by Tony Hawks
***
‘You should come with us on a tractor run one day,’ said Ken.
‘What’s a tractor run?’ I replied.
‘We raise money for the Devon Air Ambulance by a load of us all taking our tractors out on a road run, and then parking up somewhere and having a good natter.’
Ken’s suggestion had been raised at one of my many morning visits to his workshop to ask either:
(1) How something worked in the house that I ought to have known already.
(2) To ask how to fix something that I ought to have known how to fix already.
(3) To ask Ken to fix something for me that I ought to have known how to fix already.
Ken had been busily working on the Massey Ferguson, replacing a sprocket or adjusting a back axle, or doing something equally abstruse.
‘When is the next tractor run?’ I asked.
‘Sunday. You could join us if we could find a tractor for you to drive.’
‘I could borrow Reg’s,’ I suggested.
‘What? His Zetor? Do you think he’d lend it to you?’
‘No harm in asking.’
So it was that I found myself in Reg and Ann’s kitchen – on the pretext of buying eggs – raising the subject of borrowing a 46-year-old Czechoslovakian tractor.
‘I need a run out in it, before I take it from Lands End to John O’Groats,’ I said, dangling the carrot of a trip in which Reg’s tractor could achieve greatness by featuring in a one-minute segment on a regional news programme.
‘HOW LONG WOULD YOU WANT IT FOR?’ bellowed Reg, as if I was at the other end of an extremely long corridor.
‘Just a day.’
‘WELL, I DON’T SEE WHY NOT, AS LONG AS YOU LOOK AFTER IT.’
Ken was most surprised that Reg had agreed to this, but seemed delighted that his incompetent townie neighbour was going to join in with a traditional rural pastime.
‘Trouble is, I don’t think he’s got insurance for his Zetor,’ said Ken, ever the pragmatist.
‘Ah,’ I replied. ‘Leave it with me.’
Another visit and twelve eggs later, Reg had agreed to insure the tractor, provided that I sorted out all the paperwork on his behalf. I took the tractor’s registration details and diligently completed my homework after a half-hour phone call to the broker which, once my life is completed, will not rank as one of its more exciting highlights.
‘I thought he’d back out at that point,’ said Ken, when I reported the news of the successful insuring of the tractor.
‘No, he’s on for it. He just wants me to come down in the morning and give it a little run, so he can see that I’ll know what I’m doing on the day.’
‘That’s a good idea. Do you want me to come with you?’
‘Yes. I’ll pop round in the morning and we’ll head down together.’
***
Reg may have been eighty-six years old, but he was eighty-six going on thirty-six. He always seemed to be pottering with farm machinery whenever I went round, just as he was on this occasion when we pulled up in Ken’s pick-up truck. He moseyed out of his workshop and glared at us. No hint of a smile. His was a face with a default setting of grumpy, but there was usually a distant twinkle in his eye that seemed missing this morning. I countered with an ebulliently cheerful tone.
‘I’m here to put the tractor through its paces.’
‘YOU’D BETTER BE BLOODY CAREFUL WITH IT. IT’S VINTAGE, YOU KNOW. FORTY-SIX YEARS OLD. I DON’T WANT YOU RUINING IT.’
‘I won’t ruin it.’
‘YOU’D BETTER BLOODY NOT. I LENT THAT SAM MY HAY BAILER AND HE BUGGERED IT UP.’
‘I won’t bugger it up.’
‘YOU’D BETTER BLOODY NOT.’
I figured that Reg had read very little Jane Austen. For him, no doff of his cap followed by:
Ah, good morning, Master Hawks. ’Tis indeed a fine morning for you to be embarking on your maiden journey upon my trusty four-wheeled companion. May I wish thee the finest of journeys, albeit only brief and primarily educative in nature.
‘I’LL GET THE BLOODY THING STARTED. BUT DON’T BUGGER IT UP. YOU’D BETTER NOT BURN THAT CLUTCH OUT.’
Reg climbed onto the tractor and started it up, sending a plume of filthy smoke into the air, filling the workshop, and causing him and his precious machine to become lost in a black cloud, one that matched his current mood. Seconds later, he and his machine emerged from the workshop and pulled up alongside me and Ken.
