I was despatched down to Dorset to learn some Horticulture with Gwen’s brother Ron Yarrow. He was in his early 50’s running a small 60 acre Market garden, Cowleaze Farm Hinton Martell, just north of Wimborne. He had previously been tea planting in Ceylon, on Albion Estate, (later renamed Hakgalla, and later still a division of Welimada Group) but had come back just prior to the war to take up a farming career, partly as a confirmed pacifist. Like all the Yarrow family he was very left wing, very arty, and a brilliant photographer, using a Leica Camera and firm friend of Lionel Wendt and all the other Ceylon Burgher intellectuals. He had married late in life Mary Menzies from New Zealand a large kind, well built lady who had come over in the war to drive ambulances. They had started their family late when Mary had been demobbed and was in her mid forties. But their two children Alec and James were 7 & 5 years old were fine kids. Ron was in the final stages of having a Ceylon type bungalow built when I arrived and so I went into digs with a family called Wrixon in a council house at the other end of the village. They were a kind couple with two children a daughter aged 18 who was a nanny in London and a son aged 15 Antony. Father worked in a paper factory nearby at Witchampton. There was no bathroom in the house, but there was a flush toilet just outside the backdoor. Once a week the bathtub would be set on the kitchen floor and father mum and family would have their weekly wash. I was lucky in that I would go and bath at Ron’s up the road with taps and running water..
The Wrixon’s only interest and their sole topic of conversation was “Speedway Racing” I was persuaded one night to go with them to Poole to watch an event. As the drivers in their stripped down machines tore around the track, sparks flying everywhere and a strong scent of alcohol/two stroke fuel, everyone would be cheering. Apparently the best riders were Poles, with un pronouncable names . For all that I recollect they could have been called Schumaker, Villneuve or whatever. Motor racing as a sport seemed totally fatuous and designed for the brainless, an opinion that 50 years later I still hold. What I found most dispiriting living in the council house, was the total lack of ambition and drive of those around to improve themselves and to try anything to break out of their rut. I was so keen to pass the benefits of my education on to young Antony, and to give him a view of wider horizons,and the marvellous world outside full of vitality and his for the asking, but he was not in the least bit interested, and for all my attempts of persuasion, I might as well have talked to a blank wall.
That autumn I only worked for a month at Ron’s for the sum of £2 per week. In comparison the tractor driver Bert with five children earned and had to exist on £6.10s.0d . As the nights drew in Ron said that there was not enough work for me, but instead he arranged for me to get work on a nearby dairy farm owned by Mr Saye. He had a herd of 70 dairy shorthorn and a few Ayrshire cows. I rose at 3.30 am to start getting the cows in and commenced milking at 4.00 am. Everything had to be complete as the Milk Collection Truck arrived precisely on the dot of 7am as first call to load up the churns of milk. After a brief sandwich and tea from my thermos I would then harness up the carthorse and cart and proceed to the fields of mangel beet. These I would fork onto the cart, then shout to Dob to move on which he did for a few paces till I told him to stop, when I proceeded to load up more. Finally I would take my load back to the farm and put them into a chipper one by one and then turn by hand the great wheel and below the mangel chips would pour out to be fed later to the cattle. It was , hard work, but the dairymen were fun and I enjoyed it. However after Christmas Ron thought I needed a change and I should learn about milking in the open-air with a milking bail. Accordingly I bicycled about three miles down the road to “New Barn Farm” where fortunately the milking was later starting at 7 am.
Here I was introduced to “Ossie” or ex- Flying Officer John Osborne of Bomber Command. He was blond curly haired, very good looking with an ever present smile and a twinkle in his eye. He lived in one of the small tied cottages with his wife a well boned strong featured lady with very firm hard breasts and their one year old baby. Ossie was one of those remarkable men who was a brilliantly natural artist. Everywhere in his little house, on every piece of vacant wall were either photos or sketches of his years in Bomber Command and also nude sketches, either in oils or on scraperboard of his wife, with whom he was obviously passionately in love with. However this in no way precluded his roving eye, and he would relishingly describe in every detail as we milked the cows or loaded the silage, of his latest conquests of the night before.
“Mike you know that whenever I move to a new location what the first thing is that I do?”
“No what is it?”
“ I always join the local Amateur Dramatic Society. There I always have fun acting which I adore, and there is always a string of women to get off with. They see me young and fresh and a complete change from their boring husbands that are engineers, accountants or whatever. Its all so easy. There is the stage manageress, the leading actresses , helpers, make up artists etc etc. The beauty of it all is that one has an alibi from ones wife, and if any mistake were to occur....well it can always be blamed onto hubby!”
Ossie had joined the RAF as a young man just after Munich ,and was posted to bomber command in its early days. His life like so many in the war, was very much “one with the boys” . As he said it was the most extraordinary life one could ever lead. One day you were with a party of chums, chasing the girls, drinking far too much beer in the pub, then suddenly the following night you were piloting a Liberator with 8 crew with hundreds of other planes from various squadrons taking part. First there was the slow 3 hour flight with a plane loaded with 8 - 10 tons of ordnance which had to be brought on to target. Then as one approached it, you were so panic striken and terrified that your heart was pounding away as all hell let loose..flak , antiaircraft fire, and most fearsome of all the Luftwaffe Me 109 fighters. The gunners rear, sides and below would be firing their hearts out, but you with the controls had to get the plane through right onto the target before the bomb aimer could then release his load. A lot of the time he flew in a Canadian Squadron whose navigator was a huge quiet man would bring the plane to almost the target area, then would pull out a thermos of coffee and say::
“Well Ossie, I’ve done my bit, now the last part is all over to you”.