Kind Hearts and Country Privies

THE DAMSON SEASON
Tattered, unshaven, reeking of wood smoke and uncleanliness,
Fred Monk came to the cottage door, drawn there by the aroma of
baking. He was not welcome in the kitchen but Great Aunt
Hetty explained he was just a harmless old tramp.
`Them pies smells good Missus.' said Fred.
`Only the best ingredients.' said Aunty.
Fred shuffled his feet. `Could you spare a littlin' Missus?'
`There's nothing free here,' said Aunty `But draw some water
from the well for me, and I'll see you're amply rewarded.'
He followed Aunty into the scullery built over the well
head. When he'd washed his hands with carbolic soap in the
shallow, stone sink he was permitted to hook an empty bucket to
the chain hanging from the windlass. He drew back the wooden
cover.
To look down the hole was to feel drawn into its dreadful
depths by an unseen force. Fred released the ratchet and the
bucket plummeted into the echoing well. The handle spun
feeding out the heavy chain, link by sturdy link, until he
heard the splash when the bucket hit the water forty feet
below.
`There she blows!' the sound of Fred's voice sang back at
him. When the bucket was full he began the long haul. Turning
the handle, winding the chain and bringing up the water; cool,
pure, and crystal clear. He drew another bucketful and Aunty
gave him a crisp, golden saucer-pie full of damsons as ripe and
sweet as any he'd tasted. Fred was pleased with the deal and
so was Great Aunt Hetty.
When Aunty lit the lamps in the cottage visiting children
knew they'd soon be tucked up in the brass-ended feather beds
but last trips had to be made to the privy at the end of the
shadowy garden. It was a fine three-holer, the big hole was in
front of the door so the person sitting there could keep it
shut with a foot.
An ample lady like Great Aunt Hetty, wearing voluminous
skirts had difficulty lowering her bloomers inside with the
door shut. She overcame this problem by reversing through the
open door dropping her drawers as she went. Once she was
comfortably seated she closed the door with a foot.
The back door latch rattled, Aunty was making her last trip
down the garden. Minutes later something startled her, and she
was rushing back up the garden hauling up her underwear as she
came. The back door slammed shut and bolts crashed across. I
crept downstairs to see if she was all right.
Aunty sat in the kitchen, white and breathless. `That Fred
Monk.' she said. `Not content with a pie, helped himself to
some raw fruit; you know what raw fruit does to your insides,
don't you?'
Aunty had gone into reverse through the open privy door and
found herself sitting beside Fred.
`If he'd had the good sense to close the door and put his
foot against it....'
Aunty chuckled, `That'll be a good story to tell to your
grandchildren one day, won't it?'

Rosa Johnson