Tomorrow, a book will be presented here containing the life stories of seven ‘Senior Residents’, I am one. I don’t see why Moodscope should not get a preview of a drama or two (no ‘plug’ the book will not be on sale).

My father objected to my marriage, not to my intended, just getting married at all, I was too useful. The ‘intended’s’ mother reacted fiercely, that dreadful girl, and her worse father. She had an ally, the mother of the farmer Mr G worked for and where he lodged. But our patron, to become a great friend, would put a ladder up to Mr G’s window if he went out with me at night, then it would be removed the next morning before his fierce old Ma was about. Finally it took a priest, a solicitor and a magistrate to persuade my father that I had a right to marry. Very hole in corner, wedding set for February 1955. Pa off for Christmas with somebody else’s wife. Fed up with coping with his business alone I said I was getting married immediately. He would have nothing to do with it until two days before the day. Had I got flowers, no, he refused to give me any money. So, on my bike to florist. Then, music? Organists need paying, so, on my bike again. He gave me a cheque for £100 as a present, promptly took it back again, no funds to back it. The ceremony passed in panic for me until the ring was on, my mother could have turned up with a brace of aunts and opposed the wedding, I was under age. Fine, Mrs G.

No honeymoon, living with my Pa, had to stay put to look after the birds. Midnight on our wedding night, bang at front door. A large policeman, the woman had been a voluntary patient in the local psychiatric hospital, she had discharged herself and gone off with my Pa. Her husband was standing on the village green. Policeman ‘Where is Mr X (my pa)’. No idea. I thought a bit of retribution would not do him any harm, but I did not want the hassle. 

A quarter of a century later I was selected for a Nuffield Farming Scholarship, only the third woman in its history. Having given me the scholarship, they then grilled me about my plans, thought it a bit late, given on my abilities. It entailed a lot of driving, alone, in Europe. Was I up to it? Been driving in all conditions, with children, for 15 years. Then, how was I going to do my reports? I was a trained secretary, the guys were not. My faithful portable Olivetti went with me, I sent stuff back to Mr G for safe keeping. Then, how was I going to communicate? Particularly daft seeing they knew it was in Europe. I speak the languages. Finished, report given publicly, lot of notice taken in press. But they never published it. Misanthropy, xenophobia? Who knows? Have you had to dig your heels in? 

The Gardener

A Moodscope member