Tipping The Scales

Sid responded to the frantic waving in his wing mirror by sliding to a halt in the middle of the field. He could see the farmer hobbling after him with distress written all over his face. Something was clearly very wrong.

'You'll have to come back Sid,' he bellowed over the noise of the old engine.
'Turn round and come back.'

Sid yanked on the hand brake and watched as his pursuer wheezed the last few yards to the cab window.

'What's up, Ned?'

'We'll have to unload the whole bloody lot Sid; the whole bloody lot.'

'You've got to be joking; what for?'

'Just bloody do it Sid, as quick as you can.'

The gear box shuddered as reverse gear was angrily engaged and the heavily laden flat-bed wagon began its laboured retreat towards the loading area. Sid flicked his tab end out of his window and wound it up, just as several large spots of rain smacked onto his windscreen.

The morning had begun so well too. Dozens of volunteer pickers had turned up, the weather was dry and bright and things were well set for the entire crop to be picked in one good day's endeavour; until young Jimmy Dawson's conscience got the better of him that is. Five shillings a sack had seemed like a doddle when he'd read the advert in the Free Press. Eight sacks was all he'd need to reach his two pounds target. He was fourteen and as fit as a butcher's dog; he'd have his two quid by dinner time.

The tired, mud flecked lorry lurched to a halt and Sid dropped out of his cab onto the well trodden loading area. More bags of freshly picked peas lay stacked and ready for loading and out across the vast field, bent-backed pickers were hard at work. Next to a large stack of hessian sacks stood the heavy commercial weighing scales, scales
built to deal with pecks, bushels and stones, those mysterious dry weight measures with even more mysterious names. On one side of the balance was the weighing platform and on the other, the eight seven pound iron weights which collectively made up the fifty six pounds required in every sack of peas.

Sid trudged wearily to the rear of his wagon, lighting up yet another Park Drive in the process, the four tiers of sheeted and roped pea laden sacks towering above him on the flat bed. He looked up at the sky and sighed.

'Look Ned, they're your peas and if you want 'em off then they'll have to come off, but you'll have to get some of your pickers over here to lend a hand. It'll take all afternoon on my own.'

'They're on their way,' scowled the angry farmer . 'If we all muck in we'll get the job done and sorted in a couple of hours and hopefully get you on your way.'

'OK,then. I'll make a start by getting these ropes and sheets off.'

As Sid got to work, he looked back over his shoulder. 'You haven't told me what this is all about yet, Ned. I hope there's a good reason for all this.'

'Oh! there's a good reason all right, and when I find out who's responsible, I'll break his bloody neck.'

* * *

Farmer Ned grinned as young Jimmy Dawson lugged his first hour's hard labour across the field and hauled the sack up onto the big iron scales. The balance indicator just sat there, the large iron weights defiantly unmoved.

'You'll need a few more than that lad,' he said, ' best get back and fill it.'

He was still well short of the weight of peas required to earn his first five bob and his heart sank as he set off on the long drag back to his picking area. He laboured on for another back breaking twenty minutes, until his sack was full to capacity and then began the long drag back towards the scales. When he arrived, Farmer Ned was nowhere to be seen, but Mrs Ned was there.

'Ye need to sheck 'em down lad, or ya won't ger enough in to mek the weight.'

The weathered, elderly lady smiled at him, as she casually swung her weight compliant sack into the loading area. 'D'ye want hand wi 'em?'

This innocent, matronly gesture pierced Jimmy's pubescent male ego like a rapier and he blushed as he lugged his sack onto the scales with as much musk as he could muster.

'No thanks,' he mocked, ' it's easy peasy.'

Suddenly realising his unintentional pun, he aimed a grin in her direction, a gesture that provoked a warm, knowing smile of a response.

'Well just gi me a shout if ye need any help,' she replied warmly, as she set off back down the field with a new hessian sack slung over her shoulder. 'This job's nor as easy as it looks, especially for first timers.'

Jimmy stared in horror at the scales, his morning's labour still unable to move the defiant balance needle. He shook the sack angrily, stepping up beside it on the weighing platform. The needle lurched violently in response to his weight and he leapt off again, catching the sack with his knee as he did so. It toppled over and spilled much of its content out onto the well trodden earth. It was while he was angrily
ramming hand-fulls of freshly picked pods back into the sack through tears of frustration, that the idea crept into his head; how to resolve his problem in one simple move. It took just five surreptitious seconds.

* * *

The fifteen pickers, along with Farmer Ned and the driver, were a sight to behold. Unloading the mountain of sacks, checking the weight of every one and then reloading them in the sort of cloudburst usually reserved for the Asian monsoon season. After two hours of saturated labour the task was completed and the load re sheeted androped, just as the rain stoppedand the sun reappeared.

'I'm not leaving 'till you tell me what that were all about Ned. Why have we had to re weigh 'em all, is there summat wrong wi ye scales?'

'There's nowt wrong wi the scales Sid, them scales have served me all my life and me father's before me.'

'Then what were all that in aid of?'

'It were that young lad over there who spotted it Sid. He'd noticed that one of the weights was on the ground and not where it should have been. If it weren't for him, I could have sent the entire day's pick to market wi' every sack 7lb under weight. I dread to think what that would have done to my reputation if that'd happened.'

'Well a 7lb weight can't fall off the scales on its own Ned. Who the hell would pull a stunt like that?'

'Could have been any one of 'em Sid and it could have happened at any time, that's why we had to check 'em all.'

'So how many were under?'

Farmer Ned paused, as if calculating the effect his answer would have before he gave it. 'Well, er.....none fortunately.'

* * *

With the iron weight safely tucked beside the scale, Jimmy grinned at his inventiveness and stood waiting for farmer Ned to return from his conversation with the departing wagon driver.

'That looks better lad, let's get it on the scale.'

The balance indicator lurched violently and Farmer Ned stepped back in
surprise.

'You haven't filled it wi bricks have ye?' he quipped.'

Jimmy grinned uncomfortably, the realisation of what he'd just done
flooding his mind.

'There's summat wrong here lad,' he snapped with annoyance, 'there's
definitely summat wrong.'

He yanked the sack off the scales and began pulling peas out of it with
his giant gnarled hands. The game was up and Jimmy's burning guilt suddenly exploded.

'It's the weights farmer Ned, he pointed dramatically. Look, one of 'ems on the ground.'

Farmer Ned stared in horror at the seven of eight, the full realisation of
what that could mean flushing through him like a tidal wave.

'Oh! Bloody hell no,' he cursed as he set off in panic after the departing
wagon.