One Young Fool in Dorset (24 page)

At lunch times, I would often choose not to sit in
the staffroom with the other workers. Instead, I would stretch out
in the long grass at the edge of the pasture, staring up at the
Dorset sky, sharing my sandwiches with Nig-Nog and telling him all
my troubles.

“Can you believe that Tony could be such a rat,
Nig-Nog?”

“Meooowww-purrp-meow.”

“If he was really a rat you’d catch him for me,
wouldn’t you?”

“Purrrp-meoeeew.”

“Thank you, I knew you would.”

“Purrrp.”

* * *

During the school holidays I worked full-time at the
animal sanctuary, and during term time, I just worked weekends. I
should have been studying, but I set aside very little time for
that. So when the offer of an additional part-time job came along,
I seriously considered it.

“They were talking in Cullens,” said my mother.
“There’s a waitress job going on the quay. It might suit you better
than the animal sanctuary, it’s much closer.”

“I don’t want to give up my job there,” I said, “but
perhaps I could do both?”

“
Ach
, what about your studying? You want to
get into that Teacher Training College, you know.”

I did know, but I didn’t really care. At least when
I was working, I didn’t have time to think about Tony and the way
his long hair curled over his shoulders, or brood over how horrible
men were.

Wareham is an ancient, historic town situated on the
River Frome which leads out to Poole Harbour. (The smaller River
Piddle, whose name still makes me giggle, also flows past Wareham.)
Excavations have produced axe heads and flint workings, evidence of
settlements dated around 9000 BC. Up until the 12th or 13th
century, Wareham had been quite a major port, but as the river
began to silt up, most of the foreign trade transferred to
Poole.

Although, as a youngster, I may not have appreciated
it, I was aware that Wareham quay was extremely picturesque.
Steeped in ancient Saxon and Roman history as it is, Wareham is a
place that tourists flock to, and the quay is seldom quiet. A white
arched bridge spans the Frome and the scene, with its little boats,
historic buildings and water reflections has been reproduced on
postcards countless times. My book-jacket designer, Nick Saltmer,
chose to paint Wareham quay as the cover to this book.

There were, and still are, two pubs on the quay, The
Quay Inn and The Old Granary. The job vacancy was for a waitress at
The Old Granary, a lovely old building right beside the water. I
already had a little experience waitressing, and therefore got the
job, but I was never a good waitress.

The Old Granary offered a delicious menu which
attracted a mixed clientele; some locals, some regulars and
numerous tourists. Most of the customers were utterly polite and
charming, particularly the Americans who gazed around wide-eyed,
drinking in the history we Brits so take for granted.

However, I remember an instance with customers who
were so rude, I never forgot them.

23 Gits and Goats

Coq
au Vin

T
he Old Granary had a family atmosphere, so
when I walked up to attend a particular table, I was surprised to
see two men sitting there, staring at me belligerently.

“Good evening,” I smiled. “I’m Vicky and I’ll be
serving you this evening.”

“You don’t look like a Vicky,” said the one who was
wearing a green shirt and a Mickey Mouse tie. “We’ll call you
Josephine.”

“Josephine! Haw-haw, you look like a Josephine,”
said his companion, a balding man sporting one of those flashy new
digital Casio watches.

I raised my eyebrows.

Well, they can call me whatever they like as long
as they leave a decent tip,
I thought.

I said nothing but my eyes strayed to a tower of 50
pence pieces in the middle of the white tablecloth.

“Ah,” crowed Mickey Mouse, “you’ve noticed these
little beauties then! That’s your tip there, Josephine! There’s
five nice British pounds here, but every time you displease us, I’m
going to take one away.”

“Haw-haw!” guffawed Casio Watch.

My mouth dropped open.

“You’re joking!” I blurted.

They weren’t. Mickey Mouse’s hand shot out and
removed the top coin from the pile.

“Haw-haw!” guffawed Casio Watch. “Careful,
Josephine! He did warn you!”

“You haven’t given us a menu yet, Josephine,” said
Mickey Mouse, removing another 50 pence piece from the dwindling
tower and slipping it back in his pocket.

