I bet – but not so w&w as what weve got here at Willingden Farm. Go on – guess! OK – give up?
House-guests!
& I dont mean awful Uncle Ernie on one of his famous surprise visits. These are strangers!
What happened – at last after our awful wet summer Augusts turned hot – not African hot but pretty steamy by Yorkshire standards. Dad & George were working up in Mill Meadow. Mum asked if Id take them a jug of lemon barley – said it would please dad if I showed willing. Weve been in armed truce since I made it clear my plans hadnt changed – ie do a postgrad thesis instead of getting a paid job – or better still – a wellpaid husband – & settling down! But no reason not to show willing – plus it gave me an excuse to drive the quad – so off I went.
Forgot the mugs – but dad didnt say anything – just drank straight out of the jug like he preferred it – so maybe mum was right & he was pleased. In fact we were having a pleasant chat when suddenly old Fang let out a growl. Lost half his teeth & cant keep up with the sheep any more – but still manages a grand growl. Dad looked round to see what had woken him – & his face went into Headbanger configuration.
– whats yon daft bugger playing at? – he demanded.
Youll recall that in dads demography anyone living outside Willingden parish is a daft bugger till proved innocent. In this case I half agreed with him.
The DB in question was driving his car fast up the lane alongside Mill Meadow. How he got through the gate I dont know. The HB had to take his chain & lock off after the Ramblers took him to court last year – but hes fixed a catch like one of them old metal puzzles we used to play with as kids. Maybe the DB just got lucky – he thought!
He was driving one of these new hybrid 4×4s – you know – conscience without inconvenience! – & when he saw how good the surface was – (tractor tyres dont grow on trees! – remember?) – he mustve thought – great! – now for a bit of safe off-roading.
What he didnt reckon on was what George calls dads tank trap – the drainage ditch where the lane bends beyond the top gate & steepens up to the mill ruin.
New tourist map came out last year – with water mill marked – no mention of ruin. Result – a lot of DBs decided this meant Heritage Centre – guided tours & cream teas! After losing out to the Ramblers – dad was forced to accept ‘bearded wierdies’ trekking across his empire – but the sight of cars crawling up his lane drove him crazy. So one day he got to work with the digger – & when hed finished – the drainage ditch extended across the lane – a muddy hollow a hippo could wallow in – the tank trap!
Most drivers flee at the sight of it – but this DB obviously thought his hybrid could ford rivers & climb Alps – & just kept going.
Bad decision.
For 30 secs the wheels sent out glutinous brown jets – like a cow with colic – then the car slipped slowly sideways – finishing at 45 degrees – driver side down.
– now hell expect us to pull him out – said the HB with some satisfaction.
Moment later the passenger door was flung back. First thing out was a floppy brimmed sun hat – sort posh lady gardeners wear in the old Miss Marple movies. Beneath it was a woman who started to drag herself out – followed by a scream from below – suggesting shed stood on some bit of the driver not meant to be stood on.
She looked around in search of help – & there we were – me – dad – George – & Fang – staring back at her from 50 yds.
– help! – she called – please – can you help me? –
George & me looked at the HB – G because he knows his place – me because I was curious what hed do.
If it had been a man I doubt hed have moved – not without serious negotiation. But this was a woman doing what women ought to do – calling for male assistance.
– reckon wed best take a look – he said – we meaning him & George – of course.
He drained the lemon barley – thrust the jug into my hands like I was a docile milkmaid – & set off towards the accident – G close behind – even old Fang got to go.
I dropped the jug on to the grass. Sods Law – hit a stone & cracked. – O shit! – I said. It was that old earthenware one thats been around forever. I knew the HB would reckon bringing out the lemon barley in anything else would be like serving communion wine from a jam jar. O well – from now on hell have to make do with a plastic bottle!
I set off after them. This was the first mildly interesting thing to happen since I came home – & I wasnt going to miss it.
Woman was thin & wispy – bonnet askew – big straw shoulder bag round her neck like a horses feed sack. She looked so worried I thought the driver must be seriously injured – but now I know its just a couple of notches up from her normal expression of unfocused anxiety. Another thing I noticed – words sprayed on the car door – pro job – elegant cursive script –
Sandytown – Home of the Healthy Holiday.
She was saying – please can you get my husband out? I think hes hurt himself –
– no – Im fine – came a mans voice – really – just a sprain – nothing in the world to worry about dear – aargh! –
As he spoke his head had appeared at his wifes waist level. Gingery hair – soft brown eyes in a narrow mobile face – not bad looking even with a bloodied nose & a footprint across his left cheek – mid to late 30s. He was trying a social smile – till presumably he put more weight on his ankle than it could take.
George jumped up on the side of the vehicle – hooked his hands under the womans armpits – & swung her clear of the muddy sump into dads arms. At 18 – G makes Arnie Schwarzenegger look like a hobbit! On our skiing trip last December – (yeah that one – when I hooked up with lousy Liam) – I could have rented G out to my mates by the hour. In fact – if you count free rounds of gluhwein as rental – thats exactly what I did!
The injured man came next & the HB passed the woman on to me – looking relieved to be rid of her. Thought of making some crack about him preferring men – he still thinks gays should be treated surgically – but decided not time or place.
– youre so kind – many thanks – Ill be fine in a minute – Mary my dear are you all right? – burbled the man.
She said – Oh yes. But your nose dear – its bleeding –
– its nothing – must have banged the wheel when we stopped – he said – rubbing at a mark across his bridge.
Looked very like a footprint to me. I gave him a plus for diplomacy. Made a change from dads Old Testament determination to track all bad shit back to females.
The
