AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MARY BUCKLER



AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MARY BUCKLER

1877-1945

As the Preface explains, this "Autobiography" of Mary Buckler was pieced together by her youngest son Bryan out of a suitcaseful of papers which he had retrieved from her effects.  Some of these papers were no more than notes written on paper bags and the backs of shop bills.  Having put the papers into the the most reasonable order he could manage, Bryan persuaded his daughter Marjorie to type them, but resisted the temptation to edit them even when spellings and errors called for it.  Bryan and Marjorie completed this version in 1988, and in 1989 he expanded the Preface to include the extra information provided by Colin Hudson (son of Gretta).  In 2005, one of Bryan's sons, Michael , and Dick Hudson (brother of Colin) scanned Marjorie's typescript into the present format.  Marjorie and her daughter Anne helped to check their output, so the present version can fairly be described as a joint family effort, produced in gratitude to Granny Heath for giving us our parents.

PREFACE

Mary Buckler, my Mother, was born in 1878 in the market town of Nuneaton, Warwickshire. She was the oldest of nine children. Her father, who was a butcher, seems to have done well in his business but, probably, was in the wrong job; he was a poet of some distinction. We used to have a book (dark green, I remember, with gilt lettering) of his poems but this has disappeared.

My Father, William Nathaniel Heath, was born at Carkeen, in Cornwall. His Father was George Heath, farmer, and his Mother was Matilda Oliver Heath (née Stephens). John and Colin Hudson visited Carkeen and kindly supplied the following information on Father's origins:

Carkeen is a farm ½ mile SE of the village of St Teath, on the side of the A39, about 7 miles NE of Wadebridge; the road runs along the well-wooded valley of the river Allen. The farm was visited on 28 July 1989 by Colin Hudson and his children, Christopher and Stella, 51, 25 and 23 respectively, grandson and great grandchildren of Narth Heath, whose sixth child and only daughter Gretta married John Hudson.

Carkeen Farm, about 120 acres, mixed arable and dairy, was in the hands of a Henwood family for some 300 years until the middle of the 19th century. Thomas Henwood built a substantial new barn in 1856. A plaque on the barn gable shows “TH 1856 HT Builder". HT was a builder called Teague. There are many graves of Henwoods and Teagues in the St Teath churchyard.

Thomas Henwood had a bad time, losing six of his seven children and his wife Jane aged 44. In 1957 he moved to New Zealand, where he bought land and started a farm, which he called Carkeen. He remarried and had seven more children. The farm has since disappeared (swallowed up by the expanding city of Auckland?) but we have the address of a descendent who still lives in Auckland (where one of Narth's granddaughters, Barbara Stock (née Heath) now lives).

George Heath followed the Henwoods at Carkeen, and Narth was born there in 1872.

There are Oliver graves in the St Teath churchyard; Narth's oldest child was called Ivor Oliver. But according to the Churchwarden, who has listed all the graves in the churchyards of St Teath, there are no Heath or Stephens graves. Were they perhaps Nonconformists? The original graveyard of the St Teath chapel seems to have been built over and lost.

Our informants included a Mr Harry Treleven, in his 60s, spastic, very friendly and helpful, living at Trevellyn Old Folks' Home, St Teath. His Father owned Carkeen and he remembers his Father talking about the Henwoods and the Heaths, in that order.

The local telephone directory lists many Stephens, including at least one family who farm at Delabole, a nearby village with a well-known slate quarry. Carkeen farm is built partly of Delabole slate, and roofed with slates from the quarry. Mrs Heath, Narth's wife, had a. slab of Delabole slate that she used as a pastry board, well remembered by the family.

Thos Henwood built an interesting water wheel, run by the River Allen and connected to the "new" barn by an axle 130 yards long (!). It ran a corn mill but was gutted in the 1940s, much to the disgust of the present owner.

The farm is now run by Mr and Mrs Pugh, a friendly elderly couple, who have sold off part of the land, because of the difficulty of driving cows across the "new" main road (built in 1900!). The Pughs have had "masses" of visitors from the Henwood New Zealand connection, one of whom still writes to them.

There are no Heaths or Stephens now in St Teath, according to the postmaster, but a couple called Stephens kept a shop there in recent years until they died.

Mother married Nathaniel Heath in 1899 and seems to have been happy until, in 1914, he died. They had seven children: Ivor (born 1900), Alan, Alec, Ted, Griff, Gretta and Bryan (born 1912). Ivor died in 1986, Alan in 1965, Alec in 1971, Ted in 1951, Griff in 1961 and Gretta in 1989.

When Mother died, in 1945, we found a small case which contained a mass of writing and my siblings suggested that I have a look at this; in 1988, some 43 years later, I got around to carrying out my orders.

Transcription of my Mother’s writing was not easy. Some of it was in exercise books but a great deal was on scraps of paper, which she would fill completely, end in mid-sentence and continue elsewhere. Other pieces, which were only partly filled, might also end in mid-sentence. Many of the scraps of paper were the backs of circulars from the grocery store in Pangman, Saskatchewan, so I think she may have done most of the writing while she was in Canada. Since the Scottish and Canadian parts of the writing break off suddenly, it seems likely that at least two lots of her writing have been lost.