‘OK. GIVE IT A RUN ROUND THE FARM,’ he said, dismounting, ‘AND DON’T BURN THAT BLOODY CLUTCH OUT.’
‘Does it work the same way as a car?’ I asked, innocently enough.
‘JUST STICK IT INTO GEAR AND GET GOING,’ came Reg’s response.
Compassionate Ken stepped in and told me the basics, but he didn’t know how the gearbox worked, as each tractor tends to be quite different to another – and foolishly he’d not familiarised himself with how the Czechs arranged their gearboxes.
‘Reg, how does the gearbox work? Where are all the gears?’ I asked.
Instead of offering me a verbal reply, he stepped up and shoved the thing into gear himself.
‘TAKE IT ROUND THE FIELD,’ he bossed.
I looked at Ken, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged. I released the clutch and I was off. All went well for the first twenty-five yards, as I and the tractor chugged along nicely. Time to stick it into second gear, I thought. I pushed down on the clutch with my left foot and started grappling with the mysterious gear arrangement. I pulled, twisted, pushed and wiggled, but to no avail, I just didn’t seem to be able to get this gear stick to engage in any other position than the one it was already in. My foot remained on the clutch, something that didn’t seem to please Reg altogether.
‘TAKE YOUR FOOT OFF THE BLOODY CLUTCH OR YOU’LL BURN IT OUT!’
‘If I do that, I’m not sure what’ll happen,’ I called back, ‘as I don’t know what gear I’m in.’
‘TAKE YOUR FOOT OFF THE BLOODY CLUTCH OR YOU’LL BURN IT OUT!’
I imagined an exchange that might take place at home between Reg and Ann.
REG: ‘ANN, PASS THE SALT, THESE POTATOES NEED MORE SALT.’
ANN (from the cooker): ‘In a minute, Reg, the chip pan is on fire so I’m just putting it out.’
REG: ‘ANN, PASS THE SALT, THESE POTATOES NEED MORE SALT.’
ANN: ‘It’s spreading through the kitchen. The whole house could go up in flames.’
REG: ‘ANN, JUST PASS ME THE BLOODY SALT, THESE POTATOES NEED MORE SALT.’
Reg didn’t need salt now. All the evidence suggested that he needed me to take my foot off the clutch. The last scintilla of doubt was removed as he screamed at me once more.
‘TAKE YOUR FOOT OFF THE BLOODY CLUTCH!’
I took my foot off the clutch. The tractor started going backwards.
‘IT’S IN REVERSE, YOU BLOODY FOOL!’
Thanks, Reg, I never would have guessed that.
I grappled with the gear stick. I pulled, twisted, pushed and wiggled, desperately trying to get it out of reverse. Within moments, somewhat unwillingly, I drew up alongside Ken and Reg.
‘TAKE YOUR FOOT OFF THE BLOODY ACCELERATOR,’ said Reg.
Ah, good, something else for me to take my foot off. I was getting the hang of this now. Driving a tractor was all about taking your foot off things. Compassionate Ken stepped in.
‘Tony, a tractor’s not like a car. You don’t need to go through the gears. Just stay in the gear that you set off in. That’s why you don’t need to use the clutch.’
‘HE’S BURNING MY BLOODY CLUTCH OUT.’
‘Let me try again,’ I said, realising that the best way to deal with Reg when he was in this mood was to imagine that he wasn’t there.
I tried again. I did much better. I circled the field displaying, if not competence and confidence, then persistence and pluck. A few minutes later, I pulled the tractor up before the two men who had been observing me like examiners.
&nb
sp; ‘That was good,’ said Ken.
‘I’M NOT GOING TO LET YOU TAKE HER,’ said Reg.
‘What?’ I said, somewhat in disbelief.
‘I’M NOT GOING TO LET YOU TAKE HER. YOU’LL BURN THAT BLOODY CLUTCH OUT.’
And that was pretty much it. I knew there was little point in reasoning with Reg. Reason was to Reg, what subtlety is to Lady Gaga. Ken knew it too.
‘Never mind, Tony. Thanks anyway, Reg,’ he said.
I looked at Reg. I wondered for a moment if all his posturing obstinacy masked a sadness.
