Or perhaps it would be truer to say 'no work being planned for Sunday'. For as time went on I came to realise that Sunday was the day chosen by the whole farm for the doing of awkward and unexpected things. More awkward, of course, because on that one day of the week we were not dressed for chasing stray cows and the like! I found nylons and high heels very inadequate when it came to climbing fences in a hurry.
Why do cows nearly always chose a Sunday on which to calve? And why should pigs prefer that day for farrowing? Unless it is a case of 'the better the day, the better the deed'. Or perhaps it is just plain awkwardness, for if it isn't on a Sunday then it is usually a 2 o'clock in the morning, and pitch dark.
My first Sunday proved to be no exception, for 84 eggs in the incubator hatched that morning. An of course, whatever the day there was always milking to be done, and the feeding of cattle, horses, pigs, hens and geese. And in amongst all this we fitted the Services at the Methodist Church and Sunday School in the village, to which we cycled.
On the first Sunday, however, I did manage to examine most of the farm fairly well.
It was not very big, but most certainly big enough, I found, for the size of the staff, which for all ordinary purposes consisted of just Mr. Pick and I, with help from Mrs. Pick whenever the numberless jobs of a farmhouse and family allowed it. There were, I was told, extra hands for the big seasonal jobs of haytime, harvest, threshing, potato lifting, etc.
The farmhouse itself stands with one end to the lane. The back and the other end are directly in the field, the grass coming up to the walls and doors. The front of the house looks on to the garden, at the far end of which are the walls of the fold.
I went into the fold, its strong smell meeting me before I reached the door. It is built in an oblong, and the center forms a pit into which the manure is thrown from any of the doors which line the two long sides. At the far end are two large doors, used chiefly when a cart is needed in the fold. A path runs around the other three sides, but is not separated from the center part, so the cattle have the free run of the path, and of course prefer it to anywhere else, and manage always to be 'en masse' just where you want to walk.
Along the wall opposite the entrance from the field were four doors, the lower halves of which were securely fastened and the upper halves wide open.
I crossed to the first of these - the stable. Already I loved the strong smell of the stable, mingled as it was with the sweet scent of hay from a pile in the corner. Prince and Dolly turned their heads as I leaned over the door. Prince - a fine horse, his shining coat rippling with every movement as he turned; a horse who looked as if he could tackle anything. Dolly, an old mare, quieter and easier to handle (or so I thought, for I had not then seen her on the roads or at the station!) I hoped to know these two better before many weeks had passed.
The next door led to the turnip house. Half the floor space was separated off by a wooden barrier about a yard high, behind which was a large pile of turnips and mangolds. On the left was the turnip cutter, and on the right two large sacks of sugar beet pulp.
A small black kitten which had been balancing around the edge of the cutter transferred itself to the top of the door and rubbed its head against my shoulder. I wondered what it was called and if there were any more kittens about the farm.
Next came the cow house. On the right, the cows were placidly lying on the straw and chewing contentedly and incessantly. The black one jumped up nervously as I entered, but the one I had tried to milk, a brown one, took no notice of me at all. Near the door stood the three-legged milking stools. Why they have only three legs I can't imagine, unless it is so that they tip over more easily if the cow begins to kick, thus giving the cow an unfair advantage!
On the far side were two calf pens. I went across to see a calf. It sniffed tentatively at my hand, sprang across to the far side of the pen, came back again, and at last ventured a lick with a tongue like a file, which felt as if it could easily remove the skin.
Going out into the fold again, I fastened the door firmly behind me. I had already made a resolution never to leave open a door or gate which should be shut.
The fourth door opened into the barn, which became one of my favorite places on the farm. I came to love the scented and slightly dusty atmosphere, the dim light, and the soft straw into which my feet sank as I walked.
Across the fold were two pig sties, in one of which I could just see the backs of a couple of pigs in the depths of a bed of straw. They made no movement as I looked in. They were obviously much too comfortable to bother about such an insignificant thing as a new Land Girl.
The other sty contained some cattle, although this was only a temporary arrangement. Near the far end of the fold was a rack full of straw, and in the corner a small, dark, wooden building known as the chaff-house - a musty place, usually packed to the door with chaff.
Just outside the fold is the meal house, and beyond this and only a few yards away is the first and largest of the ponds.
These ponds were made when the land formed part of some brick works. They are deep and overgrown with rushes and willows. According to Mr. Pick they are just a waste of good land, but to me they are the loveliest part of the whole farm. They make a delightful place in which to spend spare time (if any!) They are a favorite haunt of wild birds, and there is always something of interest to watch.
Almost every time I passed a coot would fly across, making a great commotion of ripples and splashes, and rise with water dripping from him to fly to the rushes, where widening circles of ripples showed where he had landed.
Or perhaps a water hen would scurry away, its red-crowned head bobbing up and down.
Sometimes the pond would be still, and I would look at the many reflections of the trees, hay-stacks, or wild rose bushes, until a gentle ripple on the surface would spread across the reflections and a wild duck float from under an overhanging branch of willow.
The ponds were always giving me pictures like these, through all the seasons and in all weathers.