Open Writing

In our very early years, at holiday time, Tom and I were bundled off to our Aunt Dolly in the Oxfordshire village of Aston. There we spent all our time in ecstasy on the farm where we were allowed to run amuck.

We soon picked up the Oxfordshire brogue with its slightly singsong intonation and use of old English words, such as 'bist', a form of the second person singular of 'be'. The old word 'thee' was used constantly, while the pronoun 'you' was used almost as a name. The greeting when meeting someone would be,

" 'Ullo, you, 'ow bist?"

And the reply would be, "Oi be fine, you, 'ow bist thee?"

Thus we became trilingual and Dad, being a 'Nartner', raised in the Oxfordshire village of Brize Norton, was delighted to hear us talking 'proper English'. The three of us always greeted each other over the years in the Oxfordshire brogue.

So it was that Tom and I became fully-fledged members of the Aston village kids' brotherhood.

It was one of those occasional summer heatwaves that had turned our house in London's Clapham Road into a stifling hell. After well-rehearsed and then performed tantrums, Tom and I were packed off to Aston and joined up once again with the kids' brotherhood as we headed along the mile-long walk from Aston to the Brook for a swim.

The Brook meanders slowly and lazily through the lush, green Oxfordshire meadows and fields of rippling golden corn, then flows on, passing now and again through clumps of willow trees, havens for spooning couples since the day that time was born, and onwards, leisurely, to join old Father Thames himself.

The Brook was a symbol of perpetuity to the locals, who in times of worry, or adversity, would say, 'Ah! Why worry? Th' Brook's still a-flowin', beyent it?' Yes, the Brook is still flowing, so everything will be all right.

But now Tom and I and the rest of the village kids were walking along the dusty lane to the Brook. The hot, sunny day enveloped us; even the birds had flown to the shade of leafy trees for a siesta. The stillness of the peaceful countryside was disturbed only by the quiet buzz of
insects in the balmy, drowsy air and by the accompaniment of our happy laughter and lusty singing.

Our progress was halted as Tom clambered over a gate and started climbing a nearby tree towards some birds' nests.

"Hey, Tom!" shouted Stanl', "where be at it, you? What bist up to?"

"Oi be a wantin' to look in them there wrens' nests, to see if there be any eggs in 'em," Tom shouted back.

Stanl' shook his head in perplexed disbelief, then yelled, "Oi can tell thee bist a foreigner from London because thee beyent got any brains in thee head, you, thee bist sittin' on 'em. They beyent wrens' nests; wrens don't build 'em that high. They be rooks' nests and far too high to climb to; the bough will break and you'll break thee neck, you, or fall and bust thee thick head. Come on down, old cully, we wants us a swim in the Brook."

Then as Tom approached us, Stanl' added his coup de grace, "Besides, thee bist four months too late for eggs."

All the kids burst out laughing as my good natured brother rejoined us, laughing louder at himself and his 'city slicker' ignorance than any of them.

We had hardly walked a few yards when we all stopped again and fell silent. We heard the sound of piercing, almost human screams coming from a nearby copse.

At once I turned to Troy, my mentor; Troy would know what was happening. Troy, two years older than I was, knew everything. It was Troy who had pulled me into the stables to witness the carter whistling, whereupon to my astonishment the carthorse started urinating, the splash cascading in all directions to form a huge lake on the stone-cobbled floor.

It was Troy who took me to see a bull mounting a cow, then gave me a learned explanation of the proceedings; it was Troy who taught me how to handle a ferret without being bitten, then showed me how to use it to catch rats in the barn and then how to use it for rabbiting.

It was Troy who showed me the dried peesole of a bull with which his Dad taught him a lesson if he misbehaved. It was Troy who banged on my bedroom window at 3 am and not only woke me up but half the dogs of Aston, then took me to see a foal being born. It was Troy who showed me where to climb over the stone wall of the Vicar's garden without being seen, in order to steal a juicy apple from his prize tree; Troy who took me to see a steer slaughtered by a gunshot to the head, followed by the slaughterman thrusting a long cane stick into the bullet hole to break the spinal cord, then pushing his boot up and down on its stomach so that all the contents spewed out.

It was Troy who pointed out wrens and swifts and chaffinches and, very patiently, showed me their nests previously invisible to my townsman's eyes. Yes, Troy knew it all, so now, on hearing the screams, I turned to him, "What be that there, Troy?"

Troy paused for reflection and then replied knowingly, "I'll tell thee what; that there be a stoat that's caught a poor old hare for his dinner. The hare be a-screaming his head off 'cause he be a-frightened to death."

"I be a-frightened to death too, Troy, I can tell thee."

"Ah! Don't worry, old cully, thee beyent some old stoat's dinner."

Then we were on our way again, singing without a care. Another step forward in my education, for we never had stoats in London's Clapham Road — nor wrens and chaffinches either, for that matter.