Nothing went right.

The water jug was too full and splashed the
cloth.

The wine was corked.

The food arrived too slowly.

There wasn’t enough
vin
in the
coq au
vin
.

The peas were overcooked.

“Oh
dear
, Josephine, you won’t have much of a
tip left unless you buck your ideas up,” said Mickey Mouse,
slipping yet another 50 pence piece into his pocket.

I’d already come to terms with the fact that I would
not be earning a tip from this table. In my head, I called them the
Gruesome Twosome, and it wasn’t only their tipping strategy that
irked me. Throughout their meal, they kept calling for me.

“Josephine! Over here! You haven’t refilled the
bread basket!”

“Josephine! Where’s the tartare sauce?”

Then, when I served them, they wouldn’t stop
talking, even when I tried to back away to serve other tables. To
make matters worse, Casio Watch invaded my personal space and
grabbed my wrist, preventing me from getting away.

“Excuse me, I need to check your order in the
kitchen,” I protested, and tried to pull away.

By now, the Gruesome Twosome had consumed two
bottles of wine between them and were even louder and more
unruly.

“They are impossible!” I ranted to the other staff
in the kitchen.

“They sound like a couple of gits,” agreed the
chef.

‘Git’ was a rude word, commonly used in Dorset,
meaning a contemptible person. I thought it fitted the Gruesome
Twosome perfectly.

“Josephine!” said Mickey Mouse, plucking at my apron
ties as I served a neighbouring table. “Are you going to give us a
discount?”

“No,” I said flatly, and saw the last 50 pence piece
disappear into his pocket.

“Well! How very rude!” said Mickey Mouse, affronted.
“And after we’ve been so nice to you, too! You mark my words, we’ll
never
come back to this restaurant.”

I cheered inwardly but said nothing as I watched
them count out exactly the right money for the bill and leave it on
the table. They were the last customers to leave. I stood with the
other members of staff as they blundered their way out, bumping
into tables, reaching the coat stand, collecting their jackets,
stepping out onto the quay, and finally slamming the restaurant
door behind them. Forgive me, but I hoped they’d fall into the
River Frome. I wouldn’t be jumping in to rescue them. Nasty little
gits.

“Good riddance!” I muttered, then smiled to
myself.

“Did they leave you a good tip?” asked the chef,
catching my smile.

“No,” I said, “but I left them one.”

I wondered how long it would take them to find the
fish heads I’d picked out of the kitchen dustbin and pushed into
their coat pockets.

Would they work out where the fish heads had come
from?

Of course they would.

Would they come back the next day and get me
fired?

Probably.

I didn’t care. It was worth it. And anyway, I had
decided that waitressing was not for me. If I wanted to be a
teacher, perhaps I should concentrate a little harder on my school
work and passing my exams.

* * *

I enjoyed my days in the cattery, but occasionally I
would be asked to help in other departments, to cover for absent
members of staff. Sometimes I took over the kennels but I was
nervous of some of the dogs and I never attempted to take
bad-tempered Pepper for a walk.

More often I’d help out at the goat stable, and the
first time this happened, I needed to be taught what to do. Nobody
was forced to work in any department, but I volunteered, thinking
working with goats might be fun. Julie usually cared for the goats
and she showed me what needed to be done.

The goats had their own large stable where they
spent the night. The cement floor was lined with straw.

“Right,” said Julie. “First thing in the morning,
open the top half of the stable door and look inside. Check them
out, make sure they all look okay. Take care, because goats are
jumpers. If you’re not careful, they’ll take a flying leap at the
door and try to escape.”

“Okay,” I said, as she demonstrated how to do
it.

“Next,” said Julie, “slip in, closing the door
firmly behind you. Come on!”

I followed her closely. Julie swung the door closed
and switched on the light. A dozen horned heads swung in our
direction. A few of the braver ones stepped forward.

“Morning, goats!” said Julie. Then to me, “They are
naturally curious, they’ll come up and sniff you, and probably
start chewing on your clothes, so watch out!”

