by Margaret Briggs
I took that cottage without even seeing it - I was that desperate. You see it was wartime, my husband was abroad and it had become imperative that I find a place away from bombs for my two year old daughter and myself to live.
The day we moved in, the sun was shining as the Agent walked with me to the end of the so-called lawn. All was serene and beautiful - until I looked down. Over the edge of the lawn there was a precipice and below it lay a large expanse of ground dotted with various sized huts and quite a large pond.
"Who does all that belong to?" I asked.
The Agent looked at me in surprise. "It's yours" he said. "Didn't you realise you'd rented a smallholding?"
"A Smallholding! You mean - animals - Oh no!. No way. I've never, ever-"
He cut me short. "Well there's a pig sty down there. Room for ducks, geese, chickens. Maybe grazing for a cow. You're surely not going to waste all that potential food. Food There's a war on, you know." And then, quite suddenly: "Look I'm sorry, I've got to go. Good luck. Enjoy it here. Dig for Victory and all that" And he was gone.
Well - after that I had to - didn't I? So I got chickens, raised them from day-olds in a cardboard box with an electric heater. And ducks. And a pig. But I must explain about the pig. It was an idea of the Government's. You fed a piglet on household scraps (yours and your neighbours') until it was so many weeks old. Then, either you got a licence to kill it and feed yourself and the entire neighbourhood for the Duration. OR you sold your grown-up pig to the Ministry of Food for quite a hefty sum.
All went well. Ducks swam in the pond. We got fond of the pig and christened him Bottom. Unfortunately most of the chickens turned into cockerels. Just one had a roving eye which was lucky for the hens and their laying propensity but the rest flew away because nobody told me that Black Leghorns needed their wings clipped.
I never got the cow which is why the grass in the paddock grew. It grew waist high and I was in despair until one day I met a tramp at a bus stop. He was a very friendly tramp and wanted to know if there was any work.
"Can you scythe?" I asked. Naturally he'd been scything all his life. So it was arranged that he came with me to inspect the job.
"What - just that? " he asked (and spat). "I'll be along in the morning about 8 and it'll be done before you can blink. Nice pig you got there".
I nodded proudly and the ducks waddled happily after us up the path to the cottage.
The next morning I was up bright and early, thinking I might make my friendly tramp a mug of tea while he worked. Unfortunately the tea was never needed. The grass lay long and lush and unscythed, feathers were scattered all over it like blossom. The ducks had disappeared. So had the hens. As for the pig, it had sustained a mysterious injury and lay on its back and the vet had to come and put it down. Which meant of course - so much for the MOF - I couldn't get a licence to kill a pig that was already dead.
Luckily the local butcher came to my rescue and (promptly and certainly illegally) took the pig into his cold store and agreed to let me have as much pork as I wanted whenever I wanted it. But as there is a limit to the amount of meat one woman and one child can eat, quite suddenly I found myself with an amazing number of friends. Most were local but my special one was some way away so I cooked a large joint, got someone to leave it in an ice bag in the Left Luggage Department at Victoria Station and posted my friend the ticket.
How long records of nefarious rationing deals have been kept, I don't know but I should think 60 years should see me in the clear - particularly as the butcher sold the last remains of poor old Bottom' to the local Mayor at a Black Market price - and he wouldn't be likely to croak!.
So - there you are - a true story. And there was a war on.