One Young Fool in Dorset

by Victoria Twead

  How can that be? I had tested the girth. I’d left space for just two fingers.

  “Ah, Victoria,” said Jack who had appeared at my elbow. “My fault, I should have warned you about our Megan. She’s a bit of a devil, plays that trick on all her new riders.”

  “Well, she got me good and proper!” I said, still rubbing my sore bottom. “How does she do it?”

  “She’s a crafty one! She inhales as you buckle up her girth, so of course it’s much too loose. Next time, wait for her to exhale before you buckle it.”

  We hadn’t been on a single trek yet, and I already had bruised fingers and a bruised behind.

  The next morning, we saddled up with no mishaps. Megan had finished her breakfast and was contentedly cropping grass as I prepared her. I was extra careful with her girth, and the saddle fitted with no problems. I was one of the first to mount.

  If you are an experienced horse rider, pony trekking is probably not for you. The pace is leisurely as the ponies follow each other, nose to tail. There is plenty of time to enjoy the view as the ponies plod along. It suited me just fine.

  One of our party was a tall German who had come with his companion, the chap who played the guitar in the hostel every evening. The pair were friends but had very different personalities. The guitar player was a free spirit, quietly-spoken with long hair and a leather band around his forehead. His tall friend was loud and demanding.

  “Jack! We make our horses run here, ja?” he shouted to our trek leader.

  “No, Klaus, we don’t.”

  To be honest, Klaus, the tall German, looked a little ridiculous astride his pony. His legs were so long, his feet nearly touched the ground. But this didn’t stop him urging his mount to go faster. He would sneakily hold his pony back so that he could urge it into a canter to catch up with the party. Klaus’s pony was obedient, but refused to go faster than a slow jolting trot, which meant that Jack quickly saw what he was up to.

  “Klaus! Our ponies aren’t built for speed! And this terrain is dangerous. A pony could easily end up with a hoof in a rabbit hole and a broken leg.”

  He waited for Klaus to catch up, and kept his eye on him from that moment. Klaus sulked but never managed to turn his pony into a racehorse.

  Megan, my pony, was definitely not built for speed. Actually, she wasn’t really built for any kind of movement at all. Her mind was only occupied with filling her stomach. Persuading her to abandon a tasty clump of grass and resume our journey was often extremely difficult.

  By the end of the first day in the saddle, I was loving it, but I was sore. Muscles that I didn’t even know existed ached and throbbed.

  And I discovered that my decision to pack only paper knickers was probably not a very clever idea after all. When I undressed that night, I was shocked.

  “Annabel?”

  “Yes?”

  “You know those paper knickers I brought?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I wore them today.”

  “And?”

  “Well, they’ve gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone? Stolen?”

  “No, gone.”

  All that was left was a band of elastic round my hips and another round each leg, with a few tattered pieces of paper hanging off. The rest of my paper knickers had simply worn away.

  * * *

  The pony trekking holiday was soon over, and I was back home in Wareham. It was hard persuading my mother to take us out. Unless there was some kind of horticultural attraction, she preferred to stay at home pottering in the garden.

  However, I do remember one family outing that didn’t turn out quite as planned.

  17 Fords

  Prawn Cocktail

  Dorset is a beautiful county, sprinkled liberally with picture postcard villages. Thatched cottages cluster around village greens. Dorset has more than its fair share of heathland, beaches, agricultural land and woodlands.

  Once a year, we all climbed into Ivy the Land Rover for a springtime outing. Ivy was now a very old lady; she’d been elderly when my parents first bought her. However, she was happy to trundle along the country roads with us kids in the back and my mother gripping the steering wheel as though it was threatening to escape. Ivy chugged a little going uphill, and her engine was so loud we had to yell or use hand-signals, but she never let us down.

  Except once.

  In spring, shy, yellow primroses blossom on banks, and bluebells are a swathe of colour in the woodlands. No matter how many times I saw them, they took my breath away. As far as the eye could see, the blue flowers carpeted the ground, the flower-heads nodding in the soft spring breeze.

