Memories of living in a grand house

Mum and I outside the front porch

In 1947, we moved to a large house in Edgbaston, Birmingham, again with Mum as cook-housekeeper, Dad as chauffeur-gardener. Life in Birmingham gained new meaning for me in that it took on form and substance rather than a series of disjointed memories.

          The house was a large redbrick Victorian detached house with a majestic front porch jutting onto a small gravel drive. The porch led into a large hall with sweeping steps up to a landing and bedrooms. Off the hall was a dining room, a drawing room and a huge library with a garden terrace through French windows. A green baize door behind the stairs led into the kitchen and butler’s pantry and our private sitting room. On the first floor were three or four bedrooms, which I never got to see much. Our bedrooms and other spare bedrooms were on the second floor, together with some narrow stairs which led to several attics, a bit frightening for a timid seven-year-old.

          The garden, at first, was a couple of acres running rectangular from the house, easily managed by my father, whose knowledge of gardening was, of necessity, increasing daily. I’ve often wondered how he managed to land the job of gardener as he’d had no formal training. Outside the library was a paved area and a lawn which sloped down to rose beds and herbaceous borders. There was a potting shed and a greenhouse to the side, with a vegetable garden. I spent a lot of time in the garden with Dad and it was from this time that my love of gardening was born. Later, the owner of the house bought some adjoining land, forming an L-shape with the original garden. This provided extra lawns, all manner of fruit trees and a huge lily-filled pond with a path around it. And there were lots of frogs; I didn’t like them or the way they made you jump when you weren’t aware they were there. A solitary child, the gardens were my playground and blessed with a vivid imagination, I played for hours beneath a crab apple tree surrounded by masses of red, orange and yellow nasturtiums. Even then, I made up stories and enacted them.

          I remember Mr Barclay, the owner, as a pink and portly gentleman with thinning grey hair who spoke ponderously and precisely. Mum always said, with some affection, that he was a typical crusty old bachelor. He was a bit of a character too. As a result of an accident earlier, he had some trouble with his back and wore a surgical corset. He was in almost constant pain and probably to deaden this, he drank steadily throughout the day. As a consequence, he was always slightly befuddled. One evening, just after dinner, when Mum and Dad were clearing away, the phone rang.

          It was the owner’s sister. ‘Good evening, Williams,’ (male servants were always call by their surnames), she said. ‘Is my brother there?’

          ‘He’s in the library, madam. I’ll just get him for you,’ said my father. The telephone, still rare then, was situated on a large sideboard in the hall next to some ornate candlesticks. Dad knocked on the door and went into the library. ‘Your sister’s on the phone, sir,’ he said.

          Mr Barclay was dozing in the chair, as he often was, a newspaper spread over his chest, a glass of whisky on the side table. ‘Be right there, Williams.’

          Some moments later, in the kitchen where they were washing up, Mum and Dad became aware of the silence. ‘I don’t think he’s been on the phone yet,’ Mum commented.

          Dad wiped his hands on a nearby towel. ‘I’ll go and see.’

          The receiver was still lying off its hook on the sideboard and first checking that Mr Barclay’s sister was still holding on, he knocked on the door of the library. This time, at Dad’s insistence and with some help, Mr Barclay rose and went into the hall. There, in the subdued lighting, he picked up one of the candlesticks, mistaking it for the telephone. ‘Hello, hello?’ Unable to get any response, he looked at it and began shaking it. ‘Damned telephones!’

          Dad gently took the candlestick from him and replaced it with the telephone receiver. In the kitchen, he collapsed into laughter and it took some moments for Mum to be able to understand what had happened.

          I remember Mr Barclay as a kindly man who seemed to have a soft spot for me. I suppose now his conduct would be viewed as suspicious though it was all very innocent. Periodically, he’d call me into the library. He’d sit beside me on the piano stool and teach me the basic rudiments of playing the piano. It was at his insistence that I learned to play and I was allowed to practice, when he wasn’t around of course, on the grand piano in the library until we obtained a second-hand piano of our own, which somewhat surprisingly, Mum managed to play by ear.

