Thinking about that brought back memories of Coronation Day, June 2nd, 1953.
Taken from Through My Eyes: On Becoming a Teacher, by John Paull, available from Amazon
On the Friday before Coronation Week
in June, 1953, when Princess Elizabeth was to be crowned Queen Elizabeth 2nd
of England, Graham ‘Scotcher’ Rowe,
Dudley’s brother, asked me if I wanted to go potato picking. Farmer Matthews
was looking for more kids to gather his early crop of potatoes, in Gulval, a
small village about two miles from my home. The pay was one shilling an hour.
My brain went in to top gear: eight hours a day, for six days, the whole week.
That, I worked out, would be two pounds eight shillings for the week. Wow! Yes,
please. That was a lot of dosh. Imagine, I thought, clutching my precious amber, what
I’d do with all that money.
”You
have to wear your wellies, Johnny. You got a proper pair, ain’t you? We’re working in the muddy
field all day.”
“I’ve
been before. Spud picking’s ‘ard. ‘urts your back. You’ll see.”
“Good
dosh, though.”
“Oh,
bring a sarney for grub, ok?”
“And
some pop.”
Mum and Dad agreed that I could try
it out and see what I thought of spending all day bending and picking potatoes.
“Can’t
wear your Hopalong watch, though,” said Dad.
“Get
earth in it and it won’t work.”
“Leave
it home, please.”
As we had to be in Gulval by 8
o’clock, Graham and Dudley, wearing their black wellies, knocked on my front
door really early on Saturday morning.
“Ready?
Got your sarney?”
“Great.
Les go.”
Whistling, we skipped down the back
lane, and turned on the main road towards Gulval. When we reached the farm,
Graham took me to Farmer Matthews who was sitting and smoking a woodbine on his
red tractor at the gate of the potato field. Mr. Matthews asked me my name.
“You
Arthur’s middle ‘un?”
He knew my dad.
“Watch
what Graham and Dudley do, ok?”
“Stay
with them, alright, my cock?”
You
do the same thing, Johnny, alright?”
“Today,
Monday and Coronation Day, right?”
“
School’s closed for the week, then, isn’t it?”
“Go
over with the other kids and fetch yerself a few bags.”
“
Put your spuds in them.” “Put your snap in the barn.”
The three of us picked up some
sacks. At eight o’clock, the farmer started his tractor and started ploughing,
followed by about a dozen boys, all clutching their brown sacks. I quickly
learned what to do – you see the potato, you bend over, pick it up, and throw
it in your sack. And then you pick up another, and another. When your sack is
filled, you tie it at the top with some string and leave it in the field.
I soon learned that potato
picking was not much fun. In fact, following the noisy, smelly, tractor as it
turned over the soft deep brown earth, bending over picking up potatoes,
shaking off the coating of damp soil, not having time to look closely at the
stones, the fat, brown earthworms, bagging and leaving them for the farmer to
collect later, was, as Graham said, backbreaking work.
At 12 noon, after fours hours of
work, we were more than ready for some rest and for something to eat. We sat in
the sun on the top of a hayrick, ate our sandwiches, and washed them down with
some pop. Work started again around one o’clock.
The day finished at four o’clock in
the afternoon.
I arrived home at five o’clock, aching
from head to toe, dirty, and absolutely exhausted. I wasn’t sure if I could
last all week.
When the three of us left for the
farm on Tuesday morning, June 2nd, we saw Mrs. Donnisthorne hanging
Union Jack flags outside her two front bedroom windows.
“Don’t
forget the party, Johnny,” she shouted. “It’s in the street, St. Michael’s. Your mum coming?”
“Hey,
Mrs. Donnisthorne,” I replied, “Yes, I think she’s coming, not sure, though,
Grandad isn’t very well.……..I’ll be back in time, though, I hope.”
“Hey, you two,” I said, “let’s get back for the
street party, ok?”
“You bet, Johnny. Ain’t missin’
that.” answered Graham.
As we bent our backs, filled our
sacks with more and more potatoes, we so looked forward to the Coronation
Party. We loved our new queen and wanted to be part of the street celebrations.
We left the farm just after 4
o’clock, anxious to get home, get washed, and join the fun. Walking as fast as
our aching bodies allowed, we turned the corner into St. Michael’s Street in
record time.
We had missed the fun. The mums were
taking down the tables and stacking the chairs. We’d missed the balloons,
flags, the free pop, the singing, and the hot sausage rolls. Scotcher swore.
“Bloody
‘ell!”
Ivan James, the young kid with
glasses from three doors up, stared at us and shouted:
You’ve missed it, Johnny.” “Where
you been?”
“Been pickin’ spuds, Johnny? You,
too, Scotcher?”
“Missed a great party. We’ve been
singing and eating crisps, drinkin’ Corona and stuff.”
“And waving flags.” “Dead good fun.”
“Never
mind.” Said Mum. “Here. Have these.”
Mum had saved me two sausage rolls
that Mrs. Donnisthorpe had made, and a bottle of Mrs. Monkton’s home-made ginger
beer.
“Better
have this first, though.”
She handed me a Wall’s chocolate
ice cream bar.
Although the ice cream was melting
and ran between my fingers, I wolfed it down.
It was some compensation for missing
the street party.
After eight days of picking
potatoes, my muscles were so tired. I felt very proud, though, when I handed my
pay packet to my mum. She counted out my earnings, and, smiling, gave me back
eight shillings.
“That enough?” she asked. “You can have more you know.” “And, Johnny…….thank
you.”
My potato-picking job lasted
two more weekends and I wasn’t too unhappy when the last potato was picked and
bagged.
No comments:
Post a Comment