“My father farmed this land, as did his father and his before him. I dunno if I could live without the farm.”
“We all have to retire at some point, so perhaps it might be an idea to leave while you still are young enough to enjoy retirement.”
“What would I do?”
“What do you enjoy doing?”
“Farmin’!”
John found he had nothing to say. This man’s life was his farm; if one removed it then Jacob would probably die, having no purpose left.
“Then let’s talk tractors!” John said.
That was how Jacob acquired a brand new Massey Ferguson Tractor. It made him the envy of his few friends and also made his job a lot easier.
He died of a heart attack three years and four months after John’s visit. Jacob had left the farm and his entire estate to his wife. There was a clause in the will that should his son wish to farm the land then he would receive the farm and half his estate on condition that the farm wasn’t sold within twenty years of Jacob’s death.
His son, having just been made a partner, wasn’t interested.
Maggie called John Parnell within a couple of days of the funeral.
John, now even wealthier, remembered the old man and the farm. He made her an offer that was still more than fair. Having no more money worries, Maggie bought a bungalow close to her daughter and took up full-time granny work. She never wanted to see the farm again.
That was how John Parnell acquired the Morelys’ farm and whatever contents that Maggie left behind.
He planned to maximise his investment by selling it off in lots, including the newly renovated farmhouse and outbuildings. It did not preclude a purchaser bidding for everything, but he believed he would get more by splitting it up.
All remaining contents were to be auctioned. There were quite a few, as Maggie had no desire to keep any of the agricultural equipment, the livestock or indeed, even many of the household furnishings. Her new bungalow had a fitted kitchen and fitted cupboards throughout. Most of the furniture at the farm belonged to Jacob’s grandfather, so was showing its age. She was only too happy to use some of her new-found wealth to buy some new furniture and crockery.
Autumn was starting to creep in unannounced, as the leaves started to change. It had been a pleasant summer, so there were a few blackberries remaining on some of the bushes less accessible to the rambling seekers.
It was the first weekend in October 1957, and Alfred Tibbsen, the auctioneer, was early to arrive at the farm. He had made a previous visit to assess the items and to see whether it would be worth moving them to the main auction house.
There were too many bulky items, so he had made the decision to conduct the auction at the now empty farm house, in the yard, or the barn if wet.
The livestock formed part of Jacob’s estate, so they had already been sold and the monies due had gone to Maggie. For the remainder, John had made an offer based on the auctioneer’s assessment, which she had accepted.
“Morning, Mr Parnell,” he said, as John stepped from his big black Daimler.
“Ah, good morning Mr Tibbsen, looks like the weather will hold,” John said.
“I hope so, sir.”
“Has there been much interest?”
“A fair amount, yes. More for the land and buildings than the contents, but as it’s a nice day, I’m sure we’ll attract a few of the curious. I should think there’ll be some bargains to be had.”
“Indeed. I feel it’s quite a sad thing, as the Morely family have been farming here for a long time.”
“I knew Jacob’s father, and a more cantankerous old sod you couldn’t hope to meet,” Alfred said, cheerfully.
“Jacob wasn’t exactly welcoming,” John pointed out with a smile.
“No, but he would do anything for anyone if there was a need.”
“I’m sure,” said John, watching as the first potential customers arrived. Most were local farmers driving dilapidated Land Rovers, but there were a few others. Several estate agents and property speculators appeared, attracted by the possibility of grabbing the house at a bargain. They were to be disappointed.
John had investigated acquiring change of use for the farm land, but even with his contacts it was almost impossible. The area was dedicated farmland, surrounded by farms, so unless there was a change in policy from both central Government and the Local Authority, there was no hope of building houses or commercial properties this far away from civilisation. His best bet was that several neighbouring farmers would seek to add extra land to their farms by buying a few of the lots of land that were for sale.
The house and buildings, however, were different. If the land were to be snapped up by neighbours, they wouldn’t want surplus house and dilapidated farm buildings. These would make a nice little profit by being renovated and converted into living accommodation and sold on to London commuters.
The shortage of capital in circulation would mean that it was unlikely that a single investor would but the lot, but it was possible.
As predicted, the interest in the land was considerable, so the six lots combined went for more than double what John had originally paid. Admittedly, the land prices were rising almost daily, so he was well pleased.
The house generated some interest, and went for six thousand pounds to a couple who wanted to move to a bigger house from the city. They had three children and were attracted by the large garden. John was pleased as it was a good thousand more than he had anticipated. There was no doubt that the six hundred pounds he had spent on the renovation had been money well spent.
The barns and outhouses went to a speculator who did exactly as John suspected. He would renovate and convert into a home, turning several thousand pounds profit in the process.
Lastly, the contents of the barns and house fell under the hammer.
Needless to say the newer tractor sold quickly for a reasonable price to one of Jacob’s old friends. The rest of the items went, even if they were somewhat archaic and out-dated. None went for very much, but the old Massey Harris attracted not one bid, even for a single pound.
At the end of the day, John said goodbye to the auctioneer, and looked round the empty farm. The old tractor seemed to be regarding him with a squint, as the headlights were crooked.
“I know a good scrap metal dealer; he might just come and take it off your hands, sir,” said Alfred, just prior to leaving. He handed John a small piece of paper with a number written thereon.
John thanked him and watched as he left. Then he walked over to the old beast, placing one hand on the rusting engine cover.
“Well, you old bugger, what the hell am I going to do with you?” he asked.
Always recalling a childhood dream, he clambered onto the metal seat and played with the gear stick and steering wheel. He smiled.
John had adored tractors as a little boy and always wanted his own. However, he’d been a soldier in the war, in tanks. He’d served in North Africa, in the Eighth Army, and then up through Italy and finally into Germany itself. That had cured him of any desire to be mechanised ever again. He hated even driving himself these days, so employed a chauffeur.
He looked around, playing with the levers and knobs. Not that there were that many. On glancing down to his left, he saw a small square metal tin; the sort in which a ploughman might keep his sandwiches. To the right, were an old hammer and a semicircular piece of grey metal.
The tin contained several nuts and bolts, the origins of which had gone to the grave with Jacob. The hammer was rusty and the shaft rotting, so there was little value in either the box or the hammer.
As for the last bit of bent metal, not being a farmer, he put his ignorance down to just that, ignorance. He imagined it was something to do with a coupling for a plough or similar. At any rate, the whole issue was just a lump of scrap metal. He left them all where they were.