  In those days, it wasn’t illegal to pick wildflowers, and my mother dug up dozens to transplant into our garden. We gathered armfuls to put in every container we could find at home. I’m ashamed now that we picked so many, as wildflowers soon die when they are picked. We should have left them for other people and the wildlife to enjoy.

  This particular time, we drove along a back country road where the trees overhead met to form a green tunnel. A little further ahead, the road forded a stream. My mother pushed her face near the windscreen, and stared ahead.

  “What’s the matter?” asked my sister.

  “Ach!” said my mother, stamping on Ivy’s brakes and sending us all flying in the back. “I don’t know how deep this ford is. We’ve had a lot of rain recently.”

  “It looks quite deep,” said my sister. “The water is flowing quite fast.”

  My mother stared at the water. We were still some distance away.

  “Perhaps we should turn back?” somebody suggested. “Find another way?”

  The road was deserted and she could have easily executed a three-point-turn, but my mother flatly refused.

  “You know I don’t reverse.”

  She opened Ivy’s door and strode to the water’s edge, thinking. She looked up and down the stream, then returned.

  “Ach, I think it’ll be okay,” she announced. “I think Ivy is high enough to clear it. I’m going to take a run at it and go through as fast as I can.”

  Determinedly, she climbed back into Ivy and revved the engine like a racing driver.

  “Hold tight!” she yelled and stamped on the accelerator.

  Ivy careered bravely towards the water and straight through, her speed causing much splashing. Out of the other side she came and began to climb the slope.

  “Well done, Ivy!” shouted my mother.

  “Hooray!” we kids yelled in the back.

  But our victory crow was premature. Without warning, the engine died.

  “Quick!” yelled my sister. “We’re rolling back into the water!”

  My mother stamped on the brake and applied the handbrake.

  “I don’t reverse!” she muttered.

  And there we sat, with water draining out of the engine and running off Ivy’s paintwork in little rivulets, until eventually another car came along.

  The car approached from behind. It wasn’t a high car, in fact it was much lower than Ivy. But it had no problem fording the stream and overtaking us, then coming to a standstill in front of Ivy.

  “Everything okay?” asked the driver, climbing out of his car. “Need any help?”

  “Ach, thank you very much,” said my mother. “We drove through the ford without a problem, and then the engine just stopped.”

  The man looked at the water still dripping off Ivy and making puddles on the road.

  “Did you drive very slowly through the water?” he asked. “It’s deep at the moment. If you drive through slowly, like I did, you will keep the engine dry.”

  “No,” admitted my mother, “I drove as fast as I could.”

  “She drove like a bat out of hell,” whispered my brother, making us snigger in the back.

  “Well,” said our advisor, “I’m afraid that’s what’s happened; your engine is soaked. Everything, including your spark plugs, got wet.”

  “So what do we do?”
>
  “Nothing. You’ll just have to wait until it all dries out, then she’ll start up nicely again.”

  With a cheery wave he climbed back into his car and drove off, leaving us stranded. My mother propped up Ivy’s bonnet, “to let the air blow through,” and dabbed parts of the engine nervously with her headscarf. Obviously she wouldn’t have recognised a spark plug even if it had bitten her on the end of her nose. We amused ourselves by racing sticks down the stream, and eventually, the engine dried.

  My mother turned the key in the ignition and Ivy burst into life.

  “Hooray!” we shouted, and clambered back in.

  “Quick! Before Ivy stops again!”

  Off we bucked and chugged and reached the bluebell woods without further mishap. We returned home via another route.

  Back home, we filled the house with glorious bluebells until the air was heavy with their perfume. When we ran out of vases, we used jugs and milk bottles.

  My father arrived home and we told him all about our day.

  “Didn’t you check how deep it was?” he asked my mother.

  “Well, I got out of the car and looked at the water.”

