Adventures of the Yorkshire Shepherdess

by Amanda Owen

  Sidney began collecting insects for the chicks, picking flies from the gauzelike webs in the rafters of the farm buildings and moths from the bathroom window sill. He spent many happy hours filling little pots with dead insects which he would then put on the scaffolding walk-board nearest to the nest. I cannot categorically say whether the insects were eaten or not, but Sidney felt like he was doing his bit.

  One morning in July, before school, Sidney marched into the kitchen, the bearer of bad news. The night before had been exceptionally windy, the plastic sheeting that temporarily covered the now partially open roof had flapped noisily all night and there had also been an unseasonably torrential downpour. A summer storm of this intensity was often the death knell for the occupants of the nests, the dried mud slowly disintegrating until finally everything fell to the ground.

  ‘Mam, it’s really bad,’ Sidney said.

  ‘What’s up, Diddler?’ I asked, looking up from preparing lunchboxes.

  ‘Mi nest in Raven’s window is gonna fall off,’ he said sadly. ‘It’s ’angin off.’

  ‘Ah, now that is a shame,’ I said.

  ‘Nature can be cruel,’ said Reuben, an unusually insightful comment from him, I thought.

  ‘Bummer,’ said Raven. ‘I liked to hear the chicks chirruping when I was in mi room.’

  Sidney announced that he was going to go and have another look; I could see that I was going to get a running report and be spared no details. While Reuben and Raven set off to school, Miles went with Sidney to investigate. The builders showed up bright and breezy and were hijacked by a wide-eyed Sidney before they had an opportunity to see whether there had been any overnight storm damage to the building project.

  Then the school bus arrived for the little ones. Edith and Violet were ready and waiting, but Sidney and Miles were a-wantin’.

  ‘Will yer come down please?’ I shouted up to the gathered throng of hard-hatted and otherwise who had all congregated on the scaffolding platform outside Raven’s bedroom window.

  ‘We’ve mended the nest!’ shouted a triumphant Sidney.

  He stepped back to admire his handiwork while the builders grinned.

  ‘We scaffold da ’ouse an’ we scaffold da bird ’ouse,’ the foreman, Julius, said in his thick Lithuanian accent.

  Apparently the ever-innovative Miles had spied my underwired bra, which I’d inadvertently left hanging on the washing line overnight, and, aided by the builders, now had the fragile nest cradled in one of the cups and held in place with the shoulder straps looped through the window.

  ‘The chicks are all right,’ shouted Miles. ‘There’s three, an’ they’re still in there.’

  ‘Bra-vo!’ I shouted. ‘Well done, Diddler an’ Miles, but it’s time for school now, an’ time for tea, don’t ya think?’ I added, turning to the builders.

  The builders smiled and nodded. Even Clive had to admire the handiwork. We stood drinking tea and watched the house martins fly back and forth unperturbed by the addition of extra padding to their nest.

  ‘I think, mi dear, ’twas all a storm in a C cup,’ Clive mused.

  An unseasonably wet summer is the worst thing for a farmer, and far more difficult to contend with than a hard winter. Summertime is all about preparation for the forthcoming winter and thus we rely on good weather for haymaking, bringing in the crop that will keep the animals fed, fit and healthy over the winter. It rained solidly and continuously through July and August 2017, and when, finally, there was a break in the weather we had only a very short window of time to mow, dry and bale the hay. The ground was wet, the hay wasn’t hay – it was grass and it was damp. It was a disaster from start to end but we were not alone, everyone struggled. Spirits were at a low ebb. There’d been plenty of years when the weather had been ‘catchy’, with no long stretch of dry days, so the haymaking would have to be conducted in fits and starts, but there had been no such washout of a British summer since 1985. Our aim is to get the grass cut, to make hay, before the end of July but if we have to wait until August then so be it, we can cope. But every day of the summer of 2017, when we looked out, it was raining, or the grass was still sodden from the previous day’s downpour. It needs to be dry to cut for hay. If we are forced to cut it when conditions are damp then it becomes silage, wrapped up in plastic and preserved by fermentation. This is costly to make, leaving us with unwieldy bales that are impossible to get out to the moor and to the sheep. More importantly, the sheep don’t like it as much as hay and if the bale of silage has soil within it then you run the risk of your flock being affected by listeriosis. In most cases this is fatal.

