Open Writing

The party was held in the 'parlour.' Thinking back to that night, I don't know how they packed so many people into that small over-furnished room. Along the side of one wall stood an enormous display cabinet full of bric-a-brac, keepsakes given to my mother by her seafaring brothers. Objects such as Japanese netsuke, Chinese snuff bottles, an ostrich egg and a stuffed bird of Paradise, sat alongside soapstone Buddhas and oriental household gods.

Dad's 1914-18 war medals rested on top of a highly polished brass cigarette box, presented to all the serving soldiers in France for Christmas 1914. On wet Sunday afternoons I was allowed to dust all these treasures, until the dreadful day I broke one - a small blown-glass elephant. After that I was allowed to look but never touch.

Two large Victorian Balloon armchairs, a sofa and six upright chairs served as seating. Between the two windows was a small mahogany table on which stood an aspidistra in a large purple pot. The piano, usually kept locked, was opened to be played by one of the young men who had been invited.

I never understood the mystery of the locked piano until one day a few years later I found it undone and placed in neat piles on top of the keys were hundreds of pound notes and mum's jewellery. Like many people in those days, it seems my parents did not trust the banks or building societies. Perhaps they were anxious to evade the Inland Revenue Inspector.

Hanging over the piano was a huge copy of Millais Painting of 'Bubbles' and photographs of aged grandparents adorned the other walls.

I must have been warned to be quiet and behave myself because I don't remember doing anything - just watching people - which I was good at. I sat on the ornate brass and leather fire-surround with a seat at either end. There was no fire lit in the black iron Victorian fireplace as it was summer time.

I'd never seen any of the men before. I remember thinking how alike they looked - thin and long legged, wearing sports jackets and flannel trousers. One of them wore a cravat and a navy blue blazer, which looked quite dashing. As more guests arrived the room became crowded, with everyone trying to talk at the same time. There was much laughter and nobody minded that there was nowhere to sit.

The girls looked flushed and pretty in their summer dresses. The red-headed boy playing the piano knew all the latest songs and everyone joined in the singing. There were now about fifteen or sixteen people, and still they came.

Nicholas Van Roon and his two sisters, Cora and Anna arrived. Their father, a South African, had played Rugby league for the Warrington team. He had died from cancer when he was forty-three and Mum said that was because of all the knocks he had taken on the Rugby field.

After his death Mrs. Van Roon decided to stay on in England because she considered her three children more English than South African, but they didn't look English. Cora and Anna were large and florid with abundant fair hair. Nicky was tall and handsome. His golden hair and fresh colouring made the other young men appear pale and lacklustre beside him. To my young eyes he was god-like. These two girls were Eve's friends.

A pretty, dark, foxy faced girl sang: 'Red Sails in the Sunset.' That was Doris Daniels, one of Joan's friends. Doris had ten brothers and sisters and lived in a huge house at Woolston, which lay outside the town. Joan told me that her father was a bookmaker. I thought making books must be a very good job, because Doris and her sisters always wore such lovely clothes and their father had a motor car.

When I said that to Dad, he laughed as if I'd made a joke and said: "More people have lost their shirts to that man than I've had hot dinners." A comment which at the time didn't make much sense to me.

The best part of the evening was when Rose came. Rose Davis was Joan's best friend. I had met her many times. I thought she was the most beautiful person I had ever seen and I wished she could be my big sister. I bet she wouldn't have called me a nuisance or a pest for her face was gentle and she often smiled. Her hair was the colour of ripe corn and her skin soft textured, like a flower. When she laughed her cheeks dimpled and her blue eyes shone. I can close my eyes now and see that lovely face as it was all those years ago. She tickled me under the chin and called me Bettina.

When Eve and Joan brought in sandwiches and more beer, Mum put her head round the door and called to me: "Come on young 'un, it's half past nine and time you were in bed." I washed at the kitchen sink, went upstairs reluctantly and fell asleep to the sounds of singing and laughter.

The next morning was Sunday and when I woke I heard raised voices from downstairs, so I kept out of the way till things quietened down. Someone had cracked a leg on one of the armchairs and Mum was furious.

"It was that long, lanky lout. I saw him sitting in it when I took Betty up to bed." I loved the 'long, lanky lout' bit and couldn't wait to use it in my next composition at school. I wrote it later in the year, describing a character in Silas Marner, and learnt to my amazement that I had used an alliteration, which sounded very impressive, but of course by then I was nine years old.

Eve said a boy called Charlie from the Youth Hostellers had sat in that chair all evening. This was absolutely true, I'd seen him. He never said a word, just sat quietly smiling with a glass of beer in his hand. Super-glue didn't exist in those days and Mum stuck the cracked bit together with something out of a tube, called 'Stickfast', and as far as I know nobody ever sat in that chair again.