THE BALLS OF ME FEET
Well, what a week-end I’ve had!
It all started on Friday morning when, dressed in my going-into-town clothes, I went up to the farm to give Liz and John a hand. I mean, how was I supposed to know how filthy cleaning out a barn would be? I was so chuffed when they’d asked me to help out, that I didn’t actually give the ‘doing of it’ any thought at all! Wet, filthy and smelly are three words that spring to mind now I think back.
The barn was a quarter full of old hay-bales, it was strewn with old bits of machinery, there were piles of folded black plastic silage sheeting, about thirty old tyres, and stacks of empty milk powder bags. Liz and I humped all the old bales of hay onto an empty trailer, along with the old tyres – most of which were filled with green slimy water which sloshed out over the rims, and down our legs, and stank to high heaven. We then tackled the black plastic sheeting and milk powder bags.
“SPIDER! Massive….Black….Hairy,” I screamed, as I legged it out of the barn, frantically brushing myself in case any more were crawling over me. “Bloody townie!” Liz shouted jokingly behind me.
“When are you hoping to start the second cut of silage?” I asked Liz, once I’d recovered from my spider-from-hell incident. I smiled to myself as I said it – silage wasn’t a word in my vocabulary four years ago, when I moved down here from Birmingham. Now, however, after spending time at the farm where I buy all my eggs, meat and vegetables, I felt certain I could hold a farming conversation with the best of them down at the local pub.
Supermarkets, thank God, have become a dim and distant memory for me now that I’m a stone’s throw from both a village, and a farm, shop – and Liz and John have become good friends of mine through my weekly visits.
I have nothing but admiration for the hours they work and the relaxed way in which John deals with the ridiculous mountain of paperwork he’s now faced with whilst trying to make a living.
“Every time Daisy, my top milker, has a flippin’ shit I have to fill in a form about it,” he jokes. “Oh bugger, not allowed to call her Daisy anymore, she’s sposed to be known as 000409,” he adds, rolling his eyes.
I love going to see them – even more so in the last six months since they employed a new tractor driver, Andy. He’s thirty-six, tall, slim, large biceps, dark wavy hair, green smiley eyes, and most importantly: single. I’ve never eaten so many eggs in my life but have upped my intake so that I have an excuse to go to the farm and catch a glimpse of him driving around the yard.
“I’m going to have to buy some more chickens in if you keep going at this rate,” John said the other day.
“Eggs are good for you,” I replied, avoiding his gaze.
Anyway, just thinking about Andy is distracting me. Let me get back to Friday, and barn cleaning.
The trailer was piled high, and we needed Andy and his lovely John Deere 5020 to come and tow it away.
“Go and give him a shout Jen, he should be out with the calves,” Liz said, smiling at me. Was it that obvious I fancied him? Not to him I hoped.
He came and moved the trailer and machinery for us, and then dragged the power hose round from the parlour so we could wash the place down. His biceps were looking beautiful in the June sunlight.
“Are you coming along tomorrow night then, Andy? I asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.
“Not really my scene,” he replied.
BAF! Instant re..jec..tion. Four and a half years ago I would have taken it to heart, and crawled off into a pit of self-loathing. But that was when Oliver, the love of my life and partner of twelve years, announced he would rather spend the rest of his life with my sister, Kate. I’d spiralled downwards into a bog of depression, anger and worthlessness until a friend, Rachel, dragged me back out. She said that all I had ever done was be caring, loving and faithful; it was Oliver and Kate that had caused the pain, not me, and that I had no reason to doubt myself. She was right, of course. I moved down here to Somerset to heal my wounds, and you know what? I’m really enjoying being me. I’ve avoided men (Andy has been my first crush since Oliver) and concentrated on getting to know myself. The fluttery feeling of a crush has felt great after all this time, but if he’s turned down my invitation, so what? I’m still me, nobody’s died.
Liz and I took it in turns with the power hose, one scraping the cow muck off the sides of the barn and floor, the other blasting the scrapings away with the water. We were soaked from head to toe by the time we finished – covered in this translucent layer of chocolate brown cow muck. The barn, however, was spotless.
“Perfect. All we need now is a stage for the famous ‘Haybob Stompers’,” Liz announced.
Andy and his 5020 manoeuvred flat straw bales to form a rectangle, and Liz and I laid some old sheets of hard-board on top, and hey presto, the Stompers had a stage. We dotted straw bales around the rest of the barn for seating, and left a large open space in the middle for the dance floor.
“Swing your corner Lady, out around the ring,” Liz sang loudly, whilst she and I spun one another in circles and practiced our docey-does.
“Call that spinning?” Andy said. “Your feet shouldn’t be touching the concrete, Jen!”
The work was done, and we were wet and tired.
I spent an hour that evening, shampooing and re-shampooing the dust and cow muck out of my hair.
Saturday morning arrived, and so did four of my old mates from Birmingham, and let me tell you, they’d taken some persuading to come.