Soon I was in the thick of the baaing, hard-headed
herd. The goats stepped on my feet with their sharp hooves, and
their long teeth plucked at my T-shirt.

“Quick!” said Julie. “Grab that little brown one by
the horns before she skips away. That’s Jemima. She has a phantom
pregnancy and we need to milk her before we take the goats to their
field.”

I grabbed Jemima, and Julie pulled the little goat
towards her, then leant her against the wall. Jemima’s udders were
tight, but a few expert squeezes from Julie relieved the
pressure.

“You milk her every morning?” I asked.

“Yup! It’s not hard though, as soon as you’ve caught
her she’ll let you do it.”

“Okay, so what’s next?”

“We need to get the whole herd out of the stable and
down the lane to their field.”

“Does anybody help?”

“Nope. There is only one way to do it and you only
get one chance. When you open the stable door, they could run out
and go left or right. We need to make sure they turn left, go down
to the bottom of the lane, and turn into their field.”

“How on earth do you do that with no help?”

“Goats are really inquisitive, and they love chasing
things. Especially old Butch here.” She scratched the head of a
particularly large white-bearded goat beside her. “And if Butch
runs, the whole herd will follow.”

“So what does Butch chase after?”

“You.”

I gaped at her.

“Me? Chase
me?
”

What? No dog to round them up or chase after?

“Yes, you. I do it every morning and evening. It’s
not difficult, you just need to know what to expect.”

“So this is the only way to get the goats to their
field?”

“Yup. You shouldn’t have any problems. Big Denise
can’t do it, of course, because she can’t run.”

This conversation was not filling me with confidence
and I suddenly wished I’d made more of an effort in PE at
school.

“Right, first we need to get out of the stable
without letting any goats out. Follow me.”

We squeezed out and stood outside.

“Bring some carrots with you tomorrow, it’ll make
things much easier.” She grabbed a bunch from a bucket by the door.
“Now watch, and follow me closely. Do
everything
I do. When
we get to the field, dart behind the gate.”

Before I had time to ask any more questions, Julie
swung open the upper half of the door.

“Goaties!” she called, jiggling the carrots. “Look
what I’ve got!”

All the goats swung round and eyed the carrots.

“Come and get them!”

She threw open the lower section of the stable door,
turned, and pelted down the lane. I sprinted after her, and right
behind me galloped the herd of goats. It was only a short lane,
with high hedges either side, but that day it felt a full mile
long.

Once in the field, she flung the carrots as far as
she could, then darted behind the gate, with me close on her heels.
The goats galloped to the carrots, but Butch had reached them first
and was already munching. The goats spun round, looking for Julie,
the carrot provider.

“Quick, close the gate,” panted Julie.

Together we pushed it closed, then leant on it,
catching our breaths and watching the goats lose interest in us and
begin to graze on the grass and hedges.

“And you do this every day?”

“Yup. Evenings are easier. You don’t have to bribe
them because they know there’s a feed waiting for them in the
stable. You still have to let them chase you though, otherwise
they’d take all evening because they’d stop to graze the hedges,
and some might wander off.”

I sighed and wished that I’d never volunteered to
help with the goats, and hoped tomorrow would never come.

Julie showed Nig-Nog and me how to muck out the
stable and prepare the evening feed.

“You’ll be fine tomorrow. Even if they catch you,
they won’t hurt you. They might head-butt you a bit, specially old
Butch, but that’s all.”

“I’m really not looking forward to tomorrow,” I told
Nig-Nog later as I shared my cheese sandwich with him.

“Meooowww-purrrpp.”

The next day arrived much too quickly. I made my way
to the goat stable and let myself in, while Nig-Nog sat on the
fence watching proceedings.

Catching Jemima proved easy, in spite of the other
goats pushing and nuzzling me curiously, and old Butch searching my
pockets. I was glad I’d left my carrots outside. Jemima let me grab
her udder and I imitated Julie’s action, pleased to see a few
squirts of milk hit the straw at my feet.

Good. That was done. All I had to do now was slip
out of the stable. Easy. My confidence was returning.

“All going well so far,” I told Nig-Nog
cheerily.