She never let me wear slacks. In fact she refused me any say in my clothes at all. Even after I started work I had to give her my unopened wage packet, and she gave me half a crown back for bus fares and stockings. Until I was eighteen, everything I bought had to come out of that.
Just one time, before that, I broke the rules.
Down south autumn break was half-term. Up north it was potato picking. We were needed to bring in the potato harvest. Because I was fourteen, I would be paid fourteen shillings at the end of the week. A small fortune for someone whose pocket money was sixpence.
So, with my packed lunch, wellies and shabbiest school skirt, I was hoisted up onto the trailer with the older girls, and the tractor towed us out to the field. It was very scary, bouncing over the lumps and bumps, lurching from side to side. I clung onto the edge wondering if I shouldn’t have come.
Glad when it stopped, I jumped down and surveyed the field. There was nothing but ridges of potatoes for miles. Another tractor was going up and down the rows, digging up the potatoes with a contraption it pulled along behind. At the bottom of the field it turned and came back towards us and I saw him for the first time. The farmer’s son was gorgeous, just like Tommy Steele.
The girls picked up wire baskets with handles and I watched them start work, sorting the potatoes from the clods of earth. This was easy; I’d done it before in my father’s allotment. When the baskets were full we tipped the potatoes into the trailer. The gorgeous boy alternated between unearthing the potatoes and the trailer, as he kept pace with where we worked.
I got into a rhythm and soon began to enjoy it. It was very peaceful; the smell of the freshly turned earth in my nostrils, the birds hopping along behind, picking up the worms. One time, when I was tipping my load into the trailer, I saw a fox working its way along the edge of the wood at the far side of the field. It didn’t seem to mind our girly chatter and the throbbing of the tractor engine.
Half way through the morning the farmer returned with a great billy of tea and a box of thick, white mugs. It was very strong and sweet and was probably the best tea I’ve ever tasted. I enjoyed wrapping my dirty hands around my mug, and no-one to send me to the sink.
We sat atop the potatoes to go back to the farm for lunch, pressing our feet against the metal side, and went into the barn to eat our sandwiches. We sprawled about in the prickly straw, swapping sandwich spread for marmite in the musty warmth. The farmer’s son joined us and we found, that as well as looking like Tommy Steele, he could sing like Elvis too. He produced a guitar and we all swooned to his rendition of Teddy Bear.
The days settled into this rhythm and the week past in no time. I was very sorry when it was over. The fourteen shillings cheered me up, though. I knew exactly what I’d do with it tomorrow.
I slipped out when she wasn’t looking and went to Harrogate. It was only three miles and I could have walked, but I was rich and took the bus. I went into Schofield’s department store and there, in the clothing section, they had something I’d only dreamed about. I’d been to matinees and seen the American films, so I knew what the stars were wearing, but you couldn’t buy jeans anywhere here.
What they had instead was blue sailcloth trousers. The mannequin wearing them looked just like Doris Day in her last film – not Calamity Jane, though that was my favourite – it even had the red kerchief knotted at the neck. I had money left over after I’d bought them, so I went to the record department and bought my very first record. They were 78s, of course. It was Bill Haley’s Rock Around the Clock with See You Later Alligator on the back. It was a good choice, she hated it.
I see now why crimplene dresses will never be an option. The battle for blue-jeans was hard fought. When I returned in 1987 from living in San Francisco, unable to find where all the flowers had gone, here you still couldn’t buy jeans made for women. You had to buy a 32 inch waist and cinch them tight with a belt.
So, having spent the last 54 years wearing jeans, I guess they’ll have to cut them off me when I’m dead. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could still buy a pair and get change from fourteen shillings (70p)?