It was a glorious day for the annual late summer fete at Thrummeling in the Wolds.
There was a lot of bunting (because everyone likes a good bunt) and much jollity. It was a very traditional event: the WI sang about jam and posed naked behind small, crucially-placed objects, coconuts were shy, cakes were baked and iced , there was a tent for the flower and produce competition.
Martha joined in with enthusiasm: she loved such occasions. She bought a butterfly bun – a perfect combination of Victoria sponge and buttercream which took her back to her childhood in one bite. She hurled a wooden ball at a shy coconut which failed to respond. She took the opportunity to throw a wet sponge at the vicar, who had nobly volunteered to be clapped in stocks for everyone to take aim at. In her childhood she would have been excited by the lucky dip, and still cherished memories of the cheap plastic dolls with lurid, standing-up hair which she had dredged up from the bottom of the bran tub and unwrapped with such haste.
There hadn’t been a demonstration of blacksmithing for some years, but this summer a new young blacksmith had started up nearby and thought it would be the ideal place to showcase his skills and business.
There was a small crowd gathered around the temporary forge. The blacksmith had put up a large colourful tent for the fete, and his erection could be seen from some distance. As Martha approached she could hear the cries of the audience, impressed by what they saw.
There were examples of his work arranged nearby: bootscrapers and plant stands made from horseshoes and painted in shiny colours, – even a sculpture of an owl. Martha eased her way to front, and in doing so wriggled her brightly-clad frontage directly into the view of the blacksmith, who noticed, though he kept his head down.
It was a hot sunny day. Dan had started fully dressed, but by now was stripped to the waist, his leather farrier’s apron hanging in front of his closefitting jeans. His muscles were polished with a sheen of sweat and writhed over each other like battling serpents as his swung his hammer. A smile flickered across Martha’s face as she imagined the hammer in action.
He was demonstrating an old art now rarely seen – making a horseshoe from scratch. And it was a very physical process, involving a lot of pounding. He had begun by heating a big metal bar in his portable forge. Once it was all aglow, he removed it. It needed careful handling: it was red hot right to the tip, and though still hard, amenable to being beaten. He worked on it with great energy, his breath coming in pants, (just as happens to adolescents from time to time), his muscles bunching with effort. With a grunt he flung it back into the hot cave and turned to look at the crowd of onlookers. Amongst the families with small children (some of whom were so fascinated that their ice creams had dripped to the ground, neglected) and the older folk savouring the memories brought back by his skills, he noticed Martha – and indeed who wouldn’t. She had wriggled to the front, accidentally using her ample frontular parts to ease her way through the crush. Few will obstruct an exhuberant nork squeezing past them, and she was rapidly successful. Once there she turned herself to the diagonal to allow others closer in. The blacksmith looked up and saw before him Martha’s flamboyantly nunctious silhouette. It was enough to make any man take a firm grip on his hammer…
There was a pause. Then Dan turned and flicked the catch on his forge. The door opened and, using tongs, he removed the glowing bar, now slightly curved. He laid it on the anvil, picked up his hammer, and like Thor, set about it with vigour. Martha could not take her eyes off him, and deep within her loins stirred a primeval urge to be laid across an anvil and given a pounding.
Whilst the shoe was back in the forge again to heat up, Dan showed everyone his tools. Everyone was interested, and none more than Martha. He had tongs and hammers of all sizes, sufficient to keep a man entertained through a long winter night. Or indeed a woman, thought Martha.
Dan explained what each was called and how it was used. He was a good demonstrator – holding his tool out so everyone could see – sometimes even walking round with it so that members of the public could see it up close, run their fingers over it, or even hold it.
“What do you think of that?” he would ask. Everyone was impressed
Martha liked the thought of him a-kneeling: she was sure she would need quenching at the end of it
“A horse” he added, “is the only animal you can bang nails into”
He asked for any further questions, answered them, and then the crowd started to drift away: small children tugged on parents’ arms and argued for candyfloss, brans tubs, bouncycastles and ice creams. But Martha waited. Dan had disappeared behind the screen at the back of the stand. She wandered around the display, touching the sculptures and exhibits, picking up items and feeling the weight of them.
A few moments later Dan reappeared to see Martha there, holding a massive tool in her hands, a look of concentration on her lovely face.
“Hello” he said. Blacksmiths are known for their wit.
She looked up and smiled “I suppose you have to be very strong to be a blacksmith?”
He nodded. “It certainly helps. I mean all these hammers and things are pretty big and heavy, and if you’re on a big project you can find yourself banging away for a whole day”
“Really!” Martha’s eyes opened wide. “And you can do that can you?”
He nodded, with a proud smile. “I can. Sometimes I can end up with sore hands from having to grip so hard for so long. But when I get to the end and see how happy the client is, well it’s all worthwhile for me. I call that a good day’s work”
“Yes so would I!” exclaimed Martha. He was still stripped to the waist and she was finding his musculations very distracting. He picked up a towel a wiped his hands on it, then began to rub his damp torso. “I’m sorry” he said “It’s very hot work on a day like this”
Martha smiled “That’s ok” and on impulse added “Would you like me to help?”
He looked startled, but in a good way. That way which is universally associated with a surge of blood to the netheroids. “Great! Thankyou” he said, handing her the towel with a moment of hesitation that it might not be clean enough for her. Martha had no hesitation. She took the towel and began to rub him with it. Although she was rubbing his upper arms, she might just as well have been operating in different regions, considering the effect, and Dan was extremely grateful for the presence of his heavy leather apron. This allowed him to savour the experience without anxiety, and Martha was able to set about all areas of his naked torso with the enthusiasm of a woman in the throes of thrutchage. Eventually she had dried all exposed flesh, and Dan felt obliged to say “Thankyou. I can get my top on now”
As he spoke he met Martha’s eyes. In truth they had been meeting regularly for the past while, and were now ready to go steady. Her eyes were big, completely filling the places in her face which were meant to have eyes in, and they were very expressive. Dan had been anxious that he should really remove his leather apron next, but that the resultant demonstration of his feelings might be too much: Martha’s expressive eyes relieved him of that anxiety, which also freed him up to enjoy the sight of her curvaceatude, all soft rounded parts of which seemed to be distracting him at once. She took a step towards him, and the general engineering of her joints seemed to move with a well-oiled freedom which thrilled him. There was a meaningful pause, and then he said “Do you want to see behind the screen?” Martha nodded.
Behind the screen was a sheltered corner of the field, bordered by high hedges and his large blacksmith’s van. The grass was soft and dry – thereby being similar to Martha in one way, and opposite to her in another. She was able to test Dan’s assertion that he could keep up the banging for as long as was needed, and to her delight, he was proved right. Dan let her use his favourite hammer, the one which he didn’t bring out for the public at the events. It turned out that he didn’t always need the little forge to make things red hot. They didn’t need the anvil for Martha to get a really good pounding; it was a good day for Thrummeling in the Wolds.