A few of her recollections may have been faulty. This statement, of course, may merely mean that they differ from mine, but I think that some things she recalls were episodes that she wished had happened. These apparent discrepancies are not surprising. Not many of us could recall all or even the most important events of our lives, so it is not surprising that Mother missed a few. Also, if two writers described an experience they shared 50 years ago, it would be strange if their accounts were identical.

In an effort to provide a more complete picture of life between 1912 and 1945, the dates when I was born and Mother died, I have written an appendix. Where my story differs from Mother's, readers should not assume that my version is the one which is correct. Also, of course, small boys and adult women view things from different angles. Some things which stand out in my memory are not even mentioned in Mother's writing.

Bryan Heath

1988/1989

CHAPTER 1

REASON FOR WRITING

Middle aged folk need a definite hobby to prevent life becoming as flat as a pancake. Personally, I have looked in all directions. With the exception of pet dogs or strange religions, there seems very little for a middle aged woman to get interested in, unless it be the tending of a herb patch. I might, of course, help my neighbours with their babies but my lap has been absorbed in the "middle-aged spread" and, besides, I want a change. I've been nursing babies, preparing meals and everlastingly washing up until I'm sick to death of the whole business.

Even the Bible is all for movement -- even for change; it has anticipated everything worth saying about life. The pool called Bethesda had its periods when the waters were quick and restless, when whoever was blind, halt or withered could be healed. Which, upon being interpreted means that troubled waters are healing waters. Since middle age often has an inward fret and depth of dullness which becomes intolerable due, probably, to having too little to do except load itself up with trifles, there is need of a hobby to act as healing waters to the inward soul's torment.

And creeping age does incline us to realise that life is built on a sliding scale: we have to keep moving to keep up and there are no rest stations on life's long road. We cannot cause too long to look back.

I feel that I could write a diary because it is a stern necessity that I do something different from anything I've ever done before. Also, as an old age privilege, there is a portion of each day when, for a few hours, I can do as I like.

However, a diary at the end of one's life isn't much use. I'm going to herewith embark upon the reckless expedient of writing my autobiography. I'm told it's a form of folly that needs no literary ability whatsoever; therefore, I am quite competent to go ahead. It will at least be a decided change and, I trust, prove a blessed element in helping me recapture a little of the liveliness of days long since gone by, when play was the all-absorbing thought from early morning until the Dusty Miller shook his bag and sleepy eyes closed in utter contentment; that life was a gay adventure.

CHAPTER 2

THE BEGINNING

My eyes opened in a small town in the very heart of England; it has been made immortal in George Eliot's Scenes of Clerical Life. The streets were cobbled and its houses very ordinary but around the steps at the front doors of many of its Main Street houses grew the delightful musk which, today, has lost its perfume -- due, so scientific gardeners say, to the extinction of a tiny insect. Anyway, it helped to hide a lot of ugliness and it would be a gracious act if the Government would dig out from their hiding place a few of these insects and set up a breeding station and so give back to the country something very beautiful.

When about a year old, my Aunt from South Wales fetched me out of the way to make things easier for Mother who, a few months later, had an addition to her family in the shape of a son. I was too young to remember much of that visit but one thing I do remember is having my hands smacked for touching currants when Grannie was making a cake.

The first thing I can remember properly was when I returned home, several months after my third birthday. Although I have no recollection of the journey, I can vividly remember being met at the Station (railway) by Mother who had brought a new sister, seated in a perambulator. This was a wedge-shaped contraption with one wheel at the front and two at the back. The wheels were of wood spokes and fellys (sections which joined together to make the periphery of the wheel) bound with a thin hoop of iron, which made a tremendous clatter when travelling over the cobble stones of the pavement. I remember the day was very hot and .Mother filled my heart with joy by allowing me to sit beside the baby and clutch her silk parasol in my small fat hands to shield the baby from the sun.

It would be soon after that time that I commenced my education. In those days, we were admitted at three years old into what was known as "The Baby Room." In summer, we often had lessons in the playground, which adjoined a nice big field. The cows which grazed in it were a source of interest because they groaned as they chewed their cuds.

When the weather got colder, the desks were placed in the centre of the room and we marched round and round, clapping our hands together and singing in our shrill, lusty voices: "The North wind doth blow/ and we shall have snow/ and what will the robin do then, poor thing?/ He '11 sit in the barn/ and keep himself warm/ and hide his head under his wing, poor thing."

One teacher evidently had a strong sense of humour for she kept a bottle of gum on the shelf. If too much shuffling of feet went on, she would reach down the gum and calmly say "The next child who shuffles its feet will be gummed to the floor!" It always had the desired result. Before she began the lesson, we had to be quiet enough to hear her drop a pin.

Upon reaching the mature age of six years, I was promoted to the big school-room to be taught by the Headmistress who was, I believe, the nearest approach to a perfect woman I have ever met. She was the Mother of several children and lived in a house adjoining the School. This house had a door like a Church door and diamond-paned windows. Her face was like a rosy-cheeked apple: hair crinkled and parted down the middle, surrounded