Sooty

Nineteen fifty nine was a glorious harvest, just like you see in all the old films of war time harvests. We, like most of our neighbours, had all the corn in the haggard before the end of August. I had been packing loads in the field above the Murhenny, and Evan Wade, a friend of the family was forking the sheaves. I liked packing for Evan, the sheaves always came to hand just right, not one in front of you and another behind, or the butt of a sheaf hitting you in the face, he made the job very easy. An odd time he’d bury me just to show he could, but that was only if I got cheeky. It was Saturday the thirtieth, the night closing in, and we never worked on Sunday in those days.

I said to Evan “Are we going to get it all in tonight?”  I remember his reply as if it were yesterday.

“It’s coming in before September if I have to carry it on my back”.

And that is the way it was! It was dark when we finished, I don’t think we got it all unloaded, but the fields were cleared.

It was still fine the following week and Ken Quine and myself were dispatched to help Phillip Quayle at Glen Roy. Ken was senior to me and he was in charge of the tractor, so he did the forking. The road was rough, the field was steep but not far from the yard, so we only drew small loads, shuttling back and forward to the haggart. We would load our trailer and fetch it in to the yard where Phillip would pitch the sheaves up to Harry Bridson who was building the stack. Meanwhile Ken and myself would take Phillip’s tractor and trailer back to the field for another load.

The air was fresher and clearer than down home and Ken knew how to handle a pitch fork. There was also the novelty of working on strange ground with different views. All in all I enjoyed a very pleasant morning, with the job progressing steadily.

Then we were called in for dinner. I don’t recall much about the food except that there was custard for pudding. We ate our meal in a very small, dark room, Ken and myself sitting on a wooden bench with our backs to a stone wall.

Phillip Quayle was a big, powerful, quiet man who never put his feet under a table if he could possibly avoid it. That day he sat in an armchair turned at ninety degrees to the table with his right shoulder toward us, facing directly toward Harry who sat at the head of the table.

Harry Bridson, a crusty, aging bachelor, had brought along Sooty his bosom companion. Sooty was a big, black and tan collie, spoiled rotten and worse than useless.

Phillip filled his spoon with custard and turned his head to speak to Ken and myself across the table, the spoon held in his right hand close to his left shoulder.

These circumstances were somewhat unusual, in that I have no recollection of Phillip Quayle ever making lengthy speeches, but on this occasion he spoke purposefully, and for some considerable time.

Whatever he had to say was entirely wasted on us however as we were mesmerised.

Sooty carefully placed his front feet on the arm of Phillip’s chair and proceeded to delicately lick the custard out of the spoon. Neither Ken nor I were shrinking violets, but we were in a difficult position. The relevant action only took a second or two, and Sooty could do wrong for Harry who was concentrating on his own meal and never noticed anything amiss.

Anyway Phillip would find out soon enough, so we both kept our mouths shut.

On reflection that may not be quite true, our mouths might well have dropped open, but we didn’t SAY anything.

After completing his address, Phillip attempted to continue his repast.

He turned his head and opened his mouth, then his eyes opened wide as he sat for a few moments gaping at a clean, shiny and manifestly empty spoon. The expression on his face defied definition, disbelieving yes, baffled certainly, frustrated maybe, but not really what you’d call dismayed. Did he attribute the empty spoon to failing mental powers, or did he deduce the truth but faced the same dilemma we had? Unable to accuse the culprit, who had fled the scene of his crime, without causing offence to his owner.

Whatever the outcome of his deliberations, after several seconds contemplation, he dipped the spoon into the bowl of custard and continued to eat.

Protocol would normally insist we stayed at the table until the senior men had finished their cup of tea and were ready to resume work. There was however no way Ken nor I could remain in that room, we made our excuses and fled. We staggered round behind the barn and abandoned ourselves to hysterics, all the worse for having been suppressed for so long.

I can still see Ken lying against a grass bank, both arms clasped about his middle laughing helplessly. At last he summoned enough breath to demand accusingly “Why didn’t you tell him?”

I wasn’t going to be held solely responsible for our sin of omission,

“Why didn’t you?”  I returned hotly.

He gestured helplessly “I just didn’t know whether he knew or not.”

“Well neither did I.”

I suppose we both felt a bit guilty, but whatever we might have said or done may not have helped the situation, or for that matter may not have altered it one iota.

PS Reviewing that situation after all these decades, agricultural humour being what it was, it is not entirely beyond the bounds of possibility Ken and I were ‘set up’. Phillip Quayle would certainly know Sooty much better than we did.

David Kelly