Never having had anything to do with pigs except in the form of bacon, I really didn't know. But I said 'No', hopefully, wondering why this very efficient-looking Land Army interviewer should choose pigs in particular. Bulls would have been rather more to the point, I thought.
'Well, you look strong and healthy, so I think you will do. Will you sign here please?'
I signed.
And so ended the interview, with its wide variety of questions; and so began my life as W.L.A.No.96704.
I had already been measured to make sure I was tall enough. At the time I could not see what difference an inch or two either way would make, but later, having grappled with such things as horse collars, I knew only too well.
And so it came about that one Friday afternoon I found myself going down a winding country lane, bordered by hedges beyond which the green and brown fields stretched as far as I could see. I admit I was not without some misgivings - not so much about the different type of work I might have to do, but rather about the people on whose farm I would be living and working for some time to come. What could we have in common, they and I? They, who had lived always in this open country on the Plain of York, and I who had lived always in or near the city with its endless streets and noises, its smoke and its cinemas and its thousands of people. On that score, however, I need not have worried had I but known it.
I saw on the left a small, low cottage, coloured (for what reason I have never yet discovered) on one side only in a deep pink. I hoped this was not where I was going to live. It looked too low and shut in. No, it was not the one, so on we went. The next farmhouse on the left was a much more modern building, and in good repair, with a lawn between it and the lane and a few poplar trees at the side. I rather hoped that this would be the one. But again it had the wrong name on the gate. Past a larger farm on the right, and another across the fields to the left, round a bend in the lane, past four tall sycamore trees - and there it was.
It was not particularly good-looking. Indeed it had rather a tumble-down appearance from the road. I found later that this was the worst view of it, and it was far more attractive from the other side. It had red tiles, which I remember thinking did not look too secure. This was quite correct, as I later found out to my cost!
The door of the house opened straight into a green field, giving a feeling of space and freedom. The four trees grew along the road-side fence, and a white gate led into the field. As I opened it and went in I caught a glimpse of some trees in the background, and a pump and a horse-trough in the field a few yards from the door. I had no time to look further, for then the door opened and I was shaking hands with Mrs. Pick, the wife of the farmer.
Around the corner of the farm came Mr. Pick, leading two horses to the trough to drink. He left them there and came across to shake hands with me.
These, then, along with their five-year-old daughter Christine who later came home from school on a blue tricycle were the people with whom I was to live out here in the country. And this was to be my home for some time to come.