Intrigued by the white turkey peering through the roadside fence, head cocked quizzically, the child urges her father to stop the car. The turkey, a lace of wattles at its neck, is unfazed by this show of public attention and happy to socialize. At the far side of the field are more turkeys, none white, none wanting to socialize.
It is the summer of 1941, Europe is ablaze with the roar of war, not that the meeting with the turkey has any impact on this tide of events other than to save a five-year-old the trauma of the London Blitz and to create a memory of 70 years. It is the start of many journeys in the new Ford Prefect to see the white turkey and then to go for afternoon tea. Sarah’s mother, Marion, is very particular about afternoon tea and the drive involves a rigorous search for a venue to meet her very exacting requirements.
On one of these journeys behind the fence is a tall lady in a headscarf and long beige coat. “My daughter likes your white turkey,” says Sarah’s mother. “Ah, Genevieve,” says the lady in the headscarf and long beige coat, her arm massaging the downy feathers, “would you want some eggs?” Marion is particularly fond of freshly laid eggs a taste so different to shop bought ones.
“A dozen do yeah,” asked the lady in the headscarf and long beige coat, “if you would wait,” and she disappears up a long, paved pathway. “Is she special, your white turkey?" Marion asks. “Very special,” replies the lady in the headscarf and the .