The White River Valley Herald

A Goatish Saga

Roz’s World


 

 

When I was around 14, my family moved to a little village called Burwash. It was tucked into the deeply rural southern county of Sussex, surrounded by deep woods, steep valleys and many farms. The village had also been the home for many years of Rudyard Kipling and his wife. I was introduced to and deeply loved his two books about the local countryside, called “Puck of Pook’s Hill” and “Rewards and Fairies.”

It was in this new environment that I met another teenager who was to become a life-long friend—and I mean life-long. Anthia, like myself, married a lovely, kind and gentle American and lives in California. We are in touch often and always the years fall away and we feel like teenagers once again.

Anthia had two younger sisters and an older brother, Robert. Robert possessed a very ancient little red car—I have no idea of its make, but it was a two-seater with a ragged removable roof and a tiny space behind the seats to put a suitcase or shopping. And, oh, what fun we had in this old rattletrap. Scrunched together in the two front seats the three of us clattered around the Sussex countryside, weaving hither and yon along the narrow country lanes, stopping for lunch at pubs, walking the lovely fields and valleys, and singing at the tops of our voices. The song I remember most vividly was one about “The sun like a big yellow duster, polishing the blooo, blooo sky, etc!’

Robert was also possessed of a male goat called—of course— Billy. One day he took Billy over to a neighboring farm to service some of their nanny goats. He left him there to perform his duties for a couple of weeks. When it came time to fetch the lucky animal, the three of us drove over to collect him. Poor Billy, we felt it was a rather abrupt change from his recent couple of weeks in Paradise to now find himself being squashed into the tiny space behind the car’s front seats.

Although Anthia and I hung on to his rope for dear life, Billy didn’t seem to care about his awkward circumstances but meekly accepted his cramped position. We finally realized he was day dreaming about all his erstwhile adventures. Then, a few minutes after we started for home, disaster struck. If any of my readers have ever been near a goat-in-lust they will know what I am talking about! The animal exudes a totally appalling, dreadful, and overpowering smell–nay, stink. Oh, how we screamed and moaned and retched. Even Robert, proud as he was of Billy, could not admire his ghastly aroma.

Eventually Anthia and I made such a fuss that we made Robert stop the car, haul Billy out of his back seat, and trudge home with the uncaring goat. Anthia—who until this moment had only had one driving lesson from her brother—gamely took over the steering wheel. With much grinding of gears and shuddering stops and starts, we eventually, and with much relief, turned into the farm yard. And at once proceeded upstairs to bathe and re-clothe ourselves in an effort to rid ourselves of Billy’s miasma (which, by the way, still lingered for several days, while our clothes—much to our mothers’ disgust—had to be burnt!)

Robert arrived half-an-hour later, tired, hot, cross, and stinking. However, his companion was now very perky, obviously still living his triumphs of the past weeks and looking forward to regaling his not-so-fortunate goat companions with all his caprine triumphs.

Roz Finn, who was born in London just before the outbreak of WWII, lives in South Strafford.