Child from Home Read online

  The swelling buds created a green haze as the emerging foliage misted the hedgerows and shrubs beside the forest tracks. Mrs Stancliffe told Kitty that during the lambing season, catkins are put round the fireplaces of some of the local farms as they swear that it aids the birth of the animals. Some of the country folk secretly clung to the old nature worship and this was a clear example of their belief in sympathetic magic. Many of them still believed in the spirits of the trees, the water, the sky and the plants; animism – the attribution of a soul to living objects – is said to be one of the oldest religious beliefs. To the Brigantes, the ancient Celtic tribes of the region, stones, water and trees held real spiritual significance and pools, springs and rivers were regarded as entrances to and from the underworld. Many of the villages and farms were said to have their resident ‘wee folk’ and some said that creatures such as hobs helped with tasks, as long as they were not spoken to or interfered with in any way. There were stories circulating of folk being spirited away by the little people. Old Spaven added, ‘Aye, not far from ’ere at Fairy Call Bridge near Lastingham, fairies used ter blow out t’lanterns on t’carriages; and other strange beings, such as bargests, if seen, foretell of a death in t’family.’

  We enjoyed taking short cuts through the dense forest where, year upon year, the pine needles had drifted down to form soft brown carpets for us to bounce up and down on. We would often see Mr McDonald, the Keldy Castle estate gamekeeper, in his tweed suit as he patrolled the woods in leather gaiters with a double-barrelled shotgun broken over his forearm. To him and the local farmers, a gun was like a third arm. After the long winter we enjoyed playing in the fields on the fringes of the forest and were taken to the forestry workers’ bungalows. Here we saw the gambolling lambs and thought it odd that the grey, slow-moving Masham ewes could give birth to such frolicsome offspring. We loved to see their long tails shaking from side to side as they pushed under their mothers’ bodies to suckle. In the early spring sunshine, when everything was new, the dazzling whiteness of their wool stood out sharply against the lush green grass.

  So, in these idyllic surroundings, I experienced the bliss of being and I loved the miracle of spring, the season most propitious to all living things. Wild violets, primroses and the blue periwinkle were now in flower and on April Fool’s Day 1940 we played silly tricks on each other. George and I received birthday cards from our relatives and family friends in Middlesbrough, delivered from Cropton post office on foot by Ez Thorpe who wore a black, serge uniform and a flat-topped cap. He even worked on Christmas Day, walking long distances between the scattered farms regardless of the weather, unless the roads were completely impassable.

  I was five years old on the fifth of April and George turned three the following day, which fell on a weekend that year. They were soft, warm days of changing sunshine and cloud and we were delighted when Mam and Dad came to visit us and stayed for a special birthday tea in the bothy where we had jelly and custard and fairy cakes. Mam usually managed to make the long, difficult journey about once a month, and whenever Dad managed to get leave and come with her, we were over the moon. We ran about on the springy turf of the lawns, and when he dropped to the grass we clambered all over him. We were given pick-a-backs and never gave him a minute’s respite. It is amazing what young children can make otherwise sensible parents do; we were in raptures of delight and scarcely left his side. When Dad was with us we felt safe and secure and that all was well with the world but, all too soon, it was time for them to leave again. Each parting became harder to bear and Mam tried her best to hide her pain, not letting the tears round her heart come to her eyes in case it upset us. No doubt she let them flow once we were out of sight.

  The next day we were taken to see Mrs Stancliffe’s recently born foal, with its big, mournful, brown eyes and long eyelashes, while the shiny-coated mare grazed on the lush, new grass within the rustic fencing of the paddock. The foal stood wobbling on long stiff legs as it tried to nuzzle up to the black teats on the mare’s underbelly, and its skin was as smooth and sleek as the skin of a mole. The mare was usually harnessed to the trap when old Spaven took it on errands but she was enjoying an extended break from her duties after her eleven-month pregnancy.