“Dance around in a cold, smelly barn with a bunch of west country yokels?” Rachel had said
“Oh go on, Rache, try it, just once, for me? It’ll be fun.”
“Oh, Jen, there’s no hope for you now you’ve zold yorrr zoul to Sumerrrset,” she replied in the worst West Country accent I’d ever heard.
They arrived with their jeans and charity shop checked-shirt bargains in hand. At 7pm we walked up to the farm – I was amazed at how many people were there. Where they’d all suddenly appeared from, I had no idea.
There were families with young children, old farming couples, middle aged couples, young farmers and lots of thirty-somethings, like me and my lot.
The dress code for the night was most definitely jeans, bale bashers and checked shirts. Now, there’s one of my new ‘country’ vocabulary favourites – bale bashers. They’re these thick green canvas trousers that John wears when he’s hauling the old-fashioned, small straw bales by hand. It’s really thick material, and stops the straw from ripping his legs to shreds. Shame they don’t make them for his hands – I’ve never seen blisters like it.
We claimed a spare cluster of straw bales, and installed ourselves. The farmhouse scrumpy was flowing, and after the Stomper’s second tune, I was in the mood for a dance.
“Sets of six for this next one,” the caller shouted into the microphone
“Come on, all up,” I shouted at my lot
“But we’re only five,” they protested, unconvincingly
“Doesn’t matter, someone else will join us,” I said
We got up and stood in a rectangle in the middle of the concrete floor.
“We need a sixth person for this set,” the caller shouted
And with that, up walked Andy, in a pair of jeans and a short sleeved, tight fitting, blue and pink checked shirt. I couldn’t believe it! He looked incredible. My smile was embarrassing – stretched and frozen, from ear to ear.
“Well, she looks happy with that new arrival,” the caller said. Everyone laughed, and thank goodness, it snapped me out of my trance-like grinning.
“Andy, meet Rachel, Simon, Paul and Jez. You lot, meet Andy.” They all smiled and said hello, and then we were off. Suddenly, I was holding hands with Andy and bounding down the middle of the set, through the arch made by Rachel and Simon where we let go of hands, and skipped off in different directions around the back of the set, to re-join at the bottom, face to face. We all clapped, laughed, skipped, puffed, trod on one another’s toes, docey-doe’d and collapsed exhausted into our pints at the end of the tune.
“Come on, Jen, this is a great one,” Andy panted, as he dragged me back up.
He bowed, I curtseyed, and we were off at a gallop, side by side, holding hands with arms crossed. Then we had to skip sideways, and then form into couples and spin one another round. He span me so fast, my feet came up off the floor.
“Now that’s what you call a spin!” he shouted
We danced like a couple of whirling dervishes all night long, mingling with any group that needed an extra couple, or making sets of our own.
“Not bad for someone who doesn’t think it’s really their scene,” I said, smiling
“I’m a local, it’s in my genes,” he replied.
The Stompers were fantastic, and the large expanse of concrete was packed with galloping, skipping, laughing people all night long. By eleven thirty everyone was totally exhausted.
“Fantastic night, Liz,” I said as we were leaving. “I’ll come over tomorrow and help clean up.”
We sat up for ages after getting home, recounting funny stories from watching one another galloping, going the wrong way, tripping up, and trying to walk in a straight line after four pints of scrumpy!
“Ere, the balls of me feet arn’ ‘alf raw,” Andy announced, in the broadest Somerset accent he could muster when he came round for breakfast the next morning.
“Hardly surprising, the two of you didn’t sit down all night!” Rachel said. We all fell about laughing.
We compared aches and blisters and galloping techniques before they started to get ready for the journey back up north.
“Brilliant night – we are DEFINITLEY coming to the next one,” they said as they shuffled into the car.
“Great to meet you, Andy,” Rachel shouted. “Look after her for us.” And then they were gone.
Andy and I were alone – at my place – AT LAST.
“Right then, best get up to the farm and give Liz a hand clearing up,” he said coldly – as if last night had never happened.
“Right,” I said, despondent.
Then he winked, and scooped me up into his arms. “But not before I’ve swept you off your feet again, that is.” He carried me through the front door and kicked it closed behind him.
It’s Sunday night now, and I’m just off to relax my aching body in the bath. Liz and I beavered away all afternoon cleaning the barn, ready for the second cut of silage.
“You looked like you were enjoying yourself last night,” she said.
“I was, it was the best night I’ve had in a long, long time,” I replied, not wanting to give anything away.
“Seen anything of young twinkle toes today?”
“Yeh, funnily enough, he popped in for breakfast.”
“Finally,” she said. “I thought you two were never going to get it together.”
And on that note I’ll close.
Andy’s coming round tomorrow night for dinner, and all is just grand in my world.
What the hell will I cook? Oh sod it: eggs.
Barn dances were a staple part of my life growing up in Somerset and they still are whenever I can find one on. Great fun, great cider and a great workout, catching up with old friends and making new. The Countryside Tales magazine published this story in 2005. Thank-you.