One Young Fool in Dorset

by Victoria Twead

  “The giant!” she said one day at breakfast. “Ja, the giant with the massive erection.”

  My father coughed. We kids had no idea what she was talking about and carried on munching our toast, but my father stared at her. Then he hazarded a guess.

  “Are you talking about the Cerne Abbas giant?”

  The Cerne Abbas Giant

  “Of course! I will take the kids to Chesil beach and we will collect suitable flat white stones. Then I will paint the Cerne Abbas giant on the stones and ask the tourist shops to sell them for me. They will sell like hot cakes! Ach, I can’t understand why nobody has thought of it before!”

  Near the village of Cerne Abbas is a particular hill. Centuries ago, the outline of a huge, well-endowed, naked man holding a knobbly club was carved out of the chalk hillside and can be seen for miles. Exactly how old the figure is, nobody is absolutely sure. It was mentioned in the 17th century but many historians believe it is much older; perhaps Medieval, or Roman, or Saxon, and some kind of fertility symbol.

  The giant now belongs to the National Trust who maintain it. Renowned for his remarkable, eye-popping manhood, the Cerne Abbas giant is a huge tourist attraction. Hardly surprising that visitors flock to see it, as it must be Britain’s most famous phallus. The giant’s pride and joy measures some 11 metres (36 feet) high. Postcards of the giant in all his glory are the only ‘indecent’ photographs that can be sent through the English Post Office.

  “Come on! We are going to collect stones,” announced my mother.

  We kids clambered into the back of Ivy and clung on as my mother crunched the gears and we set off.

  “Chesil beach, here we come!” we shouted over the engine noise as Ivy bucked away, farting exhaust fumes along Dorset’s country lanes.

  Chesil beach has always fascinated me. It has been the scene of many a shipwreck and was a favourite port for smugglers, perhaps because of a unique feature. The shingle at the north-west end is pea-sized, but as one walks to the south-east end, the shingle gradually grows in size, until it is the size of oranges. It is said that smugglers who arrived in the dead of night without lights knew exactly where they were, just by the size of the shingle.

  The beach is famous now, thanks to the 2007 novel, On Chesil Beach, but was also named by Thomas Hardy as ‘Dead Man’s Bay’ because shipwrecks claimed so many lives.

  We collected stones from the beach, and it turned out to be much less fun than we thought it would be. My mother was picky, and every stone we offered her had to pass the quality test.

  “Ach, none of these stones are right!” she complained. “They are too round and lumpy, not flat enough. I do not think Chesil beach was the right place to come after all. Kids, we’re going home.”

  As far as I can remember, we eventually found enough stones that were the right shape and size, and flat enough to paint on, not at Chesil, but at some other beach. Before long, the stones were washed and my mother painted a Cerne Abbas giant, with all his splendour on every one. The naked giants lay in long rows on our kitchen table, side by side, as my mother waited for them to dry. Next came a coat of varnish, and they were ready to sell.

  Did my mother make a fortune selling her stones? I’m afraid not. I think she sold a few, but the remainder were returned to her by the tourist shops who were unable to sell them. She refused to dispose of them.

  “What? Waste all that work?” she exclaimed.

  So we shared our childhoods with these naked giants. They were used as paperweights, set into plant pots, lined up on windowsills, and given to anybody who visited the house.

  The long summer days shortened and all too soon it was time to prepare for school again.

  “Ach, your hair is far too long,” said my mother peering at my brother.

  My brother had spent the summer sticking together Airfix kits and model airplanes hung everywhere from his bedroom ceiling. When he had no more planes to assemble or paint, he devoted himself to dismantling things. My father had made him worktops which were crammed with stripped down toasters and radios. Whenever he put these things back together again, there always seemed to be bits left over.

  “Sit on this stool, and I will cut your hair,” said my mother.

  My brother blinked at her, then perched obediently on a high kitchen stool and waited.

  “Ja, this is what I need,” she said, pulling a pudding basin from a cupboard and trying it on his head for size.