          Or he’d talk to me about books. He loved his library, spending hours in there. Amazingly, he didn’t mind me borrowing any of his books. By this time, I was a prodigious reader, reading anything I could get my hands on, which wasn’t much because books were scarce during and just after the war. I was thrilled when Mr Barclay presented me with a book written and illustrated by a friend of his who wrote under the pseudonym of ‘BB’. It was about the adventures of the last gnomes in England, the ‘Little Grey Men’ of the title. This was followed a year or so later with the sequel, ‘Down The Bright Stream,’ which he inscribed ‘To Anne from E D Barclay, March 5^th, 1949.’ I loved those books, losing count of the times I read them. They’re still on my bookshelves now, dog-eared but much treasured. I was to learn, 60 years later, that BB’s real name was Denys Watkins-Pitchford, MBE (1905-1990).

Memories Are Made Of This

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arly memories are like those old photographs we all have in a battered album or a box at the back of a cupboard. There are gaps in our lives, too, similar to those left by missing photographs. The hazy recollections I have of my early like are like that, faded, none too clear and all of them connected with the Second World War.

We lived in Horwich, a small mill town six miles from Bolton in Lancashire and I was only a baby when my father went away to the War.  My very earliest memory, and I must have been very young at the time, is of lying on my mother’s chest, my cheeks burning hot, and seeing the moon through the window casting its full light into the shadows of the bedroom. Mum must have pulled the curtains open to see to me by the light of the moon rather than put the light on because of the blackout.

Another memory which comes vividly to mind is of Mum and me running through a blacked-out Manchester at the beginning of an air raid. Who could forget the bloodcurdling wail that struck fear into the hearts of everyone or the same sound of the ‘all clear’ which always sounded much lighter, less fearsome? A further click of my mind’s eye shutter and we were on the train to Bolton on our way back home, seeing in the black night outside, fires leaping and flaring from buildings that were being bombed. I must have only been about two then for, besides the main blitz of Manchester in 1940, there were a few other isolated raids, one of which was on Salford, which the train would have passed through, in April 1941.

Christina, my sister, was born in November 1942. Tragically, the only memory I have is seeing her fighting for breath, chubby little arms and legs flailing, as she lay in the cot, brought down to the front room of the terraced house where we were then living. From then on, the images mercifully fade. I remember a sense of confusion, of shouting, someone wearing a uniform plunging my strangely still sister alternately into a steaming tin bath then into an icy cold one in a barbaric attempt to revive her. Then, stillness, quietness, broken only by muffled crying, a darkened front room through which we had to tiptoe with eyes averted from the still form in the cot. At the age of 13 months, Christina had died from broncho-pneumonia. Antibiotics weren’t available then.

The next snapshot image that comes to mind is of my mother and me walking hand in hand down the street. Mum was crying, tears rolling down her cheeks, and she was wearing a black coat. I had the strong impression that we were leaving and this may well have been true because we spent the rest of the war in Blackpool, which is a confusion of jumbled memories. Mum was working as a live-in housekeeper for an ear, nose and throat specialist. He had two noisy and lively children who made my life a misery. To have to suddenly share my life with other children, older, more precocious, more outgoing than myself was a numbing experience. They taunted me daily, ensuring I got the blame for things they had done, like the time they emptied a chamber pot from a bedroom window and saying it was me.

There was the experience of a new school too. I’d first started school in Horwich where I’d decided fairly quickly that I’d had enough and came home early. It’s a good job it hadn’t been far away because Mum had paddled my legs all the way back to school and I never played truant again. The only thing I really remember about the new school was a big turreted clock tower over the doorway and the hard benches we were made to sit on, hands on head to keep us all in order.

Dad hadn’t, up till that time, played much of a part in my life as he’d been away for much of the War. Then, suddenly, Dad came home, carrying a cardboard suitcase containing his demob suit and stayed. For me, it was a vague sense that life as I had known it was going to change. Mum told me, many years later, that they, in common with many couples, struggled with their marriage after so long apart.

