Chapter 5

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0 height="100%"><tr> <td valign="top" width=200 BGCOLOR="#003333" TEXT="#F7F7FF" background="12ad4c00dduajq.gif"> <div> <TABLE BORDER="0" CELLPADDING="2" CELLSPACING="0" WIDTH="95" BORDERCOLORLIGHT="#C0C0C0" BORDERCOLORDARK="#808080" FRAME="BOX" RULES="ALL" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" > <tR> <tD VALIGN=TOP HEIGHT= 46 ><NOBR><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="46" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="91" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></NOBR></tD> </tR> </TABLE></div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="stan hedges homepage"><U>Home Page </U></A></div> <bR> <div>  <FONT SIZE="4" COLOR="#FFFFFF" FACE="Times New Roman" >Chapters</FONT></div> <div> <A HREF="id132.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Autobiography"><U>One</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id144.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 2"><U>Two</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id145.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 3"><U>Three</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id146.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 4"><U>Four</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id148.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 5"><U>Five</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id149.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 6"><U>Six</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id151.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 7"><U>Seven </U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id156.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 8"><U>Eight</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id158.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 9"><U>Nine</U></A></div> <div> Ten</div> <div> Eleven</div> <div> Twelve</div> <div> Thirteen</div> <div> Fourteen</div> <div> Fifteen   </div> <div>  </div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="stan hedges homepage"><U>Home Page</U></A></div> <bR> </td> <td valign="top" BGCOLOR="#FFFBF0" TEXT="#080000"> <div> <B>Chapter 5</B></div> <bR> <div> Wedmore</div> <bR> <bR> <div> <IMG SRC="24140440.jpg" border=0 width="320" height="324" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <bR> <div> Sid, Me and Ken at Wedmore, Summer 1940</div> <bR> <div> BY the time we left the hall it was very late, and quite dark.  I have a vague memory of Mrs. Pitcairn driving us up Wedmore's main street in a horse and trap, passing between quaint old shops on the left and a church and graveyard on the right until, guarded by a pair of wrought-iron gates, we reached the entrance to the Manor House, which lay immediately beyond the church.  </div> <div> Once through the gates we trotted down a short drive lined with beech trees, standing huge against a moonlit sky.  A strange cry came from somewhere a little way away which scared me a little, so I grabbed hold of Mrs P's arm.  But she said not to worry, it was only an owl.  So that was all right.  I'd seen pictures of owls somewhere.  After rounding the left side of the house we stopped to open a five-bar gate, then entered a small cobbled farmyard.  As the trap came to rest, I heard muffled sounds of animals disturbed inside the byres around the yard.  Then, with the horse and trap safely put away for the night, we entered the house by a rear door and faced a long passage.  </div> <div> Mrs. P opened a cloakroom door to the left and suggested we freshen ourselves up before joining her in the kitchen, which we'd find further down the corridor.  Ken and Sid went in and stood peeing together, but I knew better than to join them.   I waited outside.  Well, they thought peeing on my shoes was great fun, didn't they?  All grist to the mill so far as they were concerned.</div> <div> It was then I discovered that kitchens are not the same as sculleries.  I'd never seen so many pots and pans, hung like trophies around the walls, brightly burnished, glowing red and gold with the light streaming from the open range.  Against one wall was a huge dresser (a million times bigger than Gran's), simply crammed with plates and dishes of every shape and size; while in the centre sat the most enormous table.  For certain, Gran Hedges would not have welcomed scraping that table down with Granddad's old razor blades once a month, and no mistake.  </div> <div> Cook had left out supper for Mrs. Pitcairn without knowing she'd be arriving home with a few extra mouths, so we three sat round the table while she prepared extra food.  I felt too tired to eat, but the cocoa was nice, made with milk instead of water, and I thought it tasted much better than Mum's.  </div> <div> After asking Ken a few questions, and receiving some rather non-committal, desultory responses, it was time for bed.   `Well, it's been a very long day for us all.  I think we'd better show you to your beds before you all fall off your chairs!'</div> <div> Beds?  How many beds did she think we needed?  </div> <div> `We'll skip bathing tonight; it can wait till morning.'</div> <div> Now Grandfather Treloar had recently warned me what happened to skinny little boys who got tangled up in baths, so that sounded a little scary for a start.  We never had baths at home, thank goodness.  