The Yorkshire Shepherdess

by Amanda Owen

  We filled the trailer as we went along with bits of sticks, broken fence posts and rails, and we were putting fallen topstones back onto the wall tops. Then we pulled up outside the barn at Hill Top. Builders had been working there, doing repairs, and they’d thrown down a lot of old beams and laths, and we decided to saw them into lengths and load them onto the trailer too, which was quite strenuous.

  I was feeling very pleased with our efforts. I knew Clive would be delighted to have his fields cleared, and there was the bonus of wood for the fire. It was a beautiful evening as we wandered our way back home. The fields were teeming with birds: curlews, redshank and lapwings plunged and dived around us. The children half ran, half rode, stopping every now and again to investigate some previously undiscovered place. They were tired and after a bite of tea were soon in their beds. Then that familiar feeling of being slightly unwell started. The baby wasn’t ready to hatch for another couple of weeks but as soon as I told Clive he said, ‘I’s ringing for t’ambulance reet now.’ Which he did. Then we had the usual interrogation:

  ‘How fast are the contractions coming? How long is the gap between them?’

  ‘She’s no ’avin’ contractions, she just feels sick.’

  ‘She’s not in labour until she has contractions.’

  ‘Yes, she is, thoo should ’ave a letter from t’midwife there explaining it.’

  An ambulance was eventually dispatched, but this time it was coming from Skipton, which is a good hour and a half away – if the roads are clear. Before it got to us a paramedic turned up, a first responder. He came from Richmond, which is nearer, but still an hour away. He shot up the yard at full speed and ran into the house carrying a heart monitor and blood-pressure gauge. He seemed pretty disappointed not to find me prostrate on the floor in the throes of labour. Feeling a bit of a fake, I allowed him to check my blood pressure which, of course, was fine. By the time the ambulance arrived, more than two hours after we called, I felt awful, but was still thinking that I could be mistaken.

  Off we went, slowly.

  ‘Could yer turn off t’blue flashing light, please?’

  I didn’t want the horrible embarrassment of everyone down the dale finding out that I had been shipped off to hospital with nothing more than a bad case of indigestion.

  This was new territory for the Skipton ambulance crew. The sat nav was out of action and I sat up, peering out from the back through the windscreen and giving directions, as they were not so sure where they were going.

  ‘We usually go to Bradford and Airedale Hospital, we’ve never been to Northallerton,’ they said.

  A few wrong turns were taken and there was a narrow miss with a deer, but eventually we reached the hospital.

  ‘We’ll have to put you on a stretcher.’

  ‘Is ta kiddin? I can walk.’

  I picked up my hastily packed bag and took the familiar route to the labour ward. I still wasn’t feeling in great fettle, but wasn’t wholly convinced that I should be on the labour ward at all. The midwife, Jan, looked at me a bit sceptically because, as usual, outwardly there was no sign of labour.

  ‘I’ll put you in one of the labour rooms and check you over,’ she said.

  I followed Jan into the room, popped my bag on the chair and climbed onto the bed. I lifted up my tunic and she carefully felt my distended tummy. She checked my pulse, blood pressure, the usual. She looked up and smiled.

  ‘You’re not in labour,’ she said.

  I felt so embarrassed. I had got it wrong this time, phoning for an ambulance so soon. I was going to look a right idiot calling Clive to pick me up and take me home, still with the baby on board. The humiliation didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘I’ll just leave you quiet in here for a little while,’ the midwife said. ‘I’m not hooking you up to anything because there’s nothing doing.’

  As soon as she left I started pacing up and down. The supposedly soundproof room couldn’t muffle the screams from a neighbouring room where someone else had clearly got their timing right. I stood at the window, looking out across the rooftops of the hospital, trying to breathe in some fresh air from the small opening in the window. I thought, People are going to think I’m proper stupid. How can you not know when you are in labour, especially when it’s your fifth?

