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The Foot Woman
I watched him walk over to the wall. It was covered with notices extolling
the virtues of reinforced toe caps and the need to keep an eye open for athlete's
foot. He stood and scrutinized these for a few seconds and then moved to peer
intently at a print that someone had stuck on the wall between the opening
times and a dire warning about pricking chilblains.
'See this 'ere,' He said, prodding
the picture with an index telegraph pole.
I got up and walked over. The print was one of those reproductions depicting
farming life in the last century. It showed a handful of farm workers standing
around a high sided cart with a Shire horse standing forlornly between the
shafts. The men were holding pitchforks and to a man staring, with inane grins
on their ruddy faces, into the camera.
' That'n be Grandfather,' my companion pointed to a young man. 'An that'n be 'is father.' He pointed to another.' 'An this one 'ere be his father.'
'Good lord,' I exclaimed, 'how
d'you know?'
''Cause I got 'riginal at 'ome.'
It was then that the penny dropped. All the men were dressed like my friend. They all had maize sack trousers with formidable gussets, and they were standing in a broccoli field. They were broccoli picking! And the fact that my friend was in town for his quarterly visit to the 'footwoman', in the middle of the picking season, didn't mean he was going to alter his mode of dress!
'Where do you farm?' I asked this son of the soil.
'I farm for any bugger who want's me...worked for most of 'em.' He scratched his head and I rolled a cigarette and handed him the pouch.
'I expect you've got your favorites though?'
'Well,' he said licking the paper and rolling the tobacco up into a fair sized imitation of a squashed daddy longlegs,' I 'ave an' I 'avn't. Most 'o the buggers got these 'ere tractors now...an' me an' tractors don't get on spectacular together.'
I was saved having to think about technicalities again because I heard Laura shuffling up the corridor. 'Finished?' I said, stating the completely obvious, as I watched her swinging her way into the waiting room.
' For the time being,' she said,' Got to come back in a week's time, just for a check up.'
'Good,' I thought and then remembered my new found friend and was about to introduce them, but he was already half way into the surgery.
'Who on earth was that?' said Laura as we reached the car.
'You wouldn't believe me,' I said,' He's a dying breed. They don't make them like him any more.' Then I thought about it. How do I know they don't? Out in the wild reaches of west Cornwall, out Sancreed way, the countryside's full of them. It's just that they don't come into town very often; why should they; It's a different world, a world full of cars and noise and tourists, of strangers and officialdom. Why, I bet some of them have never been into Penzance in their lives, why should they?
It was about two weeks later and I was passing the same clinic on my way to the library. I had thought of the old boy quite often and wondered how he was getting on. This time I found out.
He was walking towards me on the same side of the road with a lady. Well he was sort of waddling actually and she was a good ten yards in front of him. The fact that she was his lady was unmistakable - they just went together. His attire was the same eye catching ensemble and although she wasn't wearing a pair of maize sacks, the pair of trousers that hung down, gusset wise, were large enough to accommodate half a broccoli field.
'Hello,' I said as we drew level.' How's the boots?'
He looked up from the cracks in the pavement he seemed to be studying and screwed his face up into the familiar dehydrated orange.' 'Ello my bird,' he replied after kicking the memory banks into gear. 'Don't talk 'bout they buggers!' Lifting the maize sacks up, he showed me a pair of Wellingtons that looked pretty decent, at first sight.
His wife, a small fiery woman with darting gray eyes marched up. Not a woman to be trifled with I realized.
'Mothers takin' me to see the
'foot woman', he said.
'What's wrong?' I asked.
' Five poun' an' some funny stuff,' she shrilled.' That's what's wrong!'
I presumed she was talking about decimal coinage which had only been in circulation
for fifteen years or so.
''An the silly sod,' she went
on, 'gone 'an put 'em on the wrong bloody feet!'
I took a closer look at the offending articles. Sure enough, they were. He
looked like Charlie Chaplin on a bad day.
''Ed bin wearin' 'em for a bloody week 'for I found out why 'e were walking funny!'
'You bought the bloody things'
he countered, as though it was all her fault.
' You shut up,' she shouted,' Go on,' she pointed across the road towards
the clinic.' you go 'an tell the 'foot woman what you done.'
He waddled off across the road, feet stuck out at right angles and disappeared through the front door.
' Well,' she said, as we watched him go.' can't stand 'ere gossopin' all day, got 'lectric light bill to pay.'
'Goodbye', I said and stood and
watched our wonderful heritage trundle along the pavement and round the corner.
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