  The harnesses that hung on the walls of the stable had an acrid smell of leather and linseed oil, and Spaven talked of horsey things while stroking and gentling the whickering mare as she stamped her forefoot and snorted. He tried to explain things to us but, on receiving the inevitable ‘Why?’ in response, he became so exasperated that he gave up. The horses were huge beasts to us but he lifted us up to help with the grooming using the body or the dandy brush. He loved his ‘’osses’ and looked on them as close friends and I loved the feel of the mare’s warm, sweet breath as I held out a few pellets in my cupped palm. I liked nuzzling up against her and stroking the long soft hair of her mane and the top of her long muzzle.

  We would carry in small bundles of wheat or barley straw when the soiled bedding needed changing, and we were sometimes given the job of stirring the bucket of bran mash and mixing in the thick gooey molasses that old Spaven had prepared. In the winter he warmed it up for them. Twice a week he took a handful of linseed, put it in a pan and boiled it up, and when a crust formed on top of the oil he let it cool before adding bran and oats. He said this helped to give their coats a lovely glossy sheen and he warned us never to stand directly behind their back legs as they might suddenly take fright and kick out. On the insides of their legs we couldn’t help but notice a network of thick veins that were so pronounced that we thought they might burst at any moment.

  Tommy Gibson brought the tall, round milk churns to the kitchen of Sutherland Lodge every morning in his little van. On those warm, late spring days the twittering and trilling of a variety of small birds could be heard as our walks took us through green woodland glades. The tick-tick of the tiny jenny wren and the black-hooded bullfinch issued from the depths of leafy thickets and the low cooing of collared doves could be heard. The midges danced and bit in the damp umbrella of shade beneath the deciduous trees. As the sun shone through the branches, dappling the ground, it lit up the leaves making them translucent so that from below we could see every vein. I thought, ‘if they have veins then they must have hearts’, and as Mam used to say, ‘You can see the hand of God in every living thing.’

  Sometimes we saw buff-coloured hen pheasants, with their tiny chicks making weak, whistling cries of alarm as they scuttled for cover. Occasionally the clattering flight of a wood pigeon would startle us as it flew up, shattering the peace of the forest. The noise brought to mind that of a roller blind being released and we would catch a glimpse of white as the bird flew off. We nibbled on the tender, pale green leaves of hawthorn and called it bread and cheese, as it was said to taste like that.

  Even in that idyllic setting things were not always of a pleasing nature. We often had to pass a gaggle of orange-footed geese (the gander was called a ‘steg’ in these parts). I had been terrified of them ever since one had hissed and chased after me, honking loudly with his neck fully outstretched and his cackling concubines also joining in. As I ran like billy-oh, blinded by floods of tears, he had torn my trousers with his vicious, stabbing beak and bruised my arm with his powerful wings. That incident established a life-long wariness and distrust of them. Kitty said, ‘They make good guard dogs because they honk whenever anyone approaches.’ All the same, I liked to see the fluffy, white-downed goslings as they crossed the paths near the Forestry bungalows. At other times we glimpsed them on the wide grassy firebreaks between the trees.

  Another frightening experience occurred when we were confronted by a tall cross-eyed tramp, who occasionally turned up pushing an old pram that held all his worldly possessions. He had a dirty, straggly beard and long matted hair and wore torn and filthy clothes. We cowered behind Kitty’s skirts as she assured us that, ‘He is a well-educated man who has fallen on hard times and he is quite harmless.’ But we were not so sure and kep
t well out of the way when we saw him begging at the bungalows. When he knocked on our kitchen door, Dinner Lady always gave him something to eat in return for small jobs, such as chopping up logs into sticks for the fire.

  On the spruce trees the pale green tips of the year’s new growth contrasted sharply with the dark green of the older leaves. A large area of the forest had recently been cleared and squads of soldiers were erecting Nissen huts. Army officers were moving into the recently commandeered Keldy Castle, which was a few minutes’ walk away from Sutherland Lodge. The site was being made ready to receive the many infantrymen who would soon train here. Metal stovepipes stuck up through the semi-circular, corrugated tin roofs of the huts, which would soon house eight soldiers each. Large areas of the moors had recently been made inaccessible to the public as they were to be used for military manoeuvres and as firing ranges.