  Out came the scissors and my brother’s sun-bleached hair fell to the floor in clumps as she snipped around the edge of the bowl. Then she took off the bowl to admire her handiwork.

  “Hmm… Perhaps some more off the top,” she said, snipping thoughtfully.

  “Ach, now the sides don’t match…”

  Snip-snip, went the scissors and my brother’s hair dropped in clumps.

  The result was no work of art. In fact, it looked as though my brother had been attacked by some particularly hungry caterpillars.

  “Ach, it will do,” she said and put the pudding basin and scissors away.

  I wasn’t looking forward to going back to school. Every day, my sister and I had to walk the mile and a half to Wareham station. The train steamed in, stopping at the platform with much puffing and blowing. We climbed aboard, bound for Dorchester. It seems strange now, but I don’t ever remember being supervised. We just knew we mustn’t stick our heads out of the window while the train was in motion or our heads would get chopped off.

  On the first day back at school, Mrs Pellow, the headmistress, visited each classroom.

  “Now children,” she said, “do you remember what I asked you to do over the holidays?”

  A forest of hands shot up into the air.

  “Lucinda?”

  “Miss, you said that we should write a composition about what we did in the holidays.”

  “Well done, Lucinda. That’s right. And what did I say about these compositions?”

  The forest of hands sprung up again.

  “David?”

  “Miss, you said the best one will win a prize.”

  I was sitting next to Nigel Harding. We looked at each other and pulled faces. I guessed he hadn’t written a composition about what he did in the holidays either.

  “Yes, David,” said Mrs Pellow, “that’s exactly what I said, well done. But I have a wonderful surprise for you all. Not just the child who has written the best composition, but everybody who has written a composition is going to be given a splendid surprise!”

  The class gasped. I gasped too, and so did Nigel Harding, but ours were gasps of horror. We hadn’t written compositions so we’d get no splendid surprise.

  One by one, our classmates handed over their compositions, and Mrs Pellow gave each child a beaming smile and a splendid surprise. Nigel Harding’s face was long, probably a reflection of mine.

  “No composition?” asked Mrs Pellow as she reached us, her eyebrows raised in question.

  “No, Miss.”

  “No, Miss.”

  “What a pity,” said Mrs Pellow shaking her head sadly and passing by.

  When our classmates opened their splendid surprises, our hearts were heavy. Each child was now the proud owner of a gyroscope. I pretended not to care, but I did.

  A lot.

  When I mentioned it at home, I got no sympathy. My big sister hardly looked up from playing with her gyroscope.

  “Ach, you should have written your composition,” said my mother.

  I slouched off to see Timmy the tortoise.

  I was too lazy, too much of a daydreamer and had my head stuck in a book too often to do well at school. The fact that my sister did so well academically made my lack of effort appear even worse. As far as I was concerned, if it wasn’t reading, art, or animals, I wasn’t interested.

  * * *

  School Report

  Reading: Victoria’s reading is good for her age.

  Writing: Victoria needs to be more careful.

  Oral Composition: Rare
ly takes part, too busy daydreaming.

  Written Composition: Good ideas but too slow getting them onto paper.

  Arithmetic: Victoria struggles with this subject.

  Nature Study: Keen.

  * * *

  Leaves were beginning to redden and drift from the trees. Summer was truly over and our uniform changed from striped cotton dresses to long-sleeved white shirts, long grey socks and grey pinafore dresses.

  My father made a box for Timmy to hibernate in. He filled it with straw and popped him in for the winter. Unfortunately, poor Timmy perished very early on. In those days, little was known about tortoise care, and the majority of pet tortoises died during their first hibernation. Happily, the import of tortoises into the UK for the pet trade is now illegal.

  Of course I cried buckets of tears, and began to badger my mother for another pet. What I really wanted was a puppy I could take for walks on a lead, but I knew that would be out of the question.

  “Please, please can I have a pet?”