  Nowadays we do have another option open to us, buying in hay from other parts of the country that have fared better weatherwise than us. It’s expensive and the quality varies. Our own hay comes from unimproved traditional herb-rich meadows that are now a rarity but in buying in crop we buy in security. We can also supplement the forage with extra feedstuff, sugar beet pellets, molasses, fodder beets and sheep nuts – our livelihood depends upon keeping our flock in good order.

  Another consequence of a bad summer and late haymaking is that we don’t get the fog, which is what we call the new growth of green, very nutritious grass that springs up after mowing. This is perfect for us to put our lambs on when they have been speaned (weaned) from their mothers, the rich grass replacing the nutrition they were previously getting from their mothers’ milk. The knock-on effects of the wet weather were astounding, and it’s fair to say that there was a distinct lack of happy banter around the kitchen table. It was doom and gloom when we met with other farmers – all with stories to tell of mouldy hay, balers bogged in mud, and fields mowed then haymaking abandoned, the rows of grass just left to grow in.

  ‘Sa, ’ow many lal’ bales ’as ta made?’ asked Eric, a farmer from further down the dale.

  ‘Four,’ Clive said flatly.

  ‘Thousand?’ Eric said, coupled with a look of disbelief and admiration. ‘Four ’undred?’ he asked, his reverence duly fading, when Clive remained silent.

  ‘Nah. Four . . . as in four,’ I declared dryly.

  While the building work was going on at the farm over the summer, at The Firs I was instigating the gradual movement of surplus items from Ravenseat. Given that we needed to furnish a large, six-bedroom house more or less from scratch, it was fortunate that I saw myself as a bit of a collector of objects of historical interest. Over the years, I had amassed all manner of weird and wonderful items. The loft of the old chapel that we used as a woodshed was filled with the overspill from the house, including ornately carved chests, a barrel-backed settle, a clockwork dutch oven, peat bellows and a butterchurn. Finally, it could all go back into the type of house where it rightly belonged rather than sitting gathering dust in the loft. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any of the items that my potential holidaymakers would definitely require – sofas, tables, chairs and the like. Those things all needed buying and this was to prove a nightmare for someone who lacks the focus or willpower to agonize over everyday mundane objects.

  I had planned to concentrate on a room at a time, imagining what our guests would need (or, in reality, what I liked and deemed that they should have). Of course, the plans went awry very soon into the job when it became apparent that shopping at an auction house or on online auction sites meant that you had to seize the moment and bid on what was available at that particular point. Many, many items were bought long before the relevant room was ready and had to be shunted around whilst kept under wraps, protected with dust sheets and blankets. The auction house at Leyburn held weekly, monthly and speciality sales but it was the ‘general and household contents’ sales that drew my attention. I would go on the viewing day, when all the items for sale were on display. This way I could take the children and spend a very pleasant hour rummaging through boxes of oddments and peering into cabinets without feeling under too much pressure to keep the children in check. Although obviously they couldn’t run riot, they could have a good time as t
here always seemed to be something that would catch their eye. It appeared that there was a grading system in place. There was a room teeming with experts, dressed like dandies and scrutinizing things through loupes; this room was to be avoided at all costs. Then there was the mediocre room where we could proceed with caution, and finally there was the random-stuff room where there’d be ‘less valuable’ objects. In here we were safe, and the porters would point us in the direction of a rocking horse that would keep the children entertained.

  I often had no real idea what I was looking at or for, though often the auction guide price written in the catalogue determined whether something was of interest to me or not. In other words, it had to be cheap. If I found something that looked suitable for my project then I would leave a bid on it and hope for the best; this method also prevented me from getting carried away and getting into any bidding wars.

