As we stumble through the sticky mud of farming life – many things spring to mind, not least that I was referred to as a ‘farmer’s wife’ for the first time. I was proud, I was mildly amused, then I was a bit annoyed and then I questioned it and then I thought I am NOT just a farmer’s wife – I am a farmer. But how will that work? Surely by default, I am a farmer’s wife, but somehow it seems reductive – just a supporting role, maybe. Is it possible, also by default, Paul is a farmer’s husband. I have pondered on this, probably for a little bit too long.
Surely to be a ‘real’ farmer’s wife, the husband (in our case) has to be the farmer, tending to the land and the stock, doing the deals at market etc. and the wife baking cakes, preparing meals and keeping the home fires burning? That’s largely how it may have looked from the outside looking in with my grandparents – her role appearing secondary, but I know that there was so much more to her farmer’s wife role – she was the backbone of the farm; the unsung heroine who was a graceful as a swan.
Firstly, my grandma was the most talented pianist who had gained many qualifications from the London College of Music. She played in front of audiences, took part in recitals and sometimes played at my primary school and the local church. Yet her life extended far beyond music. She also plucked cockerels all year round for sale, looked after the poultry, sold eggs, looked after the orphan lambs, took control of the farm accounts, dressed an enormous amount of geese and turkeys before Christmas. To make ends meet in later years, she was a pioneer for farm diversification, before it was even a notion. She opened up a little farm tea-room in the ‘posh’ front room – word spread about Mrs Morgan’s tea-room with endless delicious cakes and pots of tea. She was inundated with customers: cyclists, ramblers and walkers strolling past our rural farm were queuing up for her unique ‘café’. Little tables dressed with crisp white tablecloths, dainty porcelain and cutlery – I used to help by folding the serviettes and being generally cute and blonde; I sometimes got a few monetary tips from the customers. They loved her home-baked wares and generous sandwiches with a side of easy farm chatter – she was a very intelligent and sociable woman. I might even be so bold to say that it was more profitable than the farm at times. She charged peanuts for this amazing service, and they kept coming. She loved it, they loved it; it kept the wolf from the door. She shone, thrived and appeared from the kitchen at various points in the day, taking a break from churning and patting butter and baking the next day’s tea room treats. She would be surrounded by billowing clouds of flour – the smell of a Victoria sandwich baking or some melting moments biscuits in the oven takes me right back to those days.
No modern conveniences like dishwashers or running hot water helped her out – just pure grit, determination and the knowledge of a job to do to get by. I am sure, at times, it was the last thing she wanted to do – washing up a mountain of china and to be up until all hours baking – it was just her – a one woman operation (unless you count the splendid serviette folding service). I think she would have rather been playing her piano, but she knew what needed to be done. I still have her recipe book, I will share with you her two best sellers! I know she’d be as pleased as punch, but bashful with it. I think she would have said ‘Oh Stephanie, it’s just a plain old Victoria sandwich, nothing fancy’ but it was made with years of experience and a lot of love stirred in. It was delicious every time. And ‘nothing fancy’ kept that cake on top of my all-time favourites list – I wonder how many she made over the years. I remember when she invested in a Moulineux hand mixer from Woolworth’s– her life was transformed, and the billows of flour from industrious mixing just became more often
This gentle, quiet and graceful farmer’s wife helped to keep the farm afloat through periods of financial hardship, of which there were many. Times when the cattle didn’t produce, or prices were down at market, a poor harvest or the milk tanker couldn’t get to us and the milk had to be poured away and the close to the knuckle time when grandad slipped his disk and was in traction unable to do anything but lie flat. She quietly got on, took it all in her stride, no moans or gripes – the ‘posh’ front room was temporarily turned into a downstairs bedroom for grandad. The cyclists and ramblers had to make do with a garden tea-room on sunny days or on ‘our’ living room table. (She also had a rather large bonfire and gave the farm a ‘good old clear up’ while he was incapacitated, resulting in an orange glow so bright that the neighbouring farmer, Mr Wootten called a fire engine with a bashful explanation of ‘I thought old Ted’s laid up in bed, and the farm’s on fire.’)
The farm survived through these times because of her and her gentle determination to succeed – no hand-outs, no help, survive or not. If we want to learn lessons from the past, learn to adapt and not quit. Roll up your sleeves and get stuck in, take responsibility, seems to be a good start to me, but these things rarely make history.
She was invited by the BBC 60’s, 70’s 80’s show presented by Roy Hudd to showcase her small business – cameras turned up, and a reporter and she appeared through the front room door dressed in her best frock and a freshly laundered apron, She was carrying her beloved willow pattern tray, balancing tea and cakes before the camera – nervous, but glowing. I was granted a special day off school to watch the spectacle – grandma was going to be famous. The BBC are at my house! I remember her immortal words to the interviewer, Roy Hudd (I had foolishly confused Roy Hudd with Roy Hull and I had imagined Emu and his handler turning up – that was a bit of a disappointment to an 8 year old) ‘well, you do what you can to help, don’t you?’ This was her in a nutshell – how I loved her. Mrs Dorothy Morgan you were a star– she was as much of a pioneer as there ever was in the 1970’s – not bad for a farmer’s wife and daughter. An icon (to me), but with little use for wellies and I never saw her in trousers EVER. She was a white bouffant haired, crimpoline dress and American tan tights wearing woman through and through. She always wore a cotton floral apron and it was always covered in flour. This is the picture of a farmer’s wife I used to see when I think about one, but now I realise just how much there was to grandma’s role and how really, she kept the farm going just as much as the farmer – my grandad. This is only something that I have realised in later life. I hate cooking and I am socially awkward at times – can’t do small talk or chitter chatter. This isn’t me, but I get it – I see the importance of the farmer’s wife, but, I don’t fancy all and sundry in my front room eating cake and making washing up.
As much as I had adored and revered their ‘set-up’, that’s not for us. I struggle with this concept for various reasons, but I am also assured that it does actually work – it did, I’ve seen it, but was that from another time? I am no feminist, but I can certainly hold my own and I am not about to go to Westminster and burn my bra. I need and want to get stuck in, get my outdoor gear out, get wet and muddy – I’m all in or all out! I can pull a lamb, drive a tractor, unblock a drain, plant an orchard. I’m not an advocate for ‘pink’ jobs and ‘blue’ jobs as I have heard others refer to them (mostly in jest, as I can feel you looking horrified) But, whatever works – who am I to decide what’s right or wrong in a relationship or a business. I think I usually sit somewhere in the middle – if I can do it I will, but likewise I am not afraid to ask for help shifting a heavy bale or belting in a fence post.
I suppose after 34 years of marriage, we do sort of naturally gravitate towards and away from certain jobs based upon our strengths and weaknesses both in the emotional and physical sense – this isn’t whether you are a feminist or not, but merely playing to our physical and character assets which makes us a better and more productive team. Naturally men are (generally) physically stronger – that is just a fact.
So, who is the farmer at our farm? Can we both be? Why the hell not! There’s no farmer’s wife here, in the more traditional sense – this is what we have decided. We both get stuck in. There’s a humper of heavy goods – does this make me a humper’s wife? There’s a creative ‘director’ (I’m not sure he wants to be the Director’s husband) but one thing there is not, is a hierarchy based upon gender – we are a team, we work together and help each other out when it is noticed the other is struggling, the other asks, or just because. That’s marriage and that’s companionship. We are lucky, but on occasion there can be differences of opinion…
PS my grandma, did have a little soft spot for ‘that lovely young man’ Roy Hudd, after her moment of fame and a little twinkle in her eye when she talked of him.