Open Writing

Now the little stone bridge over the Brook was in sight and our pace quickened as Harry shouted, 'There us be, then; I reckons last one in be a sheep's turd."

And to escape this dubious accolade we broke into a run, building into a wild charge as we raced over the bridge and down onto the field to strip off. Within a minute the kids were jumping into the Brook, whooping with joy as they did so, and with arms and legs in all directions as they splashed into the cool water. Tom and Stan'1 sprinted together to the edge of the bank, then launched themselves into the air and, with knees drawn up to their chins, came down like cannonballs.

The Brook, awakened in this vulgar fashion from its somnolent tranquillity, protested by sending out mini tidal waves surging to the banks, then, maybe a little ashamed of its unwarranted display of petulance, calmed down and seemed to join in the fun.

I, the smallest of the party, slid down the bank. Stepping into the water I felt the cool, soft mud oozing between my toes. I paused a moment to admire the gracefulness of the emerald-green water reeds, plainly visible under the surface of the crystal-clear water as they bent over while moving gently to and fro with the current and softly brushed and tickled my legs.

Then — a breath, in and under, to feel the cool water all over me; a few strokes, then up to the surface. I swam out to the others, all spluttering, splashing, spitting, laughing, yelling, ducking and racing, with all the fun and zest that healthy youngsters can muster.

We loved the Brook and the Brook loved us, for it was never known for a kid to drown, get into difficulties or be hurt while swimming and larking about in the Brook.

When time to leave there was a last, customary ritual, always the same and handed down through the generations: leaning over the wall of the bridge we would spit into the Brook — for luck and that we would return again.

I returned again, but thirty years later, and walked along the country lane to the Brook, but this time alone, except for my memories. I smiled when I looked at the height of the latest generation of rooks' nests, then stopped to gaze at the copse where the stoat had his dinner. Sitting on the bridge, I listened to the peaceful, constant ripple and gentle murmurings and mutterings of the ageless Brook as it passed beneath, then, once again I heard a shrill scream but, this time, it was no hare caught by a stoat for his dinner; it was the shrill scream of the jet engine of an RAF fighter, passing low overhead, as it approached its landing at nearby Brize Norton airport.

Brize Norton, the once sleepy, one-pub village, was now bursting and thriving with 'foreigners from London' and further afield. The quiet Oxfordshire village of yesterday had become a town. Brize Norton had achieved international fame with its name on every Air Navigation Chart in the aviation world. — They call it 'Progress'.

But then, as the locals would say, 'Ah, well! Never mind, th' Brook's still a-flowin' beyent it?'

As we grew into our teens, our holiday location changed to Herne Bay, a seaside town in picturesque Kent, on England's south coast. We quickly named our holiday home 'The Windrush', after the Oxfordshire river and, equally quickly, joined a large group of teenagers. Among them was Paddy Scott, Tom's future wife. They were happy holidays at Herne Bay; many hours were spent at the Scotts' beach-hut and always with a crowd of teenagers laughing, playing the fool, swimming and taking out the rowing boats.

Our house, The Windrush, was always a popular venue, not only for the teenagers but also for a host of friends of our parents. Tea, beer, coffee, lemonade, scones with cream, and chocolate biscuits or delicious home-made cakes were in perpetual demand. It was a happy house, filled with people, laughter, life and good conversation, friendship, and music from the old crank-up gramophone. A house of joy and good-fellowship.

The political situation was looking very bad in Europe: Dad had only just started his holiday when, at breakfast, he suddenly put down the newspaper, looked at us and said, "I don't like the look of things at all; it looks very serious. I am afraid war is coming. We must get back to London at once. If war does come, they could bomb all the roads to London. Our place is at the surgery. Let's go."

We moved fast. We carried the dinghy from the beach to our garage; pumped up the tyres on our bicycles, covered the rims with vaseline and turned them upside down; closed the house; checked that Dad's golf clubs had been put in the car; and departed.

As we drove away I looked back through the rear window of the car, thinking, 'It will probably all blow over, like the Munich crisis. We'll be back next week.' But it was not to be.

The next day was Sunday, September 3rd, 1939, and war was declared. I was sitting in the basement at '41', listening to the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, giving his speech in grave tones; then came the fateful words, "I have to tell you now. This country is at war with Germany."

Half an hour later, the Air Raid sirens sounded in London. It was a false alarm. It was also the overture to the countless dismal wailings of the sirens, that we Londoners were to endure for the next six years.