  “So what made you decide to drive through?”

  “Ach, don’t be silly, you know I never reverse. And anyway...”

  “Yes?”

  “The water only came halfway up some ducks.”

  A second’s silence, then we all roared with laughter.

  To this day, I’m not convinced whether she was serious or not.

  * * *

  I still had my chamber-maiding job and had managed to work just hard enough to keep it out of Janice Parry’s clutches. My boss then asked me if I’d like to take on a little waitressing now and then, particularly at wedding functions. I happily agreed, although being rather shy and clumsy, I wouldn’t be the best of waitresses.

  Around that time, another girl from my school moved into Wareham. As we travelled every day on the train to Poole together, we became friends, although she was younger than I.

  Marion Ford was a policeman’s daughter and a bit ‘fast’ as Auntie Jean might say. We all wore mini skirts, but Marion’s were micro minis. We all wore loons and platform shoes, but Marion’s loons were slung lower on the hips, and her platform shoes were higher.

  Marion taught me a lot. She talked about boys incessantly and I listened with wide eyes. She showed me how to turn the waistband of my school skirt over and over to make it shorter. She showed me how to hide my sensible school shoes in a bush and change them for much more unsuitable, strappy shoes, changing back before I got home. She showed me how to apply thick pancake make-up to my face and neck, and blend three colours of purple eye-shadow. She taught me how to moisten a cake of mascara and apply it with a brush.

  “And look, here’s how you curl your eyelashes. Take the curlers, grab the eyelashes and squeeze hard. Like this… See?”

  She admired the result in her omnipresent little round magnifying mirror.

  “And now for the false eyelashes. A line of glue, then stick, and press.”

  I wasn’t a willing student. I found the strappy shoes uncomfortable, and applying the make-up was a pain, and it turned my towel orange when I washed it off. Marion’s eyes were made up like Twiggy’s, with black outlines, but I never mastered that. Neither did I master the false eyelashes, though I tried. How could girls wear them? They were so uncomfortable.

  “Do you know anybody who might like to work a few hours waitressing?” asked my boss. “We’ve got a big wedding coming up and we could use an extra pair of hands.”

  I racked my brain, desperate to come up with somebody before my boss contacted Janice Parry.

  “Um, I have a friend called Marion Ford,” I said reluctantly. “I could ask her.”

  I wasn’t sure how Marion would fit in really, with her pancake make-up and fluttering false eyelashes.

  “Ah, is she the policeman’s daughter? Yes, I know her father. If she wants the job, bring her along with you a bit early.”

  I asked Marion, and as she was keen, we both turned up on the afternoon of the function.

  My boss looked at Marion as I introduced them, and I saw his eyebrows twitch. He showed her the kitchen, and explained how we worked, how the top table would be served first, and who would look after which area of the dining room.

  “Well, that seems straightforward enough,” she said.

  “Right,” said my boss. “Here is your uniform and this is your apron. Please go and change and report back to me. We don’t have much time. Oh, and could you please remove some of your make-up. It’s a little heavy for our establishment…”

  Marion looked affronted, but accepted the uniform.

  “I’m not taking it all off,” she said to me as we changed. “I’ll wipe some of me eyeliner and eyeshadow off, but I’m not taking off me false eyelashes for anybody.”

  Marion’s false eyelashes were so thick and sweeping they almost created a breeze every time she blinked.

  The wedding party and guests had arrived and were already seated.

  “Good,” said my boss as he looked us up and down at the inspection. “You both look tidy and presentable. Just one thing, Marion, take off the eyelashes, please.”

  Marion opened her mouth to argue, then thought better of it. She pouted and turned on her heel to head for the restroom.

  “Time to get serving!” called Dawn, the head waitress, picking up her tray of starters. “Victoria, Marion, are you ready?”

  “Yes, Dawn,” I said and picked up my tray. “Marion, you don’t have time to go to the restroom,” I hissed.

