At the age of fifty-one, for the first time in her married life, Veronica Chant was doing something illegal. Not bank robbery illegal, or even shoplifting illegal, but against the law enough to give her a thrill.

She and her husband, Norman, really liked Country and Western music. They listened to a radio programme on Radio North Dorset called ‘Scrumpy and Western’. The DJ, Long Jim Crayfish, played all the latest discs from the States as well as live cover recordings by local singers and bands.

Vera liked Don Williams and Kenny Rogers, while there was something about Dolly Parton that appealed to Norm.

Every Saturday night, they would jump into Norman’s Land Rover and head off to some village hall or public house to listen to and shout ‘yeehaw’ at a local musician who was doing their best to convince the audience that they were really good old boys or gals.

The admission price usually included a couple of pints of cider and a ploughman’s lunch, so it all felt pretty authentic. Everybody dressed in Stetson hats and cowboy boots. Vera adapted her own costumes and spent hours sewing on rhinestones.

The couple were devoted to each other. It was a private joke between the two of them that Norman had saved Veronica. In a way it was true. In her youth, Vera had been wild. She and her friend Easy Shirley would hang around the American army base at Sherborne. It was surprising what a GI would trade for a bunk up with an English girl.

Somehow, by 1945 at the age of eighteen, Vera found herself in the Pudding Club. The Yanks had all gone home. It would have made little difference if they hadn’t, as she would have found it very difficult to say with any certainty exactly who the father was.

That’s when Norman came into her life. Their parents lived next door to each other and when he returned from North Africa, via Italy and Germany, Norm offered to marry Vera. She accepted his offer willingly.

This wasn’t a completely altruistic gesture on Norman’s part. He was of the opinion that a girl that liked a bit of the other was worth marrying, and the general consensus was that Vera was exactly such a girl.

After the twins were born, Norman treated them exactly as if the boys were his own sons.

Now, you may think that Norm could have been taking a risk by investing his whole future in Vera’s sexual inclinations. You could be right, but fortunately for our story, his gamble paid off. In the following years she grew to love him—and the life they built together. He grew to love her and she reserved her wild ways for their bedroom.

Together, they did their very best for the twins. Eventually, to show their gratitude, Mark and Ian emigrated to Australia without a thought for their parents; other than a card at Christmas.

Still, their life together was good. Norman had a job as a service engineer for John Deere and spent his days travelling from farm to farm across North Dorset, maintaining agricultural equipment. Veronica worked in the village shop.

Over the years they had taken up and put down various hobbies.

The village pub had a skittle alley. For many seasons the couple had taken part in a Dorset Skittles League, playing games both home and away. The ancient game required players to toss a cheese at nine wooden pins or skittles. In this case the cheese was not a dairy product but a heavy disc (about an inch thick) made of wood. The beauty of visiting other pubs was that they all played by slightly different rules. This wasn’t a problem as long as they were made clear before play commenced. The general attitude was ‘your alley, your rules’. Even the alleys varied slightly in length and width and, depending on the age of the pub, would sometimes slope erratically.

Vera liked their league, as they played as a mixed team (three women and five men). She was particularly good at the game and would often knock down all nine pins with a single throw. This earned her the nickname of ‘Flora’. It could have been worse. Some teams called it a ‘Flopper’ rather than a ‘Floorer’. Norm wasn’t quite as proficient but he would always clear nine with his three throws. He had a long family connection with their local pub. As a lad he would earn a few bob acting as ‘pin boy’, nimbly hopping in and out of the alley, setting the pins and clearing the dead wood between throws.

As the cider flowed and the game got more frantic, there was an increase in the mild groping that occurred as the players changed position in the narrow confines behind the toe line. For some reason Vera’s pleasantly plump backside got more attention than most as palms gently passed over it hoping for a little contact with a suspender, a clip, or stocking top. Neither Vera nor Norman took offence at this. Invariably, he would exchange grins with the chap as he resumed his seat on the benches that were arranged close to either side of the alley. Norm made sure that he did his fair share of touching up, not just his wife but the other men’s wives too on both sides.

By drinking up time, Vera was usually well up for a shag. This wasn’t a problem at home games as their cottage was a short stagger from the pub.

When playing away, Norm would often pull the Land Rover over in a lay-by for an interim fumble and leg over; just to tide them over until they reached home. This was in the days when the rules on drinking and driving were far more flexible.

On one occasion, when they were returning from a match in the next village, Norman thought it would be fun to park next to the local churchyard and give Vera one on account by way of a starter, as it were. She was laid across the front seat, blouse up and drawers around one ankle with Norm between her thighs, going for it, when there was a knock on the window and the passenger’s door swung open as the beam of torchlight bounced off her stockings.