  I went into the bathroom and while I was sitting there I had that feeling, the one I get when the baby is ready to come. I scarpered out of there and rang the alarm button, the only time I’ve ever rung an alarm button in my whole life.

  Jan popped her head round the corner of the door.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I think—’ I started to say, and then had an urge to push.

  She took one look and pressed the emergency button. The room filled with people, and within a matter of seconds Violet had been born. I’d gone from first to third stage of labour in eight minutes. I was delighted to see Violet – and relieved I wasn’t going to face the embarrassment of going back home without a baby. At least Clive and I were vindicated: we had recognized the signs.

  Once again, like all the others, she came out face up, occiput posterior. Midwives are trained not to show any signs of panic or surprise, so it was only after the birth that one of the student midwives commented, ‘I’ve never seen one born like that before.’

  I was also quite pleased that the professionals had witnessed and could corroborate my story of there being no signs of labour, as they had checked me over and declared that there was nothing happening only minutes before I had given birth to a healthy six-and-a-half-pound baby.

  Whenever I’m expecting, people say, ‘Shouldn’t you be having a rest? Shouldn’t you sit down for a bit?’

  But I’m convinced that keeping busy means I don’t have big babies. I say, ‘I don’t want any twelve pounders when I’m giving birth in a lay-by without any pain relief, no thank you.’

  Sometimes the walkers who pass through Ravenseat ask whether I have walked the Coast to Coast and I tell them that I reckon I cover the same distance, all 182 miles, every week. I go up and down the moor and between fields, backwards and forwards between the kitchen and the picnic benches balancing a tray in one hand and with a baby under my arm or on my front or back. Multitasking is what I do, on a whole new level. Clip a sheep, make a cream tea, drive a tractor, breastfeed a baby: there is no combination of activities that hasn’t been tried and tested. Folk sometimes assume I have these babies so fast and easily because I’m some sort of super tough woman: not the case. I can’t wax my legs without wincing. It’s not a plan, it’s just what happens. I have no problem with taking painkillers, I just don’t get the chance.

  In some ways I know I’m very lucky, but I also know it’s a bit risky having them the way I do, so fast. I’ve never so far made a ‘birth plan’. My plan is that there is no plan, take it as it comes. What’s the point? You can’t predict what’s going to happen. All you need to know is where you are going and what to put in your hospital bag. And I’ve never felt the need to have anyone there holding my hand, I couldn’t think of anything worse. I’m much happier knowing that Clive is at home looking after the children and the farm.

  It was Clive who came up with the name for Violet. It was time he had a turn at choosing a name, and that’s one he’s always liked. It suits her – she seemed so delicate, like the flower.

  I had to stay in hospital that night, of course: it was too late for Clive to come and pick me up and officially you are supposed to stay for six hours after the birth. So that’s when I started my battle against the heat. I am acclimatized to Ravenseat and to me the room was much too warm. But every time I opened the window – and it would only open a crack – the nurse would slam it shut when she came in, telling me the baby would get cold. Maybe she thought I was trying to have a sneaky fag or was thinking of jumping. When she went out I’d open it again and put my head down to the crack to breathe in some cool air.

  The next morning I decided to go outside, to cool off and fill m
y lungs with some normal, fresh air. I went through the foyer into the covered area at the front of the hospital, where there were all sorts of people chuffing away on their cigarettes or chattering on their phones. There was an old dear sitting on a bench on her own, so I sat next to her and said hello. I thought she might be glad of a chat but I didn’t ask her why she was at the hospital in case she had something terribly wrong with her. As it happened she did have something wrong: her attitude.

  ‘Grand morning,’ I said. ‘My husband will be comin’ to tek me an’ t’new baby home soon.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ she said.

  ‘Yep, it’ll get a bit o’ sortin’ out gettin’ t’other four ready to come wiv ’im, this is mi fifth.’

  She turned towards me with a look of sheer disgust on her face.

  ‘And I expect the taxpayers are paying for that,’ she said. With that, before I had time to reply, she got up and walked away.