  “Yes, Dawn,” echoed Marion, quickly tearing off the false eyelashes and throwing them aside. She grabbed her tray and followed me through the swing doors into the dining room.

  It was a lovely wedding. Sunshine streamed through the big windows and onto the top table. In the middle sat the groom, handsome in his grey three-piece suit. The bride glowed, and the bride’s and groom’s parents beamed proudly. The tablecloths were crisp and white, decorated with a centrepiece of blue violets and snowy gypsophila, or baby’s breath.

  Soft music played in the background and the guests seemed to be enjoying their prawn cocktail starter. I made my way back to the kitchen when a little gesture caught my eye.

  At the very end of the top table sat an ancient lady. Looking at her, I guessed she must be the bride’s grandmother. The old lady caught my eye and quietly beckoned me over.

  I stood at her side, smiling, but she beckoned me closer. I leaned over, straining to hear what she was saying, and caught that distinctive old-lady smell of lavender.

  “I don’t want to make a fuss, dear, and I know it’s not your fault.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s that time of year, of course,” she said.

  “I’m sorry?” I was baffled.

  “I wouldn’t have mentioned it, but it’s just so big!”

  “I’m sorry?” I was so close now that I could see the fine down on her papery cheek.

  The old lady lifted a bony finger and pointed at her prawn cocktail.

  “I wonder if you could possibly take it back to the kitchen and get me another? That insect looks as though he’s there to stay. I tried to shush him away but he hasn’t moved at all since I noticed him. Actually...” she leaned even closer, “I think he may be dead.”

  I followed her gaze and saw to my horror what she was looking at. Perched atop the green shredded lettuce and pink mayonnaise of the prawn cocktail, was a very large insect with numerous legs.

  Except it wasn’t an insect.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” I breathed as I whipped the prawn cocktail away. “I’ll bring you another immediately.”

  Unfortunately, my eagle-eyed boss was lurking just inside the kitchen.

  “What’s that?” he asked. “Has somebody sent their food back?”

  “Um…”

  Too late. My boss was already peering closely at the offending dish
. With great precision, he picked out the ‘insect’ with his finger and thumb and held it aloft.

  “How,” he said heavily, “just how did one of Marion’s false eyelashes end up in a guest’s prawn cocktail?”

  It wasn’t my place to say, so I grabbed a replacement prawn cocktail and sped it out to the old lady.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said again.

  “Oh, don’t worry!” she whispered. “I expect it just flew in. It’s our little secret.”

  I didn’t tell the nice old lady the truth. And my boss didn’t require Marion’s assistance at any more weddings. I just hoped that if he found himself short-handed, he wouldn’t consider employing Janice Parry.

  * * *

  My sister had been accepted to Exeter University, where she thrived. My wardrobe diminished because she took all her clothes with her. My brother was still at boarding school, so I was the only one at home.

  I was supposed to be studying hard for my ‘O’ Levels but actually I was doing very little studying. I either had my head in a book, or in the clouds, daydreaming.

  18 Money and Work

  If only we could see into the future. At school, I was so quick to drop French and Latin, and I never even considered taking up Spanish, although I was given the opportunity. If only I’d known that in the future nearly all my friends and neighbours would be Spanish and I would be living in a Spanish village. Had I been offered a peep into what lay ahead, my school decisions wouldn’t have been so hasty.

  Instead of languages, I decided to take up Greek Mythology. A fascinating subject with wonderful stories, but, dare I say it, not really terribly useful?

  I had to persevere with Maths, although there was very little point. Numbers confused me and still do. I could manage stuff like Venn diagrams because it was a picture, and even equations were kind of logical, but simple and compound interest defeated me. And questions like: If a man can dig a four foot hole in two and a half hours, how long will it take eight men to dig a ten foot hole? left me bewildered.

  My Maths teacher, Miss Crowe, had given up on me a long time ago.

  “Victoria! You’re day-dreaming again! Get this question wrong and I’ll ssssstring you up by the heelssss.”