A Surprising Legacy. Ernest Swain
his traps. Ruth followed him about but her afternoon was rather more a light hearted romp with the farm dog. She was always interested in the ways of the countryside but the dog held more enjoyment at that moment.
The days were beginning to get shorter now and so they made their way back to the van, collecting firewood along the way. The fire was soon blazing and they relaxed whilst the cooking pot steamed away. Ruth had one of the storage boxes for a seat, pushed up against the caravan wheel forming a back rest. Amos watched her, thinking that she must be worn out after running with the dog. She seemed rather quiet. “A penny for your thoughts” he said and Ruth looked up at him and smiled.
“I was thinking about you and thinking about Ma. I wondered where you came from and how you came to be here?”
Amos pulled his seat to where he could poke the fire to keep it blazing, and he said,
“It’s good that you were thinking of your Ma, she’ll be back with you very soon.”
He picked up a piece of wood, drew his knife and began to whittle. The fire was rather intense and he felt it burning his face and legs so he moved away and sat next to Ruth, leaning against the wheel of the vardo. She looked at the wood that he was whittling. It was white and the slivers of shaved wood were being left attached to the main stem, curling over to resemble the ballooning skirt of some doll.
“It looks just like a fairy”, she said.
“Then that is what it will be”, he replied, “Just for you”, and he carried on whittling.
“You didn’t tell me about you, where you’re from or how you come to live in this caravan?” Ruth reminded him.
Looking at her intently he said,
“I don’t know whether you’ll understand, you’re so young, but I’ll try to explain. Some years ago my parents had a cottage in a beautiful place a long way from here in Shropshire. I remember it but I was very young. There were lots of trees to climb and a river where we swam and I never wanted to leave. Like lots of other people, they didn’t own the cottage where we lived, and they weren’t wealthy people but they kept a pig, some geese and a cow. All the land near us was open land and everyone who had animals grazed them on this common land. One day, the Lord of the Manor came along with his men and forced everyone to move their animals and they fenced the land. There was a lot of trouble and some people broke down the fences and there was fighting. The law always favours the rich, so some were arrested and taken before the courts and were gaoled. Others lost their jobs with the estate and unfortunately my father was one of those people. My parents couldn’t afford the rent for the cottage without a job, and they were finding it difficult to survive so they left the area. They bargained the animals they had for this caravan and they wandered about picking up work where they could, much the same as I do now. Both my parents are dead now but they left me this caravan. So, there you are, now you know all about me. I don’t have any other family and so it’s nice to have someone like you around”.
Chapter 6.
Bright and early the next morning they eagerly prepared for the day’s work ahead of them. Amos removed the tether from the mare and slipped the collar over her head. Her bridle in place, he attached the long reins and looped them over the hames. With Ruth astride her back and Amos walking alongside, Maggie plodded her way along the track to the farm. The painted sign at the entrance, read ‘Bright Meadows Farm’ and Amos thought, as they passed, how ironic it sounded as he looked towards the threatening sky. Master John was there to greet them as they entered the yard and pointing to the clouds Amos said,
“It doesn’t promise to stay fine for long so I think I’ll get on”, and he made his way to the meadows to clear the moles.
He looked around and his gaze settled upon a hawthorne bush about eight feet tall with thick growth at its base. Leaving Ruth to hold the mare he took his axe and chopped the bush off at its base. The thorny growth scratched his bare arms but this was ideal for his purpose. The long chain traces he’d carried with him were attached to the hame-tugs on either side of the collar and then stretched out behind the mare. The ends were fastened to the trunk of the hawthorne and it only remained for him to find a suitable tree branch about three feet long which he sharpened at both ends and wedged into the links of the chain traces behind the horse’s rump. This had the effect of holding the traces apart so that they wouldn’t rub the horse’s legs. When Maggie stood still and the tension was off the traces, this ‘spreader’ rested on her legs but when she was in draught it was held clear.
With Ruth astride Maggie, Amos led the horse up and down the meadow, the Hawthorne bush being dragged behind, flattening the grass and spreading the little heaps of soil in the mole hills. The stripes of flattened grass created a pleasing pattern on the meadow. Ruth seemed puzzled and asked, “Will this get rid of the moles?”
and Amos laughed and explained,
“No, a lot of these mole hills are quite old and until we’ve flattened them all out we can’t see where the little varmints are working. When they throw up their new mole hills then we can see where to set our traps”.
Amos thought to himself that he’d covered about twelve miles, just walking up and down that meadow, and his legs felt the strain. He lifted Ruth down and smiled as she tried to straighten out her aching limbs. Being stretched out over the broad back of the mare for such a long time had made them ache. Amos discarded the thorn bush and gathered up the chain traces and headed back towards Bright Meadows. “Just in time”, said Amos as the threatening clouds started to spit the rain they promised. Back in the yard they headed straight to the byre where Maggie was stabled and fed. In the farmhouse kitchen Mistress Sissie had again excelled herself with a hot meal. Amos and Master John talked over the day’s work and Master John lit a briar pipe that filled the room with a pungent smell. Ruth sat before the fire, stroking the dog – her new found friend.
The day had turned wet and miserable and so Amos decided to abandon work for the day. Master John found the pair two hessian sacks that they threw around their shoulders to keep off the worst of the rain. It was a good walk back to the van and Ruth chattered all the way about her mother and how many more days remained before she could be with them. Amos allowed her to chatter on but his thoughts were more concerned with whether Sarah would stay with him or would she decide to hit the road again?
Amos gathered some hazel whips from the bushes alongside the track and carried them back to the caravan where the evening was spent making his traps for the moles. Ruth watched fascinated and asked,
“What are you doing?”
Amos replied,
“Oh, I’m making some traps to catch those pesky moles. We call them ‘benders’. We shove one end into the ground and from the other end are two strings. One string is attached to a notched peg, like this one here, and the main piece is bent over and the notched peg is caught on a similar notched peg that is also pushed into the ground. So, the ‘bender’ is bent over and the two notched pegs caught together. Now, the second string is a noose and this is hung in the little tunnel that the mole makes. I cover over the hole I’ve made so the mole can’t see any light, then along he comes and pokes his head through this here noose and when he does that he dislodges the two notched pegs and the ‘bender’ springs up straight again, and he’s a gonner”.
“Poor little mole”, said Ruth.
“He’s no ‘poor little mole’, he a blooming nuisance. You’ve seen the mess he created on Master John’s fields. He’s one of those little varmints that seems to have no purpose in life but create damage. That’s why it doesn’t upset me to get rid of them”.
By the time he’d finished he’d made about eight or ten ‘benders’ and he placed them in a bundle under the caravan. “When I put them in the mole run - that’s his little tunnel - I have to make sure that I don’t leave my scent on the noose, otherwise he won’t go near it. They’re not very good really, I think more moles are killed by flood water than are ever killed in traps. He’s a crafty little blighter and he’s almost blind but his sense of smell is brilliant and