  I thought, No wonder yer on yer own, yer miserable owd bat.

  I would never, ever say anything so rude or be so presumptious. I thought, I work very hard and enjoy doing so, but it’s tough work. Don’t ever suggest I am lazy and don’t ever suggest we don’t pay our own way.

  People jump to conclusions far too quickly, and sometimes their reactions are just downright unpleasant. For example, plenty of people don’t like it when the Appleby Horse Fair is on in June, the big get-together when the gypsies invade the area and ride bareback through the streets on their piebald horses or race pacers in their sulkies. They believe there is more crime when the travellers are about, and there are certainly examples of quad bikes and even Land Rovers being stolen. But thefts from farms happen all year round, and I’m not going to say it’s not the gypsies, but there are plenty of other rogues about.

  One of the cheekiest thefts was from our neighbour Raymond. He’d been on the moor gathering his sheep with his dogs and he was in his Land Rover going along a beautiful, quiet little road with the flock in front of him, driving them back towards his fields. It was a hot day, and as always happens there was one yow who was slower than the rest and making heavy weather of the journey. She was obviously struggling, so he stopped the Land Rover, left the engine running and ran twenty or so yards after her. He intended to pick her up and put her in the back. As he was grabbing her a car came along the road, a man jumped out of the passenger side, leapt into the Land Rover and drove off at speed.

  I’ve heard stories of thieves waiting outside the vets’, and when someone jumps out of their car with a sick animal, too worried to lock the car and take the keys, they jump in and away with it.

  So we all know there are people who come out into the countryside not just to enjoy the scenery, but with different intentions. They didn’t plan to steal a Land Rover, but when they saw one, with the keys in and the engine running, they took the chance. Another neighbour had his Land Rover stolen from his yard, and the next day they came back for his quad bike.

  But nobody knows whether these were gypsies or travellers or someone else entirely, and I’m never going to judge. They have a tough enough time. We get on well with the gypsies and travellers on the whole. When they turn up here, as they do sometimes, we make them tea and talk horses with them. We’ve traded horses with them, and I enjoy the Appleby Fair. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but it’s very colourful. There are stalls selling videos of bare-knuckle fighting; they call them the tarmac warriors. Lasses as well, fighting each other. Raven loves coming with me – she’ll wangle a day off school to come if she can, to see the horses, enjoy the colour and high spirits of the day. The only stipulation I have with regards to taking the children to the horse fair is that nobody drinks too much beforehand because the blue portable loos are to be avoided at all cost.

  A couple of years ago, just after Appleby, I was coming back from the other farm, Sandwath, with three of the children in our battered old white pickup. On our way there we’d seen all the vardos, the traditional barrel-shaped gipsy caravans, and other horse-drawn vehicles heading home after the fair. Now, as we headed back towards Ravenseat, we saw a vardo at the side of the road, a coloured horse cropping the verge, and a woman bawling her eyes out. The vardo was cockled over at one side, something had happened to the wheel. There was a clutch of children sitting by the road. I pulled over and the woman told me that her husband had gone on ahead in the transit and trailer, and she’d been slowly making her way after him when her wheel had punctured.

  I offered to take her to a phone box but there was nobody she could ring, so instead I decided to load her and the younger children up and drive to a garage where she could get help. Just as we were getting into the pickup, a car came up the road quite fast, then suddenly braked alongside us. The window came down and we were treated to a torrent of abuse, calling us all the names under the sun. He clearly thought we were all gypsies. He ended with, ‘Why don’t yer just f*** off back where yer come fra’?’

  I opened my mouth to retaliate but couldn’t get a word in edgeways, then his window went up and off he went. I was rigid with shock: I’m not used to being called names like those, and certainly not within earshot of the children. I looked at the gypsy girl and she shrugged and said, ‘Tha’ allus ’appens. I’s used to it.’