A good wash down on the draining board in the scullery once a week was felt quite sufficient.  Even that was excessive to my mind.  Apart from anything else, it was a dire experience in wintertime.  With no warmth in the house anywhere but the kitchen, and not always then (coal being in short supply in our house), I'd come to accept that bedrooms, sculleries and passages were very cold, dreary places for much of the year, and best left empty.   </div> <div> On climbing the broad staircase I felt menaced by numerous ancestral portraits. `Who's this scruffy little urchin climbing my stairs?  What in blazes is he doing here?'  But there were not just portraits, all manner of things hung about the walls: crossed swords, shields, daggers, spears, pistols, stag's heads… all kinds of things that I'd never seen before.  Fancy just sticking them on a wall and leaving them there?  Think of the fun you could have with them!  At the top of the stairs we faced a long corridor.  And it was then I caught sight of the man in medieval armour.  He stood silently, without moving, his back to the wall.   I was suddenly filled with terror, and shrank back in fear.  After years of being warned of the bogey man who was coming to get me, I knew this must be him.  Though not yet five, I had no illusions about this world, knowing already it was most definitely a very scary place.  After all, just a few weeks before, Ken and Sid had taken me to the Coronation Cinema at Manor Park Broadway to see a film about a ghost train, starring the famous comic actor, Will Hay.  The night scene where an old-fashioned coach and horses came galloping out of the mist towards the camera with a headless driver holding the reins had been enough to send me quivering beneath the seat for the rest of the film.  `It's all right, Stanley,' said Mrs P, reassuringly.  </div> <div> `It's not a real man.  There's no one inside.  Just an old suit of armour left over from the wars.  Nothing to be afraid of,' said Mrs P.  </div> <div> Well, it was all right for her to talk but it still looked pretty scary to me.  </div> <div> At the end of the corridor she opened a door to the left.  `There,' she said, ushering us inside, `this should do nicely.'  </div> <div> Here I have to tell you that bedroom took some taking in. As Mum would say, it was all a bit much really.  It was easily as big as our classroom at Essex Road School.  If I tell you it accommodated a giant four-poster bed, plus another, smaller, four-poster, as well as a single bed behind the door; two large wardrobes, a dressing table, plus numerous chests, and all with acres of room to spare, it should give you some idea. </div> <div> Being the eldest, Ken got the big four-poster; Sid was allocated the smaller one, and I was given the divan.  Even that seemed enormous, having spent most of my life sharing a much smaller bed with brother Sid. </div> <div> `What about the rest of your things?' asked Mrs. P. `Is someone bringing them tomorrow?'</div> <div> `Ain't got no over fings,' said Ken, who could be quite terse at times.</div> <div> A look of dismay came over.  </div> <div> `I see,' she said, slowly. `Then perhaps we'd better see just what you do have.'   </div> <div> With growing dismay, she opened Ken and Sid's suitcases in turn.</div> <div> `But there are no pyjamas!'</div> <div> `Ain't got none,' said Ken.</div> <div> `And no toothbrushes! Where are your toothbrushes?'</div> <div> `Don't `ave any.' </div> <div> `But how do you clean your teeth?'</div> <div> `Mix a bit of salt and soot together and rub it on with a finger.  Only if we `ave to, like.  That usually does the trick.'</div> <div> `I see,' she murmured.  `Yes, I think I can see how that might work.  Though perhaps we'll look for a better solution tomorrow.'</div> <div> After wishing us goodnight and sweet dreams, she left us to it and we crawled into bed in our shirts as usual.  Completely exhausted, I fell asleep immediately.  </div> <div> The last few days had been sunny and warm for late September, and so it was that first morning.  Our bedroom had windows on two sides, and I woke early to the sun streaming through the open window to my right.  The air was pungent, like nothing I'd ever smelt, and there were strange noises coming from outside.  Ken and Sid were still asleep, so I slipped out of bed and went to the window, itching to find out what the commotion was all about, and found myself gazing down upon a scene of total wonderment.  Below me was the farmyard, a very crowded farmyard. The farmyard of all farmyards, the farmyard of a little boy's dreams.  It was simply teeming with life, and I stood mesmerized, every sense straining to take in dozens of  new sounds, new images.  </div> <div> I'd never seen live chickens, nor pigs, ducks or geese. The only familiar animal was the horse standing with its head hanging over a stable door.  I knew all about horses; much of London's commercial traffic was horse-drawn. I'd seen hundreds of brewers' drays, coal wagons, horse-drawn milk floats and small carts of every description around Manor Park and East Ham. This horse was one of the big ones, like the ones pulling the brewers' drays.  Also I'd seen sheep and cows in the fields from the train on the way down, but that wasn't close up like this.  I couldn't wait to get downstairs.</div> <div> When Mrs. P. arrived she said, `Good morning boys! I hope you've slept well.  