During the war years when farm labour was short Ed and I did what we could to help, Ed working as a harvester on a near-by farm despite his hay-fever, while I spent my mornings working for Mr. Walker in his market garden. I don't remember what the pay was - a mere pittance, I expect - but breakfast was included. I would report to the Walkers', about a mile away, at 7 a.m., to be served by Mr. Walker with a heaping plate of oatmeal porridge, followed by bacon and eggs and mounds of greasy, fried potatoes. Then out to the fields we would go to pick beans, hoe potatoes, or tie up tomato plants, and no loafing on the job: Mr. Walker was a burly, rough-and-ready man in his fifties, married to a refined, rather delicate-looking wife who was never in evidence at breakfasts.