Open Writing

Twilight? Good gracious me, no. It isn't twilight time. It's still the middle of the afternoon. And there's plenty to do.

Thanks to remarkable computer technology, we can now wander round the streets of towns we haven't seen for many a year. Simply by moving the mouse, shifting the cursor up and down, side to side, we can "walk" through panoramic photos. Memories are brought to life, as well as the changes that have taken place in the past 65 years or more.

The Berrymans were old family friends. Their kids used to play with my brothers when they were young. By the 1940s, they were all old enough to be called to military service in WWII. Being a lot younger, I used to walk past the Berryman house on my way to infant school in Balderton. It was a rather grand double-fronted affair with heavy curtains in its two bow windows, a touch above its neighbours. Inside, there was an aroma of time, well loved leather armchairs, lavender water, and pipe tobacco. The rather formidable and extremely tall Mr Berryman, a retired headmaster, would sit in his corner, almost lost in a cloud of smoke, while he read the newspaper.

Being a gregarious little fellow, I would sometimes call in on my way home from school in the afternoon. Mrs Berryman always welcomed me, sometimes proffering a cup of tea and her lovely home made cakes. We partook of those in the other front parlour, not the one which was silently dominated by the retired headmaster. If I was lucky, Mrs Berryman would bring out a box of her children's toys from the pre-War years, and give me a lead soldier. We didn't know about lead poisoning in those days.

I'm afraid I blotted my copybook one day. Instead of waiting, I asked for a lead soldier. Gently but firmly, I was told, "I have other little boys I give them to". Message received. A lesson I cannot forget. Don't be greedy.

As revealed on my computer screen during a walk through panoramic views, the house is no longer the grand double fronted home it was, all those years ago. The bow window on the right, behind which I relished tea and cakes, is no longer there. It has been replaced by a garage door. The front garden has gone. It is now a concreted area where a car can be parked. In fact, many of the houses along the road have had the same treatment, due no doubt to the increase in the number of cars and the shortage of parking space. Even the house were I was born (we weren't born in hospitals in those days) has a garage door instead of a bow window, and a concrete slab where lupins, crocuses and snowdrops once flourished. It's all very sad.

My small boy ubiquitous socialising also took me to the house on the corner, about six doors down. That's where Mrs English and Miss Engledow lived. I don't know how I inveigled myself into their white-haired lives, but I surmise it might have been my curiosity about their pet. They had an elderly African grey parrot, which lived its lonely life in a standard size cage. Lonely birds and animals inevitably tugged at my tiny heart-strings; that's why I developed a special friendship with one of our hens which was moved to a cage all by itself. I was told that it was poorly, so I went down to the shed each day to comfort it in its hour of need. And then it disappeared. It wasn't until many years later that the truth was revealed — we ate it for Sunday dinner.

Anyway, Mrs English kept the stub of an old pencil and would let me gently scratch the parrot with it. The bird obviously enjoyed this massage, and would crane its neck out for more, running through its vocabulary of "Polly", "Hello!", and whatever it had picked up. I would then be entertained by the kind old ladies. More tea and cakes, in their somewhat luxurious dining room, overlooking an intriguingly rambling garden.

Standing on tiptoe on a wobbly box by the tall fence in our back garden, I was able to talk to our neighbour Mrs Stubbs. She didn't have white hair. It was a shade of ginger, probably out of a bottle. On warm summer days, she would sway on her garden seat with a brightly striped canvas awning, enjoying her cup of tea. Yes, you've already guessed what's coming next — I was invited round for a cup of tea. Freshly made scones, too, with butter which seemed to be creamier, sweeter, softer than the butter we had at home. I thought she made it herself; perhaps it came from a farm; or perhaps it was just my palate for fresh food delights. Don't be greedy, did you say? Oh, come on — I was only a little boy!

In those days, people had a bath once a week. On other days, little boys had to wash their hands and face several times a way. I certainly washed my hands, at the kitchen sink as was our practice, but I didn't do a very good job with my wrists. Relishing buttered scones with Mrs Stubbs one sunny afternoon, when I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, I suddenly noticed distinct tide-marks on my wrists. Nice clean hands; unwashed wrists and arms. Mrs Stubbs noticed my embarrassment and reassured me with a warm smile. My arms were not dirty; not at all. They were sun-tanned. She certainly knew how to win a chap's heart. Now, what was her front garden is a concrete parking area. No more flowers, no more buttered scones. And we bathe more than once a week.

Those warm-hearted ladies from a bygone era have long since passed well beyond the twilight of their lives. In my afternoon, in spite of the changes I see on the computer screen, I feel privileged to have known them and shared tea and cakes with them during the morning of my life.

© Copyright Brian Barratt 2010.