Time to rise and shine. We've a very busy day ahead.'  </div> <div> I was still full of the farmyard, so she listened patiently while I told her all about her farm:  `…and when can I see them?  And can I stroke the chickens?  And will I be able to ride the horse?'   </div> <div> `Of course, Stanley,' she said. `All in good time.  But first, before we can even think about that, we must have our bath, mustn't we?' </div> <div> And while those treacherous taps filled her giant bath inexorably, I remembered word for word the story Grandfather Treloar had so recently taken pains to teach me, a cautionary tale which every boy should know by heart.</div> <div> `Grandfather says I mustn't `ave barfs,' I whispered.</div> <div> She crouched down, looked into my eyes, and smiled. `Oh, and why ever not, Stanley?'</div> <div> `You know, `cos of them angels.'</div> <div> `Oh?  And what angels are these?  What was it your Grandfather said about the angels?'</div> <div> `He told me all about them in that story.'</div> <div> `And what story is this?'</div> <div> `You know…'</div> <div> `No.  Tell me.'</div> <div> So I told her:  `A muvver was barfin' `er baby one night, the youngest of ten, and a poor lickle mite.  The muvver turned rahnd fer the soap orf the rack… And when she looked back… the baby was gorn!  And in anguish, she cried:  “Oh where is my baby?” and the angels replied:  “Your baby's gorn dahn the plughole!  Your baby's gorn dahn the plug!  The poor lickle fing was so skinny an' fin, he ough'a bin barfed in a jug!  Your baby's gorn dahn the plughole; he won't need a barf anymore, `cos `es up `ere wiv us, the angels; not lorst, just … gorn before.”</div> <div> While narrating this horrendous tale her smile grew curiously wider and wider.  For the life of me, I couldn't think why.  But at the end she clasped me to her bosom, hugged me tight, and said, `You darling boy! That's such a lovely story.  But, you know, that's all it is, just a story.  It doesn't really happen.  And look… see the plughole.  I should think it's far too small for a big boy like you to fall through, don't you think?'</div> <div> Looking back, I often wonder if that moment was a turning point in her life; that perhaps it was the first time the dear lady had felt happy since her husband drowned in a boating accident the previous year. I only know that from that moment I could do no wrong.  </div> <div> Now it was time for breakfast.</div> <div> The Manor was probably built in the early nineteenth-century (Regency or George IV period, I would think).  Whether earlier houses had occupied the site I cannot say.  What had no doubt once been the saloon was now used as Mrs. Pitcairn's sitting-cum-dining-room, a large, bright, rectangular room with French windows along the far wall.   </div> <div> A long sideboard stood against the wall on the left, facing into the room.  Opposite the door, a line of French windows overlooked the terrace and grounds beyond.  Occupying the centre of the room  was a  polished mahogany table with six chairs along each side plus carvers at either end.  It was already laid for breakfast, with three places laid at the nearest end, and a fourth at the far end.  Mrs. Pitcairn had a fine sense of the absurd, for she directed me to take up position as head of the table, opposite her.  Ken sat on my right, and Sid on my left. </div> <div> On the wall facing the French windows stood a magnificent white marble fireplace, and beneath sat two enormous sofas ranged on either side, while between them, and wearing a ferocious snarl, lay the polar bear with limbs outstretched.  But it didn't frighten me.  Even I could see it couldn't possibly be alive;  too flat in the middle.  Several paintings hung around the walls, but I especially remember the portrait of an early nineteenth-century young man that hung above the sideboard, for it became the cause of Ken and Sid's disgrace.  On a visit many years later, I was reminded of the incident when Mrs. P. showed me the repairs made after Sid flicked his napkin at Ken one morning, sending the silver ring flying across the room and through the canvas. Through all our many scrapes and misdemeanours, I believe it was the only time she showed herself capable of anger.</div> <div> Outside, a grassy slope ran down from the terrace for about fifty yards or so before levelling out to a smooth, flat lawn with a large round hump in the middle; the smoothest, most flattest lawn I'd ever seen. And so very green!  And why I emphasize this smoothness and flatness will soon become clear.</div> <div> A cook/housekeeper came daily.   She was a short, tubby lady who spoke very little, and didn't seem all that fond of little boys, to be honest.  But she made the world's most delicious gravy.  In fact, I believe I enjoyed it more than the food!  I can still taste it today.  Full silver service was the rule at every meal, and the amount of knives, forks and spoons, tureens, plates, dishes, glasses, jugs, carafes and tumblers that were necessary before one could embark upon a meal, not forgetting the white napkins rolled inside those silver bracelet things, to say nothing of three silver cruets, was totally and utterly bewildering.  We were obviously at a complete loss.  But, quite understanding our dilemma, Mrs. P. simply smiled.  