We were moving a long way away, it seemed, to Devon where my parents had obtained a job, Mum as a cook-housekeeper, Dad as chauffeur-gardener. I wish I had clearer memories of Ivybridge but as I started being ill almost immediately with yellow jaundice, all the memories I have are hazed with illness. Quite early on, I remember standing by my father as he tended a flower bed, smelling the rich earthy smell of leaves that had been mulched in some time previously.

The house, I recall, was large and rambling and because of the danger of flooding from the river which ran through the town, only the upper floors could be used. The river itself was nearly my downfall as it was also a mill race. Playing hide and seek one day with the children from the house, I fell down the embankment. Fortunately, I landed on a ledge but my playmates, not knowing this, raced up to the house to tell my parents. They, thinking the worst, ran back to the river bank expecting me to have been swept along by the mill race into the cavernous gloom below the mill. Arriving there, they found me climbing back up to the higher bank.

Many of life’s necessities, let alone luxuries, were scarce after war and Dad, thinking to please me, went into nearby Plymouth to buy a second-hand doll’s house for me for Christmas. It was so big he couldn’t take it on the bus and had to walk all the way home with it. It hurt him deeply that Christmas because I played more with a torch given to me by the people of the house than I did with the doll-s house. Poor Dad, I don’t think he ever quite forgave me for that.

More another time ...

Overcoming obstacles

The picture is of a magnifying light my dear husband (my very own house hero) has rigged up for me to work following my first cataract operation on 17th December. Vision in my right eye is now near normal. But, because I still need to have my left eye operated on, my vision is distorted. This has left it very difficult to see close up, hence the magnifying light. 

Now, as a result, I can work on revising 'A Suitable Young Man' for about an hour or so at a time. It's slow progress but better than not working at all. In between, I'm usually listening to one or other of my audiobooks which serves the purpose of allowing me to 'read' while resting my eyes. 'I'm currently listening to  'A Happy Hoofer' written and read by actress Celia Imrie. It's highly amusing and, in places, hilariously funny. She seems to be naturally disaster prone. I can thoroughly recommend this autobiography.  Other problems include not being able to read instructions on packages etc. (Why do manufacturers make these so small?) With these, a hand held magnifying glass helps.

Filing my nails has been a problem too. I've overcome that by keeping my nails short, at least for the time being. Unfortunately, having got to the stage where unsightly hairs often crop up on my chin, I haven't been able to get at them. If I can feel one starting to sprout, my house hero is very handy with a pair of tweezers.

Finally, my article about 'Working in t'mill' has appeared in the January issue of 'Discover Your History.' Unfortunately, in the photo they have included, My very red cheeks make it look like I've been at the wine!

Old age ain't for sissies!

So said the late Bette Davis, one of the truly great movie stars. Just to make sure she did say that, I checked her still active website and  discovered a whole bunch of her marvellous quotations. Check out Bette Davis quotes Another age related on was 'If you want a thing well done, get a couple of old broads to do it.' One which has a particular relevance to me as I struggle with my rewrite is 'Attempt the impossible if you want to improve yourself.' Must remember that one! Preferably, pin it up next to my computer.

Remember the song, 'She's Got Bette Davis Eyes'? In case you've forgotten, here's the link Bette Davis eyes  My reason for posting this Youtube clip? Well, when I was younger people said that about me. Just to prove it, here's a pic of me from 1962.

 But this isn't a rant about old age or even a eulogy to Bette Davis. It's a celebration of a life well lived, mine. Because much of my childhood was spent with my parents in domestic service, I got to live in some pretty impressive houses, which gave me a glimpse of how the other half lived.  (I always said I should have been born a rich man's daughter and my father agreed with me.) We moved around a lot with jobs and once, I went to four different schools in on term. At the age of 15, I was working as a towel weaver in a cotton mill and feel proud that I was, for a time, a part of the once great cotton industry. In the early 1960s, I went to live and work in the United States, something young women just didn't do, which changed my life forever. There's a lot more I could tell you but I won't bore you.

