Academically, with the exception of Tanya, who ran me a close second, I was streets ahead of the rest of their grand children, but it seemed to me that my dear grandparents never missed a chance to put the boot in. Before you start calling me neurotic, let me give you a frinstance.
I came home from school, one day, to be greeted by Jane with-
“You forgot your Mother’s birthday”, and there was definitely an element of satisfaction, if not triumph, in her voice. Now Betty’s birthday was only 5 days after mine (this was my 9th, I think)- not difficult to remember, I admit, but I did forget, I admit that, too, but couldn’t Jane have reminded me? Even checked that I had enough money for a card and a stamp? All cards went by post, then, even in the same house. Only a cheapskate would give them by hand. (Mind you, 1st class was 3d, and next day delivery was 100%.) Would that have been too much help for her to volunteer? She had written a card, herself, for Betty, in the last 24hrs.
Right up to our son, John, leaving for university, I never failed to remind him when Valerie’s birthday was looming. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him to remember, but I wouldn’t risk him forgetting. I knew how much it would hurt Valerie, just as Jane knew how much Betty would be hurt, and was. Even though, by the time she came in from work, I had hot-footed it to the nearest shop (30mins each way) bought a card, written on it and sealed it, ready to give it to her when she came in. But she knew, she was hurt, and I felt wretched. And it could all have been avoided with a helpful word, but that word wasn’t forgotten. It was simply with-held.
Not convinced? Want a clincher? Jane also told me that, when Betty opened her cards, that morning (I left before the post came; Betty, after) she had said-
“Nothing from my son”, and was obviously hurt. Did Jane tell me that little snippet to make me feel better, do you think? No. It was just a twist of the knife.
Living at Arbourthorne, we were within easy walking distance of green fields, woods, and streams. We had virtually had all this in Endcliffe Park, just an hour’s walk from the old house, but that was all tame, cultivated, watched over. In the Daisy Field, Buck Wood, Rollestone Woods, the Square Field, and Lees Hall Woods, I found countryside which lived by in its own right, by its own rules. It was on my way to the woods that I saw corn which had been harvested into sheaves, and propped up into stooks, in the old traditional manner, before new-fangled machinery squeezed the skills out of men’s hands.
In the woods, there were certain points of reference to which we were all obliged to pay the homage of a visit. First, there was Robin Hood’s Pool, where a stream came round the bole of a large tree. The stream bed had been dug out, a little, to make a small dam. The water spilled over one of the tree’s roots which had been notched with a ‘V’, so creating a precisely defined waterfall.
Here it was easy to cup one’s hands to drink, because, as everyone knows (well our gang all knew) water cleans itself at a waterfall. What that probably meant was that pond-skaters and such kept clear of being swept to their death, so if you drank from there, you just got water and solubles, but no added protein.
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| Robin Hood’s Pool |
Further into the woods was a place where the stream came down between two rocky outcrops, all overhung with bracken. Coming down to the stream level, the rock tended towards a striated formation, then the actual stream bed was like huge paving slabs thrown on top of each other. The water ran over the topmost slab, which was about 8ft wide and almost 6ft from front to back of its gently forward sloping surface. It all looked like the disturbed paving stones of some long lost castle, or abbey. To give further flight to fantasy, the slabs, over which the water ran, were covered in a lichen growth, the colour of blood.
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| The Abbey Floor |
One snowy winter, we went on an expedition in ‘Rolly’ Woods, after a particular heavy fall. We followed the course of the frozen stream, breaking through the ice, in our wellies. The ground, the trees, the whole of creation was encased in snow, frozen, undisturbed, crystalline, sparkling, and so silent. It was a truly unforgettable, magical experience; a privilege.