During the meal she patiently advised which implement would be the most appropriate to use at any given time, this spoon for grapefruit, this one for cereal, etc., and continued doing this at every meal thereafter until, after a month or so, our manners and table acumen had improved beyond reproach. (At least, when Mrs. P. was around).</div> <div> During the meal Mrs. P. asked me how I felt about the war, and to this day I've no idea where my answer came from.  It was total fabrication; one of those mysterious effusions of an over-virile imagination, emerging from whence we know not where.  Though not a single bomb had fallen on London before we left, I answered: `Cor, the bombs are getting so bad, Mum can't even go up the top to change the beer bottles!'   And, of course, ever mindful my slightest indiscretion, Ken immediately gave me a swift kick beneath the table.  `Oi! You!' said I, `Stop kicking me, Kenny!'  Whereupon Mrs. P. collapsed with laughter.</div> <div> Throughout the meal I'd been glancing at the garden through the French windows, and was itching to be `King of the Castle' - you know, take a run down the grassy hill, over the lovely green lawn and up onto the mound.  Once the meal was over I asked if I might.  And so, with permission granted, and in sublime ignorance of the disaster awaiting, off I went, running pell mell down the hill towards the flattest, smoothest, greenest lawn in all the world. </div> <div> What did I know of treachery; the self-deceiving eye?  How could I know that lovely green lawn was no lawn at all, but a lake covered with duckweed?  Suddenly, there I was, floundering in mud up to my knees for a few moments before falling headlong into the water.  After struggling to my feet,  legs, trousers, hands and blouse all covered in green slime, I took a deep breath and let out a long, wailing moan  I was horrified!  Yet my next thought was for Mum's new white ankle socks - which I must keep clean at all times.  `Me socks! Me socks!' I cried, realising I was now in trouble with Mum on two counts; first the hanky, and now the socks.  How could she ever love me again?  </div> <div> All three had rushed from the house by this time, screeching with laughter while I stood sobbing with shame and remorse, water still lapping my knees.  I must have looked like the original green man of the woods.  After I'd crawled out on my hands and knees, Mrs. P. scooped me up and carried me inside, doing her best to console me so far as her giggles allowed.  And, of course, to make matters worse, I then had to have another of those awful baths, didn't I?</div> <div> Shortly after this episode, Mrs. P. decided it was high time the lake was cleaned up, a task which was to provide Ken and Sid with a nice piece of pocket money.  For, being a tomboy, another of that lady's lovable qualities was her ability to know precisely what little boys enjoyed most.  And high on the list was anything to do with mucking about in, or sailing upon, soap-free, pure natural water.  </div> <div> Within a few days she'd helped them to construct a raft from old inner tubes and a few planks, and, after a ceremonial launching, and with a couple of old buckets and scoops, off sailed Ken and Sid, leaving me to watch wistfully.  Not that I would have wanted to be on there with them; I was not that stupid.  But I did so want to sail it all by myself.  For the best part of a week they then laboured, at sixpence a bucket, scooping off most of the slime and duckweed  They had a whale of a time, pretending to be pirates and all that stuff, while I, of course, could but stand and watch.  </div> <div> Once cleaned, the lake was soon alive with water fowl again.  Ducks, moor hens and coots swam two and fro in wild abandon, leaving me to reflect how, if only they'd been there a week or two earlier, I might not have found that `nice smooth lawn' so irresistible.</div> <bR> <div> Wedmore has a singular claim to fame.  It was here that the signing of The Treaty of Wedmore took place between King Alfred and the Danes in 878 AD.  By this treaty it was agreed that Alfred would rule the south of England, while the Danes retained the north.  As the principal village on The Isle of Wedmore, it stands on a ridge of high ground rising out of the Somerset Levels, lying four miles south of Cheddar, with its famous Gorge and Mendip Hills.  From the fields about the Manor House one could enjoy the views for twenty miles around.  From the beech plantation above the home farm could be seen Glastonbury Tor and Wells Cathedral.  Sadly, the manor farm and plantation have long since disappeared, buried beneath an estate of modern bungalows, and the village serves as little more than a dormitory for commuters to Bristol and Weston-super-Mare.  But in 1939 it was still a hard-working, self-sufficient farming community, one of hundreds of sleepy rural backwaters scattered across the West Country.  </div> <div> With only a single classroom, the village school was quite incapable of absorbing this new influx of Cockneys.  Even with the older children hived off to the village hall, it still needed a curtain to divide juniors from minors.  I remember rushing home after a week or so, desperate to tell Mrs. P. I'd mastered my `abc' and could recite it all the way through without stopping.  She seemed delighted for me, and promised to see what she could find for me to practise reading </div> <div> Philip, her only son, was then sixteen and away at boarding school.  