‘I’ll pop down with the insurance policy soon,’ I said.
And with those profound words, Ken and I slowly climbed back into his pick-up truck and drove away.
‘Actually, I thought you did quite well on that thing,’ said Ken. ‘I think he’d decided he didn’t want you to take it before we got there.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t want to risk it getting damaged. He’s very fond of that Zetor.’
And so it was that the Zetor remained in Reg’s workshop. The only difference was that now it would sit there with third-party insurance cover. So if Reg’s tractor managed to inflict any damage, without actually moving, on any other vehicle, then Reg would be fully covered.
It was nice to know that something good had come out of all our efforts.
16
The Finger
One of the many benefits of living in an old democracy like Britain is that justice – whilst subject to occasional miscarriages – is often seen to be done. One case I can cite as an example was when the government inspector ruled in our favour against the Dartmoor National Park Authority. To our delight, our appeal was upheld, which meant that we would now be free to do what any sensible couple does when they are faced with the challenges surrounding the arrival of a new baby, and that is to add builders into the mix. It makes perfect sense.
The baby, of course, was going to grow up into a country kid, distinct from its parents in this regard.
‘You do realise that our child will be Devonian?’ I said to Fran over breakfast, as the spring sunshine threatened to soothe and transform a chilly night into a mild and pleasant day.
‘Of course.’
‘Well . . .’
‘Well, what?’
‘Well, I was wondering if we’ve really got to know the real Devon.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, beyond our immediate neighbours, so much of our contact seems to be with incomers.’
‘That’s true, but I don’t see what we can do about it.’
‘I have an idea.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘It’s OK. It doesn’t involve you.’
‘That’s a relief.’
***
I wanted to move slowly, just like they would have done in days gone by. I wanted to experience the raw countryside and turn something that would normally take an hour into a whole morning’s activity. I wanted to be as green as I could, and not rely on fossil fuels every time I needed to get something done. I wanted to meet a real Devonian at work, as part of a genuine commercial transaction.
I was going to cycle to town and get my hair cut.
It was an ambitious plan, I’ll admit, but the week previously I’d spotted an authentic-looking barbershop in a neighbouring village and it looked like a piece of old Devon. The real thing. A tiny establishment with only one seat and with the red-and-white spirally sign outside. It was the first of its kind I’d seen since our move, such is the current trend towards unisex salons and so called ‘stylists’. I prefer the brutal honesty of a place that tells you straight: ‘We won’t wash your hair and blow-dry it later, and we won’t offer you a cup of coffee. We won’t guarantee a trendy look. Here’s the deal – you give us a few quid and we’ll cut some of your hair off.’
These establishments don’t advertise themselves as hairdressers, because they won’t dress your hair. They’re barbers, so what they will do with your hair is cut it – and it’s a service they offer exclusively to men. Well, boys, too, but only for those whose parents aren’t bothered whether their child has a few cuts on his neck, or gets teased at school for having naff hair. Actually, at school I recall that a modicum of teasing happened after a barber visit, regardless of the quality of the cut. You knew that the moment you walked in to the playground, another child would approach you, point to your hair, and declare:
‘HAIRCUT!’
Others would then join in. Nothing particularly derogatory was being said, but nonetheless it felt like something one should feel embarrassed about. You’d had a haircut and it had been spotted. Shame on you. Never mind, this kind of stuff is character-building and has enabled us all to grow into the balanced, neurosis-free and self-assured individuals who have helped to create the near-perfect society that is all around us.
I have a good bike. It’s sleek, light, it makes other cyclists look across at me admiringly, and it cost me £700 second-hand. However, it just wasn’t good enough. One of the reasons we had been drawn to this area of Devon was the presence of the rolling hills that lead you gently into the more austere terrain of Dartmoor. These hills, as I was now discovering, were deceptively steep, and no matter from which direction they were tackled on a bicycle, they were unreasonably demanding.
Attempting to cycle up them tested the thighs and calf muscles to breaking point, and freewheeling down them made the wrists ache, whilst the brakes were squeezed as tightly as possible to avoid joining this year’s road accident statistics. I’d figured that this seven-mile cycle would not be too much for me – lithe picture of fitness that I was – so I had set off in earnest, only now viewing it as extremely daunting. However, the sensible option of turning back and getting the car would have involved swallowing too much pride, so I elected to battle on.