  Keldy Castle was not really a castle at all, but it had been made to look like one. It was really a large, castellated, country house with landscaped grounds, gardens and terraces. A long drive led up to an arched doorway with a two-storey wing at each side, and well-groomed lawns swept down from colourful shrubbery. The wooded estate covered some 7,000 acres that included around fifty farms and smallholdings. Purchased by Sir James Reckitt, the founder of the nationally known firm of Reckitt and Colman, at the turn of the century, it had a well-stocked fishpond with its own boathouse. Their products had been household names for many years and included the widely used Reckitt’s blue bags for washing clothes and the world famous Colman’s mustard. However, its huge factories at Hull and Norwich were soon to be bombed by the Luftwaffe.

  The main structure had been rebuilt to Sir James’s specifications. Its battlemented walls surrounded an inner courtyard, and merlons and embrasures crowned every parapet and corner tower. We were taken through the trees to the fishpond where we expected to see frogs basking on the shiny lily pads. As we got there we heard them croaking, snoring and bubbling contentedly but we made too much noise and they rapidly plopped into the pond. We saw the wriggling tails of lots of little black tadpoles as they swam about in the shallow, sunlit water. Sadly, the army caused extensive damage during the war years and the ‘castle’ had to be demolished in 1956.

  When Mam visited she often brought us goodies in a wicker picnic basket, and if the weather was fine she would bring out the HMV (His Master’s Voice) wind-up gramophone, inside the lid of which was a picture of a small white terrier dog sittting with one ear cocked towards a large horn. She had a pile of twelve-inch, shellac records in paper sleeves. Holding one by the edges with her fingertips she placed it on the turntable, and taking the arm from its cradle she swung it out and carefully lowered the needle onto its edge. After some crackling, we would hear children’s songs like Old Macdonald had a Farm, This Old Man and Girls and Boys Come out to Play. Three of the nursery rhymes I recall were Hickory Dickory Dock, Wee Willie Winky and Lucy Locket. When a record ended I was fascinated by the scratching sounds as the needle swung back and forth in the grooves round the hole in the centre.

  Mam loved to read to us and we were told lovely stories about giants, magic carpets that flew through the air and suchlike. With my curiosity aroused, my imagination grew wings and took flight and I sailed away into realms of fantasy. I was scorched by the flame of her enthusiasm and was influenced for life; it was from her and Kitty that I learned the magic of words and acquired those gifts of laughter and quiet listening that are so precious to a growing child. We were given plenty of TLC (tender loving care) and I grew to love the place and the people, feeling warm and secure even when mother and father were not there. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder and it was true of Mam and Dad. With Dad away in the army most of the time their love had not had chance to fade; it was still as shiny and new as on the day they married and it was obvious to all when they were together.

  During these visits we often wore ourselves out running around on our knobbly-kneed, stick-like legs. Leaping about like the newly born foal that had recently been let out to grass, we ran laughing across the meadow playing vigorous games of ‘tig’ or hide and seek. When I hid in the deep, dark spaces under the drooping branches of the rhododendron shrubs, I could see out but no one could see me. I have fond memories of Mam in her favourite dark blue cotton frock with the white spots playing a kind of pat-a-cake routine on George’s hands. She would hold my hands as I put my feet on her and walked up her body and, on reaching her chest, she would swing me over backwards so that both feet landed back on the ground. George would pester for a go, and the performance would be repeated, with lots of giggling, until Mam said, ‘I’m worn out and will have to sit down for a bit.’ A playground had been set up on the flattened rectangle of packed earth near the house and they pushed us on the swings and the seesaw until they had to rest again.

  They set down an old blanket to keep out the dampness of the lush grass and we sat snuggled up cradled in their warmth and loving presence. Sweet-natured, gentle Mam lavished on us all the hugs and kisses that she had saved up since her last visit and those poignant moments are stored in the depths of my psyche never to be forgotten. At times they threaten to burst my heart asunder but the memory of her all-encompassing love never fades. It is like a pale ghost of the past that is greatly treasured and very precious to me. She always spoke softly and quietly from the heart and was awash with tears at the first hint of sentiment. Mam would often tell us exciting stories of battles and miracles from the Bible, which she knew off by heart. We were loved and contented, surrounded by good and caring people and in our secluded valley we were as happy as kings. The gory details of the war mercifully passed us by and we were blissfully unaware that violent battles were about to flare up across the English Channel. We were loved and cared for and that was all that mattered.