His old playroom was normally kept locked, but as a special treat she took me upstairs to retrieve some suitable books.  Philip's room was an `Aladdin's Cave'.  It appeared to possess every toy a boy could desire: a Hornby train set, masses of Meccano, dozens of Dinky cars, hundreds of tin soldiers, an air-rifle, a real leather football, cricket bats, roller skates, ice skates, and even a four-foot high rocking horse with flowing mane.  As a special treat I was left to ride the horse for half an hour or so before being called downstairs.  It must have been a very special privilege, for I don't recall seeing that room again.</div> <div> Not surprisingly, there was little fraternising between the Londoners and the local lads; both sides keeping to themselves for the most part.  The locals must have felt much as we Londoners did in 1943 when thousands of American G.Is. descended like a storm on London, perhaps thinking us overbearing and arrogant.  How could it be otherwise?  With our cockney accents and our brash ways, and forever making fun of their `zoider-apple' accents, it was inevitable.  Ken and Sid were often involved in `ethnic' fights.  In fact, I believe the odd organised pitched battle took place up in the woods behind the house, though I was too young to get involved.  But I did still had a score of my own to settle.  And the reckoning was not far off.</div> <div> A few days after settling in, the three of us were out exploring, scuffing through the cow pasture on our way to the beech plantation at the top of the hill behind the house, keeping an eye out for cow pats of course, while making sure the cows weren't hiding any bulls amongst themselves.  After a while we came across another group of kids coming towards us.  Ken and Sid immediately prepared for action, then relaxed when they noticed it was a party of `ours', Londoners like ourselves.  The smallest of the group happened to be a good-looking kid with black hair and big grey eyes, about my own age.</div> <div> `That's the boy who lost Mum's handkerchief,' I said, giving Ken a nudge.</div> <div> `So?  Whaddya want me to do?  Now's your chance. Go on,  biff `im.  Give `im one.'</div> <div> `You lost my Mum's handkerchief,' I said to the boy, tentatively.</div> <div> `Yeah?  So what?'</div> <div> The audacity!  He hadn't the slightest intention of saying `sorry' or even negotiating!  How dare he insult not only me, but Mum as well!  So, with all the pent-up fury of that moment in the carriage, I flew at him.  In seconds we were on the ground wrestling and biffing each other with every twig of our being.  I don't know how, but at some point I managed to get on top, knees astride his chest.  Grabbing his hair, commenced to bang his head up and down on the ground.  Purely by chance, that particular spot had recently become home to a highly glutinous cow pat, ensuring that a fine spray of smelly droplets began to fly about his face and ears.  He screamed, `Get off!  Get off me!'  But my gander was up now, so I continued hammering the ground with his head until Ken decided the poor fellow had paid the full price for losing Mum's handkerchief.</div> <div> `Okay. That's enough. Get up and shake hands, the pair of you.  Or else.'  </div> <div> So we did.  </div> <div> Danny Sinclair also came from Manor Park and, of course, we became the best of friends. Throughout the war and long into our teens we were inseparable, only losing contact during our National Service years, thirteen years later.  I tried getting in touch afterwards, but his parents had moved out of London by then and, sadly, I've never seen him since.</div> <div> During that autumn of 1939, in conjunction with a large fleet of U-boats, the German battleship, Bismark, was terrorising our Atlantic convoys.  These convoys were vital to our survival in bringing essential supplies of food and munitions from the United States.  So I well remember the day when a jubilant Mr. Green called the whole school together to announce that the Bismark had been sunk, thus proving that the Germans were not invincible.  According to him, it was bound to shorten the war, and a great cheer went up.  I only mention this because his prediction raised all our hopes and, in retrospect, can be seen to illustrate how the faith we place in the infallibility of our seniors and betters is so often misplaced, for the war was to last another five years.</div> <div> As the weeks went by I began to forget about Mum.  At some point I found I couldn't even remember her face.  Anyway, I sort of had a new Mum now, even though I called her Mrs. P..  She was kind, and clever, and sometimes she could be lots of fun.  She could whistle with two fingers, as well as play the bugle with a leaf held between her palms; and not only that, she could cup her hands and hoot like an owl, then play `God Save the King' through the gap between her thumbs. Try as I might, I never got passed the owl noise.  </div> <div> To this day I've met no one like her.  I'm sure such women still exist; it's just not been my privilege to meet any since 1940. At the time, her skills were, to me, boundless and incomparable. As illustration, one fine Saturday morning in early summer, she packed Philip's cricket bag with an assortment of things and marched us all up to the beech plantation, though not to play cricket.  `After today, you'll know how to survive alone,' she said, as we marched along.  `We're going to learn how to be self-sufficient; learn to live off the land, wild and rough, just in case the Germans should get lucky whilst we're not looking.'  </div> <div> First we found two trees roughly six or eight feet apart and were then sent searching for a stout branch to bridge the gap.   Then we gathered as many thinner branches as we could find and laid them against our ridge pole at an angle of forty-five degrees.   The whole frame was then covered with turfs, moss, leaves and anything else we could find.  Now we had to gather kindling, the right kind of kindling, such as mosses, dry leaves, and small twigs.  Once we had enough, Mrs. P slowly built a bonfire, using the moss and dry leaves first, gradually building up the layers with larger and larger twigs until it could sustain a few small branches and then logs of a good size.  Once it had died down a little, she placed a few large potatoes in the embers.   </div> <div> `There! They should do nicely.  Now it's time to show you how to make the dampers. Ever so easy to make.  With just water and dampers you can stay alive for weeks.  That's why we've brought the flour and water and things.  All we need is flour and water, margarine, sultanas and raisins, all mixed fairly dry in a basin then rolled out into pancakes.'   She proceeded to demonstrate.  `Now we roll the pancakes onto a stick, like this, and after roasting them over the fire until crisp and brown, you'll find they're absolutely and entirely delicious.'  </div> <div> And so they were.  Afterwards, on fine weekends, we were often packed off to the beech plantation on a Saturday morning, taking along our bows and arrows, catapults and slingshots, together with blankets, a bag of flour, a few potatoes, all the ingredients for dampers, and told not to return before tea-time on Sunday.  Perhaps the dear lady had a secret admirer; perhaps she was an ardent football fan, a secret drinker; or perhaps she just needed to be free of us for a few hours; who knows?  I only know she had a charming way of doing it, and a way to which no boy could possibly object.  I shall always be grateful.  How sad to think that if a foster mother in today's `PC' world were to allow her charges that amount of freedom she could easily find herself facing charges of neglect. </div> <div> Within its high brick walls lay a fully stocked vegetable and fruit garden, the house being self-sufficient in both, and Mrs. P. also kept half a dozen bee hives.  From the vegetable garden a gateway led to the orchard.  The orchard seemed enormous to my young eyes, but was probably no more than an acre or so.  In springtime the hives were moved into here.  She said it was in order for the scent of apple blossom to awaken the bees, giving them no excuse for loitering in their winter beds a moment longer.</div> <div> She loved her vegetable garden.  Dressed in a white smock and floppy old gardening hat, she'd take me with her sometimes.  Soon I knew the names of everything inside its walls.  I especially remember the mulberry tree.  It was fruiting that September, and until then I had never tasted anything so delicious.  Only her fresh strawberries could compare, as they came into season the following June. Not being allowed near the hives, I could only stare in admiration as she stood amid clouds of bees, puffing smoke in their eyes (as I thought), before lifting out the trays of nectar and honey, each clad in hundreds of bees.  My next never-to-be-forgotten flavour-sensation was my first piece of honeycomb straight from the hive, while another was the grapes from an enormous vine that lived in a greenhouse all by itself.  </div> <div> Looking back, I suppose one of the reasons I spent so much time with Mrs. P. was because Ken and Sid always went to such lengths to avoid me.  Whenever they were going off on one of their adventures she'd ask them to take me along but, understandably, they'd moan, `Oh no! Do we have to?'  If she insisted, they'd sulkily allow me to tag along.  But sooner or later, as often as not, they'd shake me off somehow, either by hiding from me or running off so fast I couldn't catch up with them.  </div> <div> To me, it seemed their sole mission was to make my life a misery.  As illustration, at breakfast one morning I discovered a large covered tureen awaiting me.  On lifting the lid I froze with horror and let go immediately.  The lid fell to the floor with a clatter, bringing Mrs P running to the room.  The two of them had raided the cellars before I came downstairs.  After collecting a dozen or so dead mice (the product of the cats' night labours), they proceeded to lay them side by side on my plate.  Still, life isn't all bad.  When Mrs. P. saw what all the noise was about, she gave them a really good ticking off.  I can't tell you how happy that made me, though I suspect she enjoyed the joke almost as much as they did. </div> <div> Another time, when the local scouts were having their weekly session in our barn, I suffered a horrific accident because of those two goading me to go against my instincts.  It happened this way: The barn had a hoist for lifting bales of hay up to the loft.  Once tied off, the scouts would use this to practise the art of ascending and descending a rope by hand.  This particular evening everyone was gathered in the loft.  One by one, these older boys, all between ten and twelve, descended to the ground hand over hand, to resounding applause.  