  My pleas were ignored.

  “Why can’t I have a guinea pig?”

  “I told you, no more pets.”

  “What about a bird? A bird wouldn’t be any trouble.”

  “Ach, you can have a bird but only if you catch one yourself.”

  She was joking, but I didn’t know that. I clutched at the straw.

  “Can I? Can I really? How do I catch one?”

  “You have to put salt on its tail.”

  “Salt?”

  “Yes, salt. That’s how the rhyme goes:

  He went to catch a dicky bird,

  And thought he could not fail,

  Because he’d got a little salt,

  To put upon his tail.”

  “Salt? Is that how you catch a bird?”

  “Ach, yes! Of course! Put some salt on his tail, and the bird will stand still. Then you can catch him and keep him as a pet.”

  I tried. I really tried. I stole salt from the larder and filled my pockets. I crept up behind birds as they landed on the lawn. But they always saw me coming and flew away with a whirr of wings before I had a chance to drop the salt on their tails.

  “Does the salt work with any animals?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes, just drop salt on their tails.”

  I began to plot.

  Both my parents enjoyed sport. I’m told they first met at a tennis club. Later, we children were given tennis coaching as our parents felt that playing tennis would help us ‘get on in life’. My mother was also a very good skier and used to ski a lot in her native Austria. My father could ski but his favourite sport was squash, and he was beginning to teach my sister the game.

  I used to tag along, but not because I liked squash. On the contrary, I hated the smell of sweat at the courts, and the grunts that the players made, and the deafening thwack of the ball hitting the wall.

  No, I had a hidden agenda. I had another reason for accompanying them to the squash courts.

  5 Snowy and Snow

  “Why do you want to come with us to squash?” asked my sister curiously. “Do you want to learn to play?”

  “No, I’ll just wait for you outside.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather stay at home?” asked my father. “There’s nothing to do there.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll play outside.”

  My father shook his head, baffled. I felt in my pocket. I had the salt cellar that I’d borrowed from the dining-room table, and a piece of string to use as a collar and leash. Now, which rabbit hole should I wait at?

  The squash courts at Bovington Army Camp were surrounded by trees growing on banks. Dug into the banks and between the tree roots were numerous rabbit holes. I chose one and settled down to wait, the salt cellar poised ready to sprinkle on an unsuspecting bunny’s tail.

  I waited.

  And waited.

  Birds forgot I was there and settled quite close to me, scratching among the autumn leaves in search of something juicy for dinner. There were plenty of birds, but rabbits? I didn’t see one.

  In the distance I could hear the balls slamming against the squash court walls.

  Thwack, thwack.

  I still had time. I moved my cold, cramped legs and tried another rabbit hole.

  Eventually the thwacks stopped and my father and sister emerged, hot and red-faced with exertion, to find me miserable and rabbitless.

  “What on earth are you doing?” asked my father. “And why have you got your mother’s best silver salt cellar?”

  “I was trying to catch a rabbit to take home.”

  My sister rolled her eyes, but my father said nothing more as we drove home.

  I imagine he felt sorry for me, because somehow he managed to persuade my mother that I could have a rabbit in the new year. It was decided that the space next to the proposed new workshop would be set aside for my rabbit.

  Unfortunately, nothing happened until late the following spring. Although the old workshop was falling down, it couldn’t be dismantled because a pair of robins were busily building their nest on a shelf.

  I climbed on a stool and sneaked a peek at the nest. It looked very cosy, made from grass, leaves and lined with animal hair and moss.

  I loved watching the mother sit on her little blue eggs. I watched her, and she watched me with her black beady eye.

  “I’m pleased you are going to have a family,” I told her, “but I wish you’d hurry up. I can’t have my rabbit until your family is grown up.”

  One day, I visited the nest and there were four little orange gaping mouths in there. Mum and Dad were kept busy, arriving at regular intervals with beaks stuffed with caterpillars and other delicacies. My mother’s passion for gardening meant they reaped the benefits of her vegetable garden and she frequently unearthed juicy worms for them.