Now in my mid-70s (how did that happen?), I have dodgy eyes, teeth and knees and something called an 'essential tremor' (aka the shakes) though what's essential about it, I have yet to discover! Yet I believe in living the best life I can under less than ideal circumstances. When researching the subject of old age, I came across a wonderful prayer by Peter Marshall, an American preacher who died far too young in 1949. He said, 'When we long for life without difficulties, remind us that oaks grown strong in contrary winds and diamonds are made under pressure.' Wise words indeed.

Fifty Years On - A Momentous Year

As we are all aware, today is the 50th anniversary of the assassination of President John Kennedy. Oh, we all know now of his sexual exploits but back then, he was truly the Golden Boy and his death devastated more than just a nation. He was the hero of the Civil Rights Movement, especially in his speech to the American people on 11th June 1963, just a few months before his death. He said, 'One hundred years ... have passed since President Lincoln freed the slaves yet their heirs ... are not yet freed from the bonds of injustive ...' Largely as a result of his support, on 2nd July, the Civil Rights Act of 1964 became law.

Me holding baby Lisa, summer 1964

But what of my own memories? How do I remember that event? I had spent the latter part of the 1962 and the early part of 1963 working as a Mother's Helper in the United States.

As the girlfriend of an African-American, I experienced racial abuse first hand. In November 1963, I was in a Mother and Baby Home awaiting the birth of an illegitimate child, very much a disgrace then. The baby was the end result of my relationship with said African-American. I remember sitting silently with the other residents of the Home, glued to the black and white television in the lounge, more than one of us crying. At that time, it was the most tragic thing we had seen or heard. So young, so handsome, he was. And those poor fatherless children, together with the beautiful young widow. None of us knew of the Kennedy family secrets then. We continued to watch the drama unfold as the alleged killer, Lee Harvey Oswald, was himself shot by a small-time gangster, Jack Ruby. The controversy and conspiring theories abound still.

In December, 1963, I gave birth to my darling daughter, Lisa, and, of course, she celebrates her 50th birthday this coming December. I can honestly say that I've never regretted the decision I made to keep her. I later learned that, as a child of mixed race, she would probably have had to go into a children's home. There, she would, in all probability, have been bullied because of her colour, something she did experience as a schoolgirl. She hasn't had an easy life but I'm so proud of the way she's turned out despite all her problems.

Discovering Audiobooks - and novel progress report

With my eyesight deteriorating rapidly, I've been struggling to read. And I do read a lot! I can manage still with my Kindle because I can increase the font size but I've had to give up on normal print books. There's always large print books at the library although I've found the choice a bit limited. But audiobooks are wonderful for people like me! I can listen for hours without straining my eyes! 

I really admire how the narrators manage the different accents of the various characters. It seems to add to my enjoyment and make the characters come alive for me. But have you seen the price of audiobooks to buy? Between £20 and £25 on average! Thank God for public libraries.

Last time I posted I mentioned about tackling yet another rewrite of A Suitable Young Man (I've more or less decided that will be its title). Unfortunately, the rewriting and the cataract problems have come into conflict. I'm find it hard to concentrate on writing for more than an hour. This means that it will be slow progress but I'm hoping the cataract operation will be scheduled early in the New Year. In the meantime, I shall just have to learn patience - not one of my strong points!

Good News for a change!

Yes, at last, some good news. A couple of weeks ago I pitched a two articles to a couple of editors, one to a magazine I have written for in the past, the other to Discover Your History, a magazine I hadn't heard of before but was mentioned in Writing Magazine.  I'm pleased to report that the editor of that magazine has accepted my article! I haven't heard from the other one yet but he may be up against deadlines or on holiday.

The other good news is that I have made a slow start on my latest rewrite of A Suitable Young Man/Save The Last Dance For me (I still can't decide!). I suspect that once I really get down to it, the process will speed up. At least, that's what I'm hoping!

Unfortunately, some bad news to counteract the good, I knew my eyesight was deteriorating but now that I have been to see my optician, I have learned that I now have two cataracts not just one. She has referred me to the hospital but goodness knows when anything will come through about that. In the meantime, I'm struggling to read (oh, horror!) and typing this through a fog.