  We became familiar with all of the staff at the salesroom, the porters who came ready equipped with measuring tapes and pencils and who would happily corroborate the provenance of any item.

  ‘Is this bookcase solid oak, an’ where’s it hail frae?’ I’d ask, glancing between it and the catalogue.

  ‘Yeah, come outta a gurt fancy spot oo’ert North East an’ it weighs a bloody ton.’

  It was good to have these lads onside as they would also sometimes let me have a sneak preview of what they had in storage for the next sale.

  Rodney was the chairman of the salesrooms and could always be seen buzzing around the building. He was an old-fashioned charmer with tailored suits and the gift of the gab. Quick witted, he missed nothing, and all the time he conversed with people his sharp eyes would be darting here and there on the lookout for potential buyers. He had a needle-sharp memory and could easily recall a conversation had weeks beforehand, remembering all the intimate details. He had, in essence, all the attributes of a great auctioneer.

  On one particular morning, I’d been directed to leave the ‘shop floor’ and go upstairs into the showroom that was reserved for the finer sale items. One of the ladies who manned the front-desk reception had glided over to me after seeing me and the children walking through the foyer.

  ‘You must go upstairs and see our latest collection,’ she purred. ‘In fact, I implore you to take the little ones up the stairway . . . they’ll just adore what is on display.’

  I was always bowled over by these women, typically whippet thin, legs longer than those on a racehorse and always impeccably turned out, often in bouclé skirts and jackets. Young or old, they all looked achingly smart with sleek, shiny hair styled into low buns, perfectly applied barely-there make-up, dainty fingers and swanlike necks usually decorated with pearls. I wished that I could ooze that sophistication.

  Then she beckoned me to come closer and, putting her hand partially over her mouth, whispered in my ear.

  ‘Lot fifty-eight . . . just look at its testicles.’

  I didn’t need any more persuading to go and investigate further.

  There was going to be a taxidermy sale and having previously purchased the Blue Gnu they knew I might find something I liked. The room was a macabre mix of trophy hunters’ large-game mounts, antlers and bleached bones. On tables stood domed glass cases filled with exotic birds of paradise, and draped over chairs were skins of zebras, antelopes and deer. The children stared open-mouthed at the grotesque figure of a stuffed monkey wearing a fez and smoking a hookah pipe. I methodically worked my way along the lots, but I knew long before I reached Lot 58 what it was going to be, for laid out on a table of its very own was the biggest dog I had ever seen. It was a truly monstrous sight, a Great Dane stretched out as though lying in front of a fire. His long legs were extended, his head was curled around, his chin rested on the floor, and his eyes were closed. I say ‘he’ because there was no missing his sex – he was sporting a huge, overstuffed pair of testicles that protruded from between his legs. In fact, they rather drew the eye from whatever angle you looked at him.

  Accompanying this most morbid of lots was a DVD: Jeremy Brett as Sherlock Holmes in The Hound of The Baskervilles. This poor stuffed creature was cast in death as the hellhound.

  Needless to say, I didn’t buy anything; it certainly was a sale for those with an acquired taste. We made our way back downstairs and into the foyer where I saw Rodney talking to a group of tourists. He swung around, throwing his arms open wide.

  ‘Amanda,’ he called theatrically. ‘Darling, what brings you here today?’

  Before I had a chance to reply, he strode over and dropped to his knees. Annas looked on open-mouthed whilst Rodney thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small antique jewellery box. He flipped the lid open with his thumb to reveal a stupendously large brilliant-cut diamond ring.

  ‘Amanda, would you do me the honour?’ he asked in a booming voice that echoed through the building, stopping people in their tracks and making them turn to see who the recipient of such a romantic gesture was. I coloured furiously as he held the sparkling ring in his outstretched hand.

  ‘Rodney, I’ve got a bit of baggage, yer know,’ I said. ‘Not to mention a husband.’

  Then I grabbed the ring.