Further still, in the wood, away from the ‘abbey floor’, and up on higher ground, one came to the Square Field. This was a piece of pastureland, though we never encountered anything grazing in it, roughly square, and completely surrounded by woodland. It showed no sign of cultivation or use, or any influence of the hand of man. It appeared to be self-governing, and self-perpetuating. At its furthest limit, the wood gave onto Lees Hall Golf Club, where visits from scruffy little urchins from a council housing estate were neither encouraged nor appreciated. If they lost their balls and we found them, it was their hard luck, and if we found them before they lost them, then they were just careless, and that was their worse luck, the toffee-nosed sods.
We kids were familiar with the plant, cow parsley, but by a different name- ‘Mother-Die’, because it was a well known fact that, if you touched it, your mother would die. Except for when the fruit of the hawthorn, the ‘haws’, were the size of a small pea, and still hard. Then, if you cut a thick enough stem of that…erm, the plant with the big white flower heads, can’t think of its name, you will find that not only is it hollow and smooth inside, but if you have cut a thick enough piece, it will nicely allow for the propulsion, under sudden exhalation of breath, of a haw, so what you have created is a peashooter, free, in limitless supply, including ammo, and disposable - eco friendly. Occasionally, someone would acquire a catapult, but these were not generally popular, being good only for breaking windows, and killing things. It’s the difference between the simple sophistication of Robin Hood’s bow and arrow (with which we also armed ourselves and the coarse vulgarity of Arnie’s flash bang baddie blaster.
If our journey to the wood had diverted via Clarke’s Farm orchard, and if anyone had over indulged in the dubious fruits thereof, which we always ate, eagerly, screwing up our eyes against the sharp taste, whilst manfully assuring each other that they were delicious, then on the way out of the wood, one needn’t fear any inconvenience in being taken short with the gripes.
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| Under the Bridge |
Where we left the wood, the stream passed under an old cart bridge, a brick lined culvert, about 6ft high and wide, carrying the 8ft track of bare earth over the stream. Under the bridge, the stream ran swiftly through a narrow, unimpeded channel, between flat, earth banks. By the side of the bridge grew a sycamore tree, famous for growing eco friendly closet paper, in broad, green-leaf form, also soft to the skin. To complete the facilities, under the bridge, set in the brickwork as it arched over, at about shoulder height, was an iron hoop, or staple. What more could you ask?
Clouts down, hand in the hoop, bum over the stream, instant relief via the self-flushing conduit. I am pleased to record that we were always mindful of the need for privacy and decorum, even when there were girls of the opposite female gender in our number. In fact, to stand guard while the likes of Hazel Offord, or Gillian Walker went ‘under the bridge’ was a gentlemanly duty and an honour.
Rolly Woods was also the scene of a rather unpleasant but necessary lesson for me. One summer evening, straight after tea, I asked if I could go to the woods with a couple of other kids, and was told yes, but be back by 7.30. This gave me well over two hours. The others were under no such restriction. As the sun shone on, I forgot, or chose to forget the curfew. At about 9.15, still in late sunshine, we were ambling up the track from the wood, to the road home. As we rounded the corner into Gleadless Road, who should we see coming towards us but Betty. Nothing was said. It wasn’t necessary. If she had beaten me, I would have paid the forfeit, and so wiped my conscience clean. She only ever smacked me once, in anger, and I think she was as shocked and hurt by it as I was. No, she just looked at me with such disappointment in her face. She had been afraid for my safety, scared, and I had done it to her, in my thoughtlessness. I don’t remember what I said to her, if anything, beyond a mumbled word of apology.
But I do remember thinking ‘I’ve got to be my own Dad. I’ve got to try to do what he would tell me to do’. I was honest enough to admit that it didn’t need superhuman powers. It was just a matter of being governed by common sense, instead of selfishness. I tried. I can’t say more than that. Being aware must have made a difference.
So there lies another rage, which we must skate round. Not for me; I turned out ‘all right’. By that I mean that I survived. I didn’t dissolve into a morass of self- indulgence; I didn’t go off the rails, or off a pier. I just plodded on. But how many others were destroyed by the loss of a father? All of which, of course, would add to a widow’s burden. The fallen made their sacrifice in their dying. The widows had to live their sacrifice for the rest of their lives.