The Farm Holiday
This story is about an older man looking back at a pivotal point in his childhood, where he and the rest of his family learned some home truths, courtesy of a farmer’s wife, and, of course, a llama.
The photo of the llama brought forth some interesting memories for John. It was black and white – the photo, not the llama – and he was being kept firmly out of the way by his mother. You could see a young John, being held the far side of Mummy, but craning his neck, looking round her skirts at this exotic animal. The older John, peering closer through his specs, thought he could see the tension in his mother’s arm as she held him. There would have been tension in her jaw, too, as she smiled her fixed grin for the camera.
It was a school holiday when they had seen the llamas. The whole of Grandpa’s ‘Special School,’ and therefore the whole staff (and, in their case, plus family – even if John and Emily were, in Grandma’s words ‘perfectly normal’), had decamped to this farm in rural Wales that catered for ‘that sort of person.’
Looking back, John supposed they had done what they could, given the standards of consideration at the time; but, really? How do you get a wheelchair down a rutted farm track? Or expect a visually impaired person to be able to avoid treading in muck, or know where they could stand to pet a pony? For the special school pupils, the best part of the day was the riding. John searched his memory. He couldn’t recall being on a pony himself, and Emily certainly wasn’t (though he could imagine the fuss she would have kicked up when she was told), but the school students took turns to be led around the big barn. It must have been an official Riding for the Disabled Association place. John could not imagine his grandfather doing anything outside the rulebook, simply because there would have been too much fuss to do otherwise.
‘I want to be a vet,’ young John had said, ‘and make all the sick animals better.’
‘Don’t be silly, John,’ Grandma replied, ‘you haven’t got the brains. And you ran from that sheepdog – all it did was bark.’
Mummy must have looked, or said something, because Grandma said: ‘Don’t try giving the boy ideas, Elizabeth. John will do well enough as a teacher.’
Other appropriate careers included being a policeman ‘if the boy can learn to stand his ground,’ or working in an office. His sister (if she wanted to work with animals) could become a kennel maid: until she got married. Mummy didn’t work. She just looked after John and Emily, and Grandma. Daddy was not around. Back then, the word ‘divorce’ was not mentioned if it could be avoided – no matter what the reason might be. The children were not told at the time, but John and Emily’s father had gone, with his twenty-one-year-old boyfriend, to live in Greece. Mummy was left with very few choices, and a lot of bills to pay. She ended up taking her children and going back to her parents’ house.
At first, being in a new place was a bit scary, when he didn’t know the rules. It was the same all over again when they went to the farm for the holiday. The farm was run by Idris and Ruth Price. It was Ruth who sent John to call the grown-ups for their tea.
‘I beg your pardon, John?’ Grandma said, drawing herself up to her full five foot six.
‘Ruth says –’
‘Do you mean “Mrs Price” by any chance?’
‘But she said –’
‘I don’t care what she said. You will be polite: they are Mr and Mrs Price to you. Understand?’
John had nodded. In a way, that had made it easier for him: the rules from Grandma’s home were to be applied here, even when the grown-ups were not around. Mummy always told Grandma and Grandpa what John and Emily had been doing all day while Grandpa was at work, and Grandma was at her meetings. And, while it might be a holiday for John and Emily, it was still work for Grandpa – who was making sure all the young people behaved themselves and didn’t bother the people who were helping them to have a lovely time at the farm.
Grandpa taught the big boys and girls at the special school. He was the Principal, in charge of everything. The special school looked after the young people who would never do anything with their lives. They were called all sorts of words John would never use now – but, back then, ‘spastic’ was just one of the kinder words bandied about. As was the general assumption any physical disability meant total mental incapacity. Grandpa did his best, like organising this farm holiday, but attitudes change very slowly.
John, Emily and Mummy had come with Grandma and Grandpa on this holiday simply to save money – then, as now, even headteachers don’t earn that much. John looked at the photo again. And wondered. Where was Emily? He presumed it was Grandma behind the camera, because Grandpa would have been away with the other boys and girls, making sure they enjoyed themselves.
They enjoyed themselves? Why had he thought those words in such a cynical tone in his head? Weren’t people his age, living in retirement with no mortgage, supposed to look back at their childhoods through rose-tinted spectacles? Had he done something wrong? No – at least he was pretty sure he hadn’t – given the standard response from Grandma was sending him to his bedroom. Then the memory: ‘Get Grandpa!’ That was what he had said to Emily.
Emily had climbed onto the fence, wanting to pet the llama. It was a petting farm – there were rabbits, guinea pigs, as well as actual pigs (Vietnamese pot-bellied ones) and ponies – so, even at the young age he was, John knew Grandma’s shrieks of anger at Emily were not right. ‘Disproportionate,’ is what he would say now. Then, he had acted on some childish instinct. If Emily didn’t appear to do as she was told, Grandma was very likely to hit her, and Mummy wouldn’t do anything about it. It had happened before.
‘If you can’t discipline your children, someone has to do it!’ Grandma said, as she sent Emily to her room without any tea. John had hugged his sister, and told her to go to Grandpa. Then he had to let go as Grandma was hissing at him, ‘she’s old enough to go by herself. Unless you want to miss your tea as well.’
John was pretty sure that, these days, sending a four-year-old toddling across a farmyard, into a house, and up to her room, by herself, would be questioned. Presumably, back then, Health and Safety wasn’t an issue. All the young John could do, was hope Emily could, and would, find their grandpa. Grandpa was more of a relaxed person to be around, and both his grandchildren preferred him to his wife. As John stared at the black-and-white photo, the memory came flooding back in glorious technicolour:
‘Why you can’t tell your son to do as he’s told and face the camera, Elizabeth, I don’t know. Your lack of discipline is ridiculous. He has to know his place!’
