Open Writing

A few months later I discovered John's card in my pocket. It was a Saturday. Flo had a cold so I decided to take the bus to Chester. I would see how I felt about the musical evening when I got there.

When I was small, my eldest sister had taken me there; I had distinct memories of black-and-white shops and houses, and a gilded clock tower, and I knew Chester was a historic walled, cathedral city.

Chester was a delight; it was compact and neat. All the streets and squares arranged tidily around the Cathedral. After industrial, untidy Warrington it had a distinct charm all its own. Quite unlike any other place I'd been to. I wandered around the Cathedral. There was a park, beautifully designed and glowing with colour. Then I marched jauntily around the walls, imagining as I went, those Roman soldiers long, long ago.

I discovered a delightful, dusty old bookshop, where I browsed and finally bought myself a guide book for the next time I came. At six I went to a milk bar and had a sandwich and a milkshake, and thought about finding John's address and whether to go there. Well I'd come all this way, and the expression open house usually indicated lots of people.

It sounded like a soiree to me, and a bit out of my league. But he had invited me! No good sitting here worrying. If they didn't like me, it didn't matter, that would be their loss. I looked up the address on the street map at the back of the book, and set off.

When I found it, the house looked quite ordinary, thank goodness. I knocked and a handsome boy, about my age answered it. "Yes, can I help you?"

I handed him the card and wanted to giggle, "Hello, my name's Betty. John said that your parents always have people round for the music. On a Saturday, I mean."

Then I giggled and so did he. It all bubbled up; we couldn't stop.

"Is there a problem?" There was a large lady smiling at me. We pulled ourselves together pretty sharpish.

"She's come for the music; John said we have people in on a Saturday evening to play music. He invited her."

She walked to the foot of the stairs, "John, there's a young lady here for the music."

"The music, what music?" came the reply. "Oh God! Yes!" and he came galloping downstairs, looking immensely elegant.

"Betty, come in. How good to see you. The music has fallen rather by the wayside of late. Peter, Betty's favourite composer is Mozart. Peter has just bought the latest recording of The Jupiter."

Oh well, things were looking up, and there really would be music.

By now we were in what my mother called 'the front room' and John's mother, probably 'the music room'. It wasn't as crowded with furniture as our house. No sideboard or glass-fronted cabinet. There were a lot of comfortable old armchairs. They had a super radiogram, while we could only boast a radio and an upright cottage piano.

Peter put on the Jupiter. It was a brilliant recording, conducted by Herbert von Karajan, and I thought how lucky I was to be there, sitting listening to it. I closed my eyes, because that's the way I listen best, and let the magic of Mozart and those fantastic sounds enfold me, like a heavenly comfort blanket.

When it ended, we both talked about our favourite composers, and I said I enjoyed Shostakovich, so he played 'Romance', from the Gadfly suite. I had pronounced the composer as Shosta-koe-vitch, but Peter soon put me right: "By the way, it isn't pronounced like that, it's Shostock-ovitch." Ever since then that's the way I've said his name, and people invariably say, "That's an odd way to pronounce it!"

Then John came into the room, and Peter smiled, saying: "I'll get something for us to drink," and beat a hasty retreat, as though on cue.

I looked at John, "I think perhaps I shouldn't have come. It was all rather hasty. My friend wasn't well and quite by chance I found your card."

"No, I'm really glad you did come. I've got some things I'd like you to see." - and he produced some magazines. "Have you ever seen any pictures of the Moscow Metro? It's magnificent. A wonderful underground railway system the Communists have created in the Russian capital."

I glanced through the pages he indicated. "I am interested in Russia, though I don't know very much about it, other than what happened in the war."

He looked pleased with me, like a teacher who had been given the right answer. "I'll put together some books you can take home with you."

At that moment Peter entered with a tray of biscuits and a pot of tea. John took cups and saucers out of a cupboard beside the fireplace. I noticed an extra cup and saucer. At that moment the door opened and their mother came into the room.

When we had finished, John and Peter collected up the china and went out, saying they would do the washing-up. I said jokily to Mrs. Gibson, "You have your sons well trained."

She looked at me with those sharp, bright eyes and said "Yes, they're both good boys." Then she came to sit close beside me and looked intently at me. "You must understand, my dear, any girl who marries John must belong to the party. You do realise that don't you?"

I wanted to say, "But I only came for the music." I knew if I did I would dissolve into helpless laughter. I muttered something quite innocuous and thought she was quite mad. Why on earth would I want to marry her son?

I don't remember any more about that evening. I know John insisted on walking me to the bus station, toting a parcel of books to further my knowledge of 'the party'. When my bus came I took his hand, shook it, thanked him and left for home.

The next week I received an invitation from him to a dance. I declined and I told a lie. I said my father had discovered the books he had kindly given me, and that, as a Conservative, he considered them to be subversive literature. Consequently I would not be joining the party.

I read all the glossy magazines, with their pictures of happy smiling Russians. Their immense joie de vivre made me wonder whether their food remained rationed, five years after the war had ended, as ours still was. I also read Harry Pollit's life story and discovered he became a Communist because his mother never had a fur coat, poor thing!

The next year was 1951 and Churchill became Prime Minister. By then I'd joined the WRAC. I was an OOM (Operator Office Machines)! I worked on Hounslow Heath handling Eastern Command's Engineering Stores and Works Accounts. I had finally grown up and it was wonderful!

Later that year I was on duty at the El Alamein reunion, where I saw Winston Churchill. He gave me his famous scowl, and then for no reason at all he shook my hand. I can conjure him up now. He was short. What he lacked in height he made up for in bulk. He looked like an enormous, pugnacious toddler with a huge pink, shiny face. Karsch's famous photograph wasn't a one-off; it was how he must have looked ninety percent of the time. It was one of the most exciting experiences of my life and I wouldn't have missed it for the world.