  “You are very cute,” I told the baby birds, “but I wish you’d hurry up and grow and leave home.”

  At last the babies fledged, and the old workshop fell silent again. Now I had to wait for it to be pulled down and a new workshop to be erected. Adults were so slowwww.

  While I waited, I had an idea. I would make myself a woodlouse sanctuary! I’d played with woodlice a lot, but I’d never tried keeping them as pets in my bedroom. I’d always liked woodlice and admired their ability to roll into shiny balls when alarmed. I had a nice shoebox with a tight-fitting lid; that would do perfectly! I decided not to tell the rest of the family about my plan as I was pretty sure they didn’t share my fondness for woodlice. So I secretly went hunting in the garden and found plenty of the little creatures. I popped them into my box with old leaves, soil and included rotten wood for them to eat.

  I’m not sure what I did wrong, but within a few days, every single woodlouse was dead. I still feel rather guilty about it.

  “Why do you have a shoebox with earth and wood in it in your bedroom?” my mother asked.

  “Oh, just something for art,” I replied, relieved she hadn’t noticed the corpses of my little pets.

  The old workshop was pulled down, and a new one was built on the same site. My father constructed a hutch with compartments for both day and night, and the whole area was enclosed to make a run for the rabbit. My mother planted honeysuckle to make the area look more attractive.

  I had saved my pocket money and visited the pet shop.

  “Can I help you, love?” asked the lady behind the counter.

  “I’d like a collar and lead, please,” I said.

  “What size would you like? What breed of dog?”

  “Um, it’s not exactly a dog.”

  “Oh, you’d like a ferret harness?”

  “No, a collar and lead, please. For a rabbit.”

  “Sorry, speak up, love, did you say a rabbit?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Well, if you’re sure… What colour would you like?”

  “Red, please.”

  I ended up with a cat collar, complete with a bell, and a lead attached. I can’t tell you how man
y times I drew that collar and lead out of the paper bag and admired them.

  Everything was ready and I thought I might burst with excitement.

  Our house with the new workshop

  At last came the day when my father arrived home with a cardboard box. Something was scrabbling around in it, something with claws.

  “Ach, open it,” said my mother.

  I lifted the flaps, and there, pressed into a corner was a white ball of fluff, a baby rabbit.

  “Ohhhh…” I exhaled, already in love with the little thing.

  I reached into the box and lifted her out, admiring her pink floppy ears and deep red eyes.

  “What are you going to call her?”

  “Twinkletoes.”

  “Not Snowy, like you said?”

  “Well, her long name is Princess Snowy Twinkletoes the First.”

  “Well, take Princess Snowy Twinkletoes to her new enclosure, see if she likes it.”

  Princess Snowy did like it. She particularly liked the honeysuckle plants my mother had painstakingly planted. She didn’t eat them, she just hopped along the row snipping them off at ground level with her razor teeth, ensuring they would never grow again. My mother was furious.

  “I wouldn’t mind so much if she ate them!” she fumed.

  “She’s just a baby,” I said protectively. “She’s probably teething.”

  But my mother never succeeded in growing honeysuckle around Princess Snowy’s enclosure, and Snowy thrived. She grew bigger, and bigger.

  Soon she was big enough to wear the collar and lead, and she came everywhere with me. It took a long time to go anywhere because she would hop this way and that, nibbling grass. People would stare at us, but I didn’t care.

  My rabbit was constantly hungry and soon grew to be a very large rabbit. And she developed a kick like a kangaroo. If she didn’t want to be cuddled, which was all the time, a well-aimed kick in my stomach took all my breath away.

  “I don’t know why she’s so unfriendly,” I complained.

  “Ach, perhaps she needs rabbit company,” said my mother. “We’ll take her over to the Hale’s house today. I know the girls have a nice girl rabbit. Perhaps they’ll be friends and it’ll be nice for them both.”