‘He’s only wanting to look at the animal. Do we really need another photo?’ Mummy sighed.
‘If it wasn’t for the price of film these days, there would be another photo. But that will have to do, I suppose. You mark my words, if he doesn’t get proper discipline, he’ll grow up a pansy – just like his father!’
‘Mummy? What’s a pansy?’ In the manner of all small children, John had interrupted as soon as he heard something he didn’t understand. Besides, they were talking about him, weren’t they?
‘It’s a flower, dear. Don’t you worry about it.’ Mummy tried to shush him.
‘But why is Daddy a flower?’
‘If your mother had any sense, she’d never have married him!’ Grandma interrupted.
‘Mum! John isn’t deaf.’ Mummy said.
‘You’re the one who chose “a flower” for a husband!’ Grandma was always the one to have the last word, but, for once, she was to be thwarted.
‘Says the woman who raised her, and so must take a lot of the responsibility!’ came a new voice. A new voice that didn’t sound pleased. Grandpa had arrived, carrying Emily in his arms. ‘And given that none of us realised Geoffrey’s nature, blaming any one person for it is hardly helpful.’
Grandma wheeled round to her husband: ‘Well … well, I was just trying to … trying to …’
‘Why don’t you go to Mummy, sweetheart?’ Grandpa gently put Emily on the ground, ‘And all of you head to the farmhouse kitchen. I understand tea and cake – with juice for you young ones – is on offer.’ He paused. ‘A word, I think, Mabel,’ Grandpa said, turning away. ‘Now!’ he added as she showed no signs of heading in his direction.
It wasn’t even half-past four, but everything stopped for farmhouse tea. Victoria sponge with strawberry jam and cream. Proper whipped cream. John had two slices. Emily stuffed herself too. At first, Mummy was inclined to fuss, wondering how Emily had found her grandfather – and why – given that she was supposed to be finding her way to her bedroom.
Mrs Price intervened at that point. She was a large lady, this farmer’s wife, all no-nonsense bonhomie. Firstly, she told Mummy to calm down. Secondly, she said that she, Mummy, needed to remember it was her job to look out for her children and not allow herself to be bossed by anyone – and that included her own mother.
‘And if you don’t like me saying it, you’re going to hear it anyway!’ Mrs Price said.
Thirdly, it was Mrs Price who found the child, bawling her eyes out, and took her to her grandfather, ‘and I told him a few things about his family he didn’t want to hear, either! It’s all very well being able to look after other people’s kids, but if you can’t look after your own family in a decent manner then, as far as I’m concerned, you shouldn’t be doing the job you’re doing!’
Sixty years on, sitting in his lounge, listening to the local school-children making their way home, John grinned to himself. It was all a long time ago, and how much of what he’d just played out in his head he actually remembered, and how much was mere conjecture, he no longer knew. However, he divided his childhood into two parts. Not so much before Daddy left and after Daddy left: his father was a stranger, who, he later found out, had died of AIDS almost before the world had heard of the disease.
John had been told he had his father’s blue eyes, but that was all. No, his father had no influence on his childhood, especially the later years. The hinge round which his life orbited was: before the farm holiday, and after the farm holiday. Mrs Price’s countryside wisdom, and how it affected Grandma, became the key. It was like drawing all the remaining teeth she had without any anaesthetic, but finally Grandma admitted it was her shame, that she had allowed her daughter to wed a homosexual, which drove her anger and fear that John would become ‘one of them.’ Not that John, or Emily, knew this at the time. All they knew was, at some point during that scrumptious tea, Grandpa had asked Mummy to join him and Grandma in their ‘little chat.’
The ‘little chat’ must have gone on for some time, as John and Emily were looked after by Mr and Mrs Price for the remainder of that day, including a very late bedtime, and they helped on the farm for most of the next day as well! It was smashing.
‘First, let’s get one thing sorted, shall we? I’m Ruth, and he’s Idris.’ Mrs Price – Ruth – said once Mummy, Grandma and Grandpa were out of the way. As John opened his mouth, Ruth shook a friendly finger in his face: ‘I’m quite happy to tell your granny what I think about her old-fashioned ways. So don’t either of you worry about it.’
What happened that afternoon, and what happened the next day, got confused in John’s memory. However, he was sure the activities included: learning how to milk goats, churning butter, baking bread, helping with the ponies so the bigger children could have their next riding lessons … What was more, Idris and Ruth didn’t care who wanted to do what. John didn’t have to be outside with Idris, and Emily didn’t have to be inside with Ruth. To this day, John bakes his own bread: he always feels more relaxed after he’s spent time kneading dough.
After Mummy, Grandma and Grandpa reclaimed them, all three grown-ups seemed lighter: as if a dark, gloomy blanket had been taken off their shoulders. Typical of the time, the line taken was ‘something has happened, the adults have talked it through, and we’re not going to mention it again. Ever.’ Not quite ever in reality, as Grandma couldn’t always stop herself wanting John and Emily to fulfil their designated, gendered, roles. Usually, all it took was Mummy (if Mummy was around) to remind her that ‘you promised,’ and Grandma would pipe down. If that didn’t work, Grandpa would be told. Which was much easier to do once Grandpa took early retirement.
John didn’t become a vet. He decided he preferred to deal with those who could actually tell him what was wrong, so went down the human medicine route – and became a surgeon. So, ironically, he ended up doing most of his work when his patients were in no position to communicate with him. Now it is John’s turn to be retired, he keeps being given projects by his long-suffering wife. Projects along the lines of: ‘those photographs have been lying in a box under the bed for years – literally, years – why don’t you make a start and do some sorting out?’
It would be better if the photos didn’t come with so many memories ...