  ‘Whose is this, anyway?’ I said, studying the sizeable rock. ‘Elizabeth flamin’ Taylor’s?’

  ‘It’s in for valuation,’ he said.

  I decided that it was time that I gave him a taste of his own medicine. I shoved the ring firmly onto my ring finger.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I muttered, pretending to pull at it, ‘it seems to be stuck, Rodney. I can’t get it off!’

  The look of panic on his face was priceless, as was the look of relief when I twisted it back off.

  I was successful in buying the majority of items that I left bids on, though, probably because there wasn’t a lot of competition for my chosen pieces. I liked things that were very old, well built and basic, that I could run my hand over and wonder about where it had been and what it had seen throughout its lifetime. Like I did with Clive, I suppose.

  I bought an ebonized court cupboard, a brass-handled dresser and an oak coffer, initials hewn crudely into its frontage. They’d been loved and cherished by families for generations then somehow ended up catalogued and lined up around the walls of the saleroom waiting to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. When these items were made, the country cottages in which they stood were furnished meagrely and these cupboards would have been used for the storage of valuables. Indeed, inside the coffer was a built-in candle box, somewhere to keep these most precious and expensive of items.

  The older folk in Swaledale remembered a family moving into Ravenseat in the 1920s who brought all of their worldly possessions in just a single journey. One trip in a horse and cart from Orton in Cumbria some twenty-odd miles away with all their family, their belongings and everything they held dear. Then, a few years later, they loaded it all back up again, only this time heading to their new farm towards Barnard Castle. It is true that family heirlooms would have been treasured, but it seems that certainly amongst the poorer folks there was little sentimentality for such things. I talked to an elderly friend who reminisced about clearing out an attic after a family bereavement. Box after box of manuscripts and papers, maps and deeds were all deemed to be worthless and burnt on the fire. I suppose that there is a fine line between today’s junk and the next generation’s treasure.

  The half-tester beds were an accidental purchase. Reuben and Miles had renovated a pair of iron bedsteads which looked terrific but, with another four bedrooms standing empty, I still needed more beds. Buying them second-hand didn’t seem right, so for a change I would be buying brand new. That was until the special ‘Country House’ sale catalogue arrived, and I leafed through the pages. There, in the section titled ‘contents of a gentleman’s residence’, were two half-testers. The only reason that these two lots caught my attention was that I had no idea what a half-tester was. A quick look online told me they were similar to a four-poster bed but the drapery hung onl
y from a canopy at the head end. The ones pictured online in the antique shops looked fantastic, with swags and drapes and embroidered sunburst panels, and with a cost of over three thousand pounds for one in pristine condition. The catalogue was asking for bids in the region of five to seven hundred pounds, clearly due to the great difference in condition. While the beds in the catalogue were a deep rich mahogany, they were also in pieces, dismantled and disorderedly, with nylon and polyester drapes in a salmon-pink floral pattern, very reminiscent of the 1980s and definitely a fire hazard! The porters assured me that they were complete, for in polythene bags were all of the nuts and bolts required to reassemble the beds.

  Clive was not as enamoured with the beds and questioned whether they were in keeping with the decor and feel of The Firs. I reassured him that four-posters and half-testers had actually been more common than folks assumed, and that not only were they to be found in mansions and castles but also in old farmhouses. Standing high off the floor, and with their curtains, they kept the draughts at bay and also afforded the occupants some privacy in rooms that were often shared with other family members. Despite Clive’s protestations, I booked a phone line for the sale of the beds; I was dead set on getting them but unsure of how much money I was going to have to part with to buy them.

  One of the porters would ring me on the mobile phone a few minutes before my chosen lots came under the hammer, and would bid on my behalf if I gave him the go-ahead. I would be on a train from Darlington to London King’s Cross when he called at one thirty, nicely settled in my seat by then and able to talk.

  Unfortunately, the train was running ten minutes late. Just as the tannoy announced that passengers for the one o’clock service to London King’s Cross should be getting ready to board as the train was arriving at platform 1, my phone rang.