The talk in the public bar at the Jellied Eel in Bridgwater was the usuaclass="underline" who was laid off work and who was about to be. The modern economy had punished the people of Sedgemoor worse than most. Few of those in the pub had full-time work. Farming, the main employer, had shed thousands of workers as a result of automation, quotas and food scares. Beef, dairy products, cider, all were in decline. The demand for withies was negligible. The only viable industry was the peat, and that was not a major employer. Peat-cutting machines were job-cutting machines.
The young woman behind the bar, washing glasses, was not thinking about employment. Unemployment was Alison Harker’s dream, lifelong unemployment, sunning herself on a yacht in a Mediterranean bay. She had met a man across this bar two weeks ago who was capable of turning the dream into reality. Her pale, Pre-Raphaelite looks, the oval face and the long, red hair, had appealed to him at once. She knew. Some fellows practically drooled at the first sight of her. Tony was one of these, a pushover. He had only dropped in for a quick pint after doing some business in the town, and she wouldn’t normally have expected to see him again, but he returned in a couple of days, his eyes shining like chestnuts fresh from their husks. She knew she could have him whenever she wanted, if she wanted — so cool was she about the prospect until someone told her his Mercedes was outside, with the chauffeur sitting in the front listening to the cricket on the radio. Then her knees wobbled.
Their first date was a Saturday lunch at the best hotel in town. She thought about adjourning to one of the rooms upstairs for the afternoon, but she didn’t want him to get the impression she was easy, so she kept him (and herself) in suspense.
The next time he offered her an evening meal at a restaurant up near the coast, in the village of Stockland Bristol. She’d heard that it was highly regarded for its cooking, a place that catered mainly for tourists and people from “up out” who could afford the prices.
Somewhere along the route they were forced to stop because the narrow lane was blocked by cars. There was an emergency in the field on their left. Rather than sitting in the car to wait, they got out to look. It was a situation familiar to anyone from the moors. A cow had stumbled into the ditch and was up to its shoulders in mud and water. A Sedgemoor ditch is more than just a furrow at the edge of a field. It is more than a stream. It is broad, deep and dangerous, kept filled in summer to act as a barrier between fields and provide drinking water for the animals.
A lad scarcely old enough to be in charge of a tractor had tied a rope around the cow’s neck and was giving full throttle to this old Massey-Ferguson in the hope of hauling the beast out. The mud was doubly defeating him. The wheels were spinning and the cow was held fast. Alison saw that the poor animal was in danger of strangulation. It was making no sound, yet the distress in its eyes was obvious. The taut rope was around the throat in a knot that could only tighten as force was applied. Reacting as a farmgirl, she ran across to the kid on the tractor. She had rescued cattle from ditches herself and there was a right way to secure the rope. The boy didn’t like being told this by a woman dressed as if she had never been near a farm, but it was obvious from the way she spoke that she was experienced. At her bidding the lad backed the tractor far enough to slacken the tension. She took off her shoes and tights and handed them to Tony. After hitching the skirt of her new midi dress under her knickers, she let herself some way down the side of the ditch. Up to her thighs in the murky water, she strained to loosen the rope. It took all her strength. Twice the cow sheered away, almost dragging her into the ditch. At the cost of some torn fingernails, she finally untied the knot and attached the rope properly behind the cow’s horns. She scrambled up the bank and told the boy to try again, pointing out where the tyres would find a better purchase.
The tractor took up the strain and the rope tightened. With a tremendous squelching sound and much splashing the cow was plucked out of the mire and enabled to scramble up the bank, where it stood shocked, silent, dripping mud.
On the way back to the car, Tony said, “So you’re not just a pretty barmaid.”
Alison grinned. “Pretty muddy. I’m going to make a mess of your car.”
“Blow the car. I’m more worried about your dress. Keep it hitched up until your legs dry.”
“I can’t go to a restaurant in this state.”
“Leave it to me.”
“I mean I wouldn’t want to. I look disgusting like this.”
“You don’t.” And he meant it. He might have been looking at the treasure of Troy. “But I understand how you feel. Don’t worry. The people who own the restaurant live upstairs. They’re sure to have a shower.”
Typical of a man to dismiss the problem so lightly, as if it didn’t exist.
“I can’t march in and ask to use their shower.”
“I can. They know me.”
The chauffeur produced some clean paper tissues from the glove compartment and Alison wiped off the worst of the mud. If she had known Tony better, she might have asked him to help, but this was only their second date and they had made minimal body contact on the first, so she coped while he acted the gent and stared fixedly across the fields like a birdwatcher. As it happened, this saved an awkward explanation, for when she opened one of the tissues she found a lipstick imprint, obviously made by some previous passenger. Amused, she folded the tissue again and tucked it into her handbag thinking she might tease him when she knew him better.
You can only do so much with a few paper tissues. She sat self-consciously next to Tony in the rear seat of the elegant car with her smeared legs exposed while they were driven six miles to their destination, an old stone house converted into a restaurant. Tony explained the problem and the woman owner took Alison upstairs as if a shower for the guests was the usual pre-dinner appetizer. The private bathroom was immaculate, with fluffy white towels and everything gleaming. After showering, Alison trimmed her damaged fingernails. Then she looked at her clothes. She was relieved to find that the specks of mud on her dress had already dried, and they rubbed off, leaving no mark anyone else would notice.
Sipping red wine at the candlelit table, she admitted she had been brought up on a farm and was used to dealing with cows. “My people are dairy farmers. Generations of them.”
“Locally, you mean?”
She nodded. “We know the moors. Grandfather used to keep a boat tied to the back door because the winter floods were so bad years ago. They regularly got several feet of water. The fields still get flooded to get a nice, rich covering of silt, but it’s under control these days.”
“So why did you leave? What brought you to Bridgwater?”
“My pig-headed attitude. Women are supposed to do the same work the men do, or near enough, up to your knees in dung and silage. I wouldn’t have minded, but they told me my brother Henry, who is seven years younger than I am, was going to inherit the farm and everything father owned. Blow that. I left.”