  On first hearing the mellow, disembodied call of the cuckoo in the distance, Kitty said, ‘He is the welcome harbinger of summer.’ Nature was coming into her own and the old horseman, Spaven, still a believer in the old country superstitions, showed us the thin hazel twigs, woven into the shape of a cross, which he wore under his shirt. ‘They ward off t’witches thar knows,’ he said to Dad, before adding, ‘If yer turn t’coins in yer pocket yer’ll allus ’ave money until t’cuckoo comes agen next yeer.’ Dad called him ‘that owld gadgie’.

  We usually wore short-sleeved smocks that had a pair of pockets in the front, just below waist level to protect our clothes, and these often bulged with all kinds of weird and wondrous items. We picked up many things, such as worms, twigs, leaves, dried-up acorns, conkers, cob nuts, marbles and bits of string. Kitty often said, ‘Waste not, want not.’ So we took her at her word.

  I loved the month of May when there were hardly any biting and stinging insects about. Mam visited us again, coming down with Eric’s mam, Winnie. Masses of white mayblossom tipped with pink weighed down the boughs of the hawthorn bushes and, from a distance, it looked as though they were covered in a thick dusting of icing sugar. The rich, heavy scent permeated the warm, still air as wild briar and dog roses blushed pink and white in the burgeoning virescence of the hedgerows. Wild hyacinths were in flower as the tall spikes of foxgloves opened their spotted bells that we called Witch’s Thimbles. Beside them tiny green fern fronds were unfurling and the air was full of musical birdsong, which we were coming to recognise. We loved to hear the song of the thrush; the gregarious pipit; the tiny brown tree creepers; the colourful coal tits and the pink-chested chaffinch, and other woodland birds that made up the daily choir. They had paired up and were laying claim to their territories as upright red and white candles of blossom adorned the chestnut trees down the lane.

  Kitty took us to a nearby smallholding along the hard-packed earth of the forest paths to see the newborn calfs, which tried to suckle on our fingers. By now, we were becoming increasingly able to recognise our whereabouts by the different shapes and colours of the moss, lichen and algae on certain stones and trees. We were told that the fri
lly grey lichen on the trunks of fallen trees indicated that the air was very clean. Kitty took great care of us and tried to ensure that we came to no harm but, inevitably, the occasional fall resulted in a grazed elbow or a cut knee. One or other of us would trip over the exposed, raised roots of the spruce trees and the hurt needed to be kissed better, before being washed and smeared with Zam-Buk herbal balm.

  On one occasion as we were out walking I tarried, wandering along in a daydream as usual, lagging further and further behind. Something caught my attention and I wandered off the path and into the gloom beneath the closely packed spruce trees. The further into the depths of the forest I ventured, the trees seemed to hold a deeper, more ominous darkness. To a child life is full of curiosity and wonder and I was searching for the red toadstools with the white blotches on them on which the elves and fairies sat. Kitty and Mam had shown us pictures of them when reading Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales.

  The ‘other world’ was very real to me and I suddenly found myself in a dark, twilight area where a deep chill seemed to emanate from the wild and primitive giants around me. The air was dank and drear as a brooding, menacing stillness reigned and a feeling of melancholy and apprehension crept up on me. The light grew ever dimmer beneath the dark overhanging boughs and I seemed to sense a low and growing, heavily breathing presence. I heard indistinct, stealthy movements; there were eerie echoes and strange whisperings in the air and faint utterances seemed to be coming from behind me. I felt that a dark mystical power was very close and that the aura of latent danger was not of this world. My heart was beating fifty to the dozen and chills ran up my spine as I sensed that someone, or something, malignant was very close and watching me. That was it. I froze; petrified with fear; my throat tightened in terror as the horror threatened to stop my breath. I could not shout out or bring myself to turn around – afraid to raise my eyes in case ghastly spectres hovered near.