  It was a weird moment. I’m not a campaigner for human rights, or anything like that, but it was such a flagrant show of aggression when there was nothing to be aggressive about. When I got home, after dropping them at the garage, I told Clive and he said, ‘Didn’t yer ger ’is number down?’

  I hadn’t, of course, but even if I had, and told the police, I don’t think it would have gone to the top of their workload. So, what with the woman at the hospital who judged me for having a big family, and the man in the car who thought it was necessary to pour violent verbal abuse on two women and their children, I do sometimes wonder about the sheer hatred that festers in some folk. They should get out into the fresh air more, I reckon.

  We had a gypsy friend, a traveller who no longer travelled, who used to turn up here every so often. We’d see a battered old flatbed truck making its way down our road, and we’d know it was Bomber. He was a big fat chap, and always wore a straw hat, a string vest and carpet slippers. In his youth he’d been a bare-knuckle fighter of some repute and even in old age commanded great respect from the younger generation. His arms were covered with tattoos of what were once shapely women, but as his arms had acquired more flesh the women had become heftier too. He also had the names of the women/conquests in his life tattooed up his other arm, which is never a good idea. He hadn’t gone in for laser removal, he’d just had each name blacked out as his love life moved on. So there was a whole ladder of blotted-out blueish rectangles down his arm. The bottom and most recent name was that of Gloria, his wife.

  He always had something in the back of his old truck to sell, maybe some logs, wire or a gate. But he never did any of the physical work, he just had all the patter, and regardless of whether you actually needed whatever was on the back of his truck you always ended up with it. Bomber didn’t deign to lift the gates off or unload the logs or rolls of wire. He would invariably have a little friend with him, not always the same one, but always someone he could order about.

  ‘Oy, Billy, get that wood chucked off down by t’woodshed. ’Urry up, will ta.’

  Billy was of considerable age, had a nervous tic and would repeatedly grimace and swear while meekly carrying out whatever order Bomber had issued. All of Bomber’s sidekicks appeared to have some kind of issues. You could guarantee Bomber would always turn up at the most inopportune moment, when you could really do without him, because although Bomber was lazy, he was certainly a good getter-up. He’d always appear here early on in the day, usually when we were very busy. While his sidekick did the grafting, Bomber would get himself comfortable at the kitchen table and make his requests.

  ‘Where’s Clyde?’ He always called Clive this. ‘’Ave yer med ’im ’is breakfast? Mek us a brew an’ a bacon sarnie
.’

  Gloria had him on a permanent diet and sitting on the front seat of the truck would be a salad bowl and a bag of fruit.

  ‘Shall I mek a brew for Billy an’ all?’

  ‘Nope, nivver. He’s fine.’

  Bomber’s sidekicks, although not exactly healthy-looking, were always of a more athletic build than he was, and after his death several people commented that Bomber’s life expectancy would have been higher if he had got off his arse and done some of the work himself.

  We bought things from him: we’re always in need of a gate somewhere, and we burn wood all the time, and he was cheap. He could turn up with literally anything, even sea coal and telegraph poles. It got to the point when he would just tip it off below the farmhouse without any form of consultation, which put us in a good position with regards to haggling because he couldn’t be bothered to put it back on the truck.

  His product list knew no bounds. He once sold us a case load of Hungarian wine, issuing the health warning, ‘There’s a babby in every bottle.’

  He knew we kept black-and-white gypsy horses, so he offered to treat us to a guided tour of his own horses, probably with half a mind to sell us one. We thought this was a splendid idea; we really fancied a trip out to his home on a council estate near Durham and wanted to finally get a look at some of the legendary horses we’d heard so much about.

  It was an interesting day out, to say the least. Off we went to Co. Durham with little in the way of directions; apparently all we had to do was ask anybody where Bomber lived and we would be pointed the right way. We rattled along in the Land Rover, having brought a horse trailer with us too. Bomber, I suspect, had talked ‘Clyde’ into the idea of buying me another horse, as a birthday present, if we saw one we liked.