“Oh, sorry Norman, I didn’t realise it was you,” said PC Thomas, as a mixture of cider fumes and Vera’s fanny smell assaulted his senses. “I thought I’d caught a couple of towny thrill seekers. All Land Rovers look the same in this light.

“Evening Vera, how did you get on?”

“We won Reg, as it happens. They weren’t too happy about it. That’s the third win in a row,” replied Vera.

She went on casually, “Much as I’d like to chat, I was approaching a critical moment when you barged in! It’s a bit difficult to concentrate with my udders in the spotlight like this.”

“Oh, right,” said the local Bobby, “I’ll leave you to it then.

“Drive safely Norm, there’s a lot of nutters on the road at this time of night.

“Good night, Vera, it was nice to see you again,” he concluded.

“And you, Reg,” she replied.

As the 1960s neared their end, teams began to drop out of the league. Old players faded away and young people failed to see the attraction of throwing hard discs at little wooden men. Eventually, their team folded too.

For a brief period during the early 70s there was a resurgence of interest in English Folk Music, driven by groups like Steeleye Span and Fairport Convention. This encouraged Norman and Veronica to take up Morris Dancing for a while. But subsequently, they preferred to draw a veil over that period of their life.

No, absolutely, Country and Western was now their thing and through this they had been introduced to Citizen Band Radio.

When you live in a small Dorset village, it can sometimes feel like the world is passing you by. Not the big things, the national or world things. They were on the radio and telly. It’s more the attitudes.

Norman was fortunate, in his work he met farmers, young and old. He listened to what they talked about. They had always been smutty but over the years the jokes had become more crude. Not just the young lads, the older men would reveal details of their love lives. The farmers’ wives were nearly as bad. Norm wasn’t a prude but he was a little shocked from time to time.

His wife was far better placed. She worked in the local shop. While there was a certain amount of innuendo within her colleagues’ conversation they rarely went into detail about what went on in the bedroom. But the shop did sell mucky magazines. Even though there wasn’t much of a demand, the wholesalers insisted upon it.

On Thursdays, because she was the senior member of staff, it was Veronica’s job to take all of the unsold publications into the back room to sort them for collection by the supplier when they delivered the next issues.

She had no interest in Farmers’ Weekly or Dairyman’s Monthly. What she liked to thumb through were the two or three Men’s Magazines that hadn’t been purchased. It wasn’t the glossy picture of nearly naked women that caught her attention, although from time to time she could see what Norman would like about the more buxom dark haired ones. What she particularly liked were the letters from readers.

Over the years, Vera had noticed the change of tone in them. They had changed from men boasting about their shagging prowess to the more novel things that they did with their wife or girlfriend. It went in trends, from sexual positions, tying up, oral sex, spanking or sex toys. After a few months of letters on a similar theme there would inevitably be a change of direction. Occasionally, one would really catch her imagination and she’d lock herself in the stockroom with her hand down her knickers. Of late, Vera thought that there seemed to be more correspondence that included indecent exposure of wives by their husbands.

In this way she kept her husband up to speed by guiding him towards some of the latest trends. Norm was a willing recipient of this information.

The normal range for an AM CB radio in Dorset was 25 miles at best. Nevertheless, the ability to speak to other enthusiasts using a medium that was steeped in American charisma was exciting. Every CB user had seen the film ‘Smokey and the Bandit’ (although they insisted upon calling it a ‘movie’) and did their best to emulate the Trucker Slang from it.

Vera and Norman loved that it overlapped with their passion for Country Music. Whenever they went to CB get-togethers they often met the usual C&W crowd.

I’m just speculating here, but I believe that part of CB’s appeal was that, at that time in the UK, it was totally illegal and unregulated.

As a result, they couldn’t just pop into the newly opened Dorchester branch of Argos and purchase the equipment. Oh no, the couple had to travel to exotic places like Exeter. That city had a car radio shop up a backstreet which had everything they needed under the counter. All the latest AM 27 MHz transceivers, push-to-talk microphones, vehicle antennas (which they referred to as Twigs), 12V power connections and SWR meters.

Norman had a Midland AM transceiver and a 9 ft 1/4-wave whip twig. This antenna could be discreetly hidden within the canvas covering of the old Land Rover Series IIa only to be bolted onto the frame when required.

On most free evenings Norman would drive to a different high spot around North Dorset and set up the equipment. There in the gloom, at the age of fifty-one, for the first time in her married life, Veronica Chant would do something illegal; she would talk to strangers on the CB radio.

Rarely did Norman chat; he couldn’t quite master the fake Midwestern accent. He liked to listen to Vera engaging in trivial banter with, mostly, guys but sometimes gals. She used the ‘handle’ Delta Dawn because she liked the Helen Reddy song. Norman’s was Tractor Boy because he repaired tractors.