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George Spenceley recalls his memories of training to be a farmer in Yorkshire in the 1940's.
Four or five other men worked at Harley Castle farm, two of them were from the War Hostel in Brompton. I think they were displaced or homeless men from the war. They hated working at the farm but felt grateful to have work and the hostel was a dry and comfortable place to rest.
One said that he had a little bit of beer money each weekend and what more could he expect? Another man was a refugee from the Ukraine, he was a very big man called Basil Sekoria, he had a very large neck like a bull but was a placid fellow, quite friendly and although he spoke very little English we could communicate quite well.
He'd make little jokes about my prisoner of war clothing, given to me by the British Boys for British Farms organisation for working clothes. He asked if I was a prisoner. I used to lark with him and told him that one day I'd get my own back on him, that proved to be much sooner than I'd expected.
It was my job to collect the morning allowances from the farm and take them to the men in the fields. One day I went to the farmhouse and sat waiting in the kitchen for the food. The daughter Marigold was to make up the sandwiches and she took a large cheese off the shelf and unwrapped the muslin cover, she called her Mother to come and have a look at it.
Mrs. Kirk frowned and said, 'Oh, it'll be alright a few of them wont harm them'. I picked up the basket with the sandwiches and the can of tea and set off for the field in which Basil was working. Before I got there my curiosity got the better of me so I stopped and lifted the cover, opened the slices of bread and found cheese but also live maggots.
Basil was sitting in the hedge smoking his pipe and a smile came across his face as he saw me with the basket. 'Come and sit over here on the bank side' he said. I started to take out his share of the food. 'What have you got in there?' He asked, 'Cheese and something' I replied and watched him as he took a bite of the sandwich.
'I really like cheese, why don't you eat yours?' He asked 'Oh I'm not very hungry' I said looking at the sandwich and laughing. 'You can have mine'.
He looked at me then at the sandwich he was holding, he opened it and saw what was in the cheese. 'You little swine' he said making a grab at me but I was one step ahead of him making a beeline for safety.
I put a fair distance between us and then turned back to explain that I hadn't put the cheese in the sandwiches. 'Come on back' he said as he took the cheese out and just ate the bread, 'the joke's on me today'.
That night I was told to get a good nights rest as there were four stacks of corn to be thrashed and it was very hard work. Extra help was always required and a crew with threshing machine turned up.
There were eight to ten workers each with their own task. Two men on top of the stack fed the two men on top of the machine with the sheaves of corn, they passed them to another chap who cut the bands and fed it evenly into the machine.
The corn was filled into sacks and taken to the granary. The waste straw passed out at the other end of the thrasher on to the baling machine and one person stacked the bales. The dust and chaff was deposited onto an open sack, this had to be moved away from the machine.
I was given this job to do. It wasn't too bad on the first stack as that was wheat but when they went on to thrash a stack of beans the wind had got up and it blew the chaff and black dust everywhere, in my eyes, nose and mouth.
I was coughing up the black particles and even a handkerchief over my nose was useless. I was in difficulties as the heap of waste chaff got bigger and closer to the machine. It would soon clog the outlet.
Basil who'd been carrying the bags of corn stopped and gave me a hand and together we managed to clear it. I felt and looked like a coal miner. That night I filled the washtub to overflowing put in some washing powder to soften the water and soaked my aching body.
George Spenceley, 2002
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