After the last boy had gone, I not being a cub yet, let alone a boy scout, found myself alone in the loft, and prepared to descend by the same means I'd reached it, which is to say, by way of the inside ladder.  But Ken and Sid insisted I could do it.  `Go on, sissy, all you have to do is grab it, hold on, and climb down.  Don't be such a baby.'   Warily, I went to the edge and looked down. They were mad. Utterly mad. It couldn't have been more than ten feet or so, but it wasn't for me, I just knew it. Then everyone else began egging me on.  So, in a moment of madness, refusing to be ridiculed a moment longer, I grabbed the rope and slid down in a flash.  How was I to know that sliding down a hempen rope at speed risked stripping the flesh to the bone?  I was in agony for days, spending the next two weeks swathed in bandages.  Yet again, to my utter delight, Ken and Sid got a thoroughly good ticking off.   But life for a grizzler can still be very hard, you know.</div> <div> So I spent a great deal of time alone.  I found it safer.  But I was seldom lonely.  There was just too much to see and do.  I could spend hours just watching the cockerels strutting with the hens, or feeding the ducks and geese, or making a nuisance of myself in the farmyard if the man who looked after the farm happened to be about.  Or I might go up to the beech woods and practise bringing down a pigeon with my catapult (which the farmer had indicated would be a very fine thing to do), though I can't recall ever hitting one.  Other times I'd simply lie in the grass alone, gazing over the great plain of the Levels, stripping a hazel branch to feel the smooth, wet, sticky sap; or watch clouds float by, while listening to the birds, chewing a blade of grass, smelling the earth, and just wondering at it all.  </div> <div> Another favourite pastime was walking the Manor's boundary wall.  Some six feet high, it ran round the whole estate.  With arms outspread, I'd walk atop, round to the smithy on the corner of the lane outside.  The smithy was a magic place; a great cavern where the smith was allowed to play with fire to his heart's content.  I'd sit opposite, on the wall, kicking my heels, listening and watching as he took white-hot strips of metal from the fire to hammer the sparks out of it, then beat it into some shape or other on the anvil, waiting for the angry sizzle as he dipped it into the cold water trough.  I'd watch, fascinated, as he used his special magic to turn raw metal into objects of all kinds: horse-shoes, rivets, hinge-plates, wrought-iron railings, farm tools, tractor parts, spare parts for mowing and thrashing machines...  watching pyrotechnic displays that knocked Granny Treloar's kettle into a cocked hat.  </div> <div> On good days a farmer might be there holding the halter of a great shire horse while the smith replaced a set of shoes.  Time and again I'd watch goggle-eyed, marvelling at the bravery of both smith and horse.  So far as I could see, the smith was simply asking for trouble, bent double with his back to the towering beast, a giant hoof resting in his leather apron, taking up white-hot shoes with a pair of pincers and sploshing them on, sizzling hot, sending great clouds of white smoke flaring up with the  sickening smell of burning flesh.  Fantasmagorical!  Incredibly, the horses never moved!  One by one, he'd take each hoof and repeat this barbaric ritual, filling the air with pungent smoke, while the horse stood patiently accepting its fate.  It was nothing less than miraculous.  I couldn't even slide down a rope without screaming for the pain.  How on earth could these horses bear such agony without so much as a flinch, let alone kicking the man to death?  I could only assume they'd been very well brought up.  Or perhaps they were more afraid of the farmer than the smith?  I think both parties must have enjoyed keeping me in the dark, for it was some years before I discovered how and why it was possible.  Sometimes, once the horses were shod and standing firm on all four sizzling feet, and if I asked nicely, the decent farmers would lift me up and let me ride up the hill for a hundred yards or so, which was, to me, the greatest thrill imaginable.</div> <div> On another day I had an adventure of my own which is best described in the following poem, written some years ago:</div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>The Spoils of War</B></div> <bR> <div> Little boy, bright summer day</div> <div> Kicking down the leafy lane</div> <div> Comes to a gate</div> <div> `Just a peep in.'</div> <bR> <div> Little puppy!</div> <div> Brown and fluffy</div> <div> Feeling frettish</div> <div> Naught to do</div> <div> Comes to the gate</div> <div> What a meeting!</div> <bR> <div> Little boy, little puppy</div> <div> Up in arms </div> <div> Tongue a'licking </div> <div> Both tails wagging </div> <div> Stealing down the jungle path</div> <bR> <div> Cross an ox-eyed </div> <div> Cowslipped meadow </div> <div> Scattering horned </div> <div> And hungry sheep</div> <div> Come to a river</div> <div> Dab their feet in. </div> <bR> <div> Playing by the water's edge </div> <div> Puppy's a tiger</div> <div> Crafty too </div> <div> Now he's a lion </div> <div> Bigger than you!</div> <div> Snapping, snarling </div> <div> Wagging, waiting...</div> <bR> <div> Oh you urchin on that summer day,</div> <div> Can you never play with me again?