In one sense, I was greatly rewarded for my stubbornness. The scenery was delightful. Although the rising hedgerows blocked many a spectacular view, the gaps created by farm gates afforded occasional glimpses that made it more of a treat. For a while, I freewheeled alongside a gently flowing stream and into dense woodland. The soft autumn sun streaked through the trees like rock-concert spotlights, picking out ferns and wild flowers instead of writhing pop stars. When the stream veered away from the narrow lane and left me facing a forbidding incline, I dismounted and pushed the bike up the hill. This gave me all the more time to appreciate the nature that was around me. The birds chattered away, providing a chorus of sound that was contradictory – random and yet seemingly orchestrated.
From time to time I would attempt to cycle up one of the hills, wanting to rise to the challenge, and to try and convince myself that I was a proper cyclist. The gears didn’t seem to go low enough for what was required, but I did my best. Cycling uphill in low gears requires a significant loss of dignity. I always snigger at the sight of cyclists pedalling furiously, so fast that it looks as if their Lycra leggings will catch fire from the friction, the bike inching forwards as nearby pedestrians pass them, sneering as they go.
Currently that undignified cyclist was me, but I was spared the humiliation of an audience – unless you counted cattle and sheep. They might have been sneering, but it was impossible to be sure. What animals actually think about has always been a mystery to me. Once I compiled a little list of the possible thoughts that some animals might have.
***
A horse: ‘When humans break their legs, how come they just put it in plaster?’
A fish, swimming in waters where fishermen are active: ‘I wonder what happened to Ian?’
A sheep: ‘Don’t tell me, it’s just grass on the menu again? Ho, hum.’
A whale: ‘How come when they lie on the beach, everyone leaves them alone?’
***
Finally, I encountered another human being. Two, in fact. A Land Rover containing a farmer and his wife who, in their mud-stained overalls and ruffled hair, could have been dressed by a film’s costume d
esigner briefed to create two rustic figures. They had to slow down to a halt to allow me to pass, so slender was the lane. We exchanged good mornings and I enquired of the farmer if I was heading the right way for my designated village.1
‘Keep on this road, don’t turn right or left,’ he said, the second part of his sentence suggesting that he didn’t believe I’d listened to the first part.
I followed his instructions, shunning all the tempting lanes on either side of me and, at last, after a total of fifty minutes of walking a bike up hills and freewheeling down them almost out of control, I could see my destination in the valley below. In this case, the hill that led to it was actually too steep to go down. Not convinced that my brakes could handle it, I dismounted. I figured that of all the ways to pass away, being found headfirst in a Devon ditch was not glamorous enough.
When I reached the bottom of the hill, I was greeted by a High Street full of villagers going happily about their daily business. I was enjoying this picture of rural Britain so much that I chose not to remount the bike, but to keep pushing it so that I could absorb all that was around me. By the time I reached the barbershop, a warm, contented smile had broken out upon my face. It soon disappeared. There, in the window of the barbershop, were the words:
CLOSED ALL DAY WEDNESDAY
Profound irritation replaced the warm feelings. It was difficult to know what was more annoying – today being Wednesday, or the proprietor of the shop electing to make Wednesdays the day he closed. I stared in disbelief at the sign. I now faced the seven-mile journey home, the only difference being that this time I would experience the pain of the undulating hills from the opposing direction.
I heaved, sighed, dismounted, trudged uphill, remounted, flew down hills barely in control, did some more heaving, threw in a touch more sighing, and eventually made it home – rouge, damp, exhausted. Fran looked at my hair.
‘Blimey, he hasn’t taken much off,’ said Fran.
It was a full minute before I had the breath or the motivation to explain.
***
I’m not proud of it. I should have cycled back there the next morning. But I didn’t. I jumped in the car. It still took close to twenty minutes, given that the top speed I attained was probably not much more than ten miles an hour. In spite of the aches from the previous day’s exertions, I strode down the High Street with a confident swagger. Today was Thursday, and Thursday was a cracking good day to get your hair cut in rural Devon.