</div> <div> Thinking little of me then</div> <div> And nothing on that day</div> <div> Never for a moment did you dream</div> <div> That one so old and crabbed as me</div> <div> Could take you prisoner </div> <div> Stop and trap you</div> <div> Rob and wrap you</div> <div> Golden in that summer day.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> Curiously, I have no recollection of returning the puppy, or being chastised for stealing him.  Perhaps he ran home by himself.  I hope so.</div> <bR> <div> As the months went lazily by Mrs. P. and I became closer and closer.  One of her great concerns was that I should be rid of my cockney accent - it must have jarred dreadfully - and so she spent time coaching me.  So much so that Ken and Sid began to notice, making this a further cause for sarcasm and ribaldry.  Also, she was keen that I should learn to ride.  Though she no longer rode herself, she still kept a mare as a pet in a small paddock next to the orchard.  In the spring, she began giving me the odd riding lesson.  The horse was far too big for me of course, but I'd sit smartly to attention while she led me round and round in circles at the end of a lunging rein, feeling like a king.</div> <div> Until then the war hadn't touched us.  But after the B.E.F'S retreat from Dunkirk in May 1940, the Germans prepared to invade, beginning with the bombing of airfields and munitions factories.  With its port and aircraft manufacturing facilities, nearby Bristol also became a prime target.  One Sunday the three of us were out for the day, walking over the fields to Cheddar Gorge, when we looked up to see a dogfight taking place a few miles away.  A flock of fighter planes, Spitfires, Hurricanes and Messerschmitts, were fighting it out, diving and weaving like a swarm of angry gnats, the sound of cannons clear in our ears.  The Messerschmitts must have been defending a flight of Heinkels on their way to or from Bristol, when taken on by the RAF.  We watched, mesmerized, hoping to see a German plane shot from the sky, falling in flames, the pilot drifting to earth by parachute.  But we were disappointed.  All that was yet to come.         </div> <div> By this time Mum was little more than a distant memory.  Unless someone mentioned her, I never gave her a thought.  Even when Mrs. P. let it be known that Mum was planning to come down for a visit soon, it meant little to me.  The Manor House was my home now, and I knew I never wanted to leave.</div> <div> When the visit came I failed even to recognise her.  She was for ever changing her hair colour, perhaps it had changed in the nine months we'd been away.  I do remember her laughing and saying I was `…a proper little Lord Fauntleroy, talking all la-di-da.'  It must have taken every penny she had to be there, counting the train fare and a present for each of us.  I remember Sid getting a toy yacht, while I had a tin aeroplane with a clockwork motor, so that the propeller spun when it was wound up.  I remember no more than that, though I still have a snapshot of the visit, showing me standing between Ken and Sid, holding my aeroplane, with the Somerset Levels in the background.</div> <div> Autumn came, and after the village lads had had their fill of scrumping the Cox's, Worcester Permains and Laxtons, while braving the risk of being shot by Philip with his air rifle, the cider apples were gathered in for pressing.  I remember us all gathering round to watch as the great screw squeezed the apples down harder and harder, sending gallons of yellow liquid gurgling into the oak barrel, and giving us our first taste of pure apple juice.  </div> <div> It was to be a whole year before the war touched the British public, a time known as 'the phoney war'.  But while Ken, Sid and I were helping Mrs. Pitcairn press cider apples in that blissful autumn of 1940, the phoney war came to a sudden end.  It happened to coincide with Sid's tenth birthday, the 7th of  September, 1940.  On that day the full force of the Luftwaffe was unleashed upon London and other major centres around the country, without warning and without regard for civilian casualties.  What was to become know as 'The Blitz' had begun.</div> <div> So when Mum returned to Wedmore unexpectedly in November, determined to take us all back to London, Mrs Pitcairn was totally nonplussed.  I remember standing by her knee as they sat opposite each other on the sofas while Mrs P pleaded with Mum not to be so foolish. Why now, when London was taking such a pounding?  </div> <div> `It's no use.  I've made up my mind.  I've already been bombed out once, and the way things are going I'll never be happy till we're all together in one place.'  </div> <div> 'Well, at least leave Stanley.  I can do something with him.'</div> <div> But Mum was adamant.  </div> <div> Still clutching her knee, I looked up at Mrs. P.  `I don't want to go!' I cried. `I don't want to go!'   She gave me a hug and said nor did she want me to go, but she had no choice.   Even so, she made a last attempt. `Just for a few more months, Mrs Hedges.  Just until you see how things go.'  But still the answer was no.  The dream was over.  It was time to rejoin the real world.</div> <bR> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="id149.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 6"><U><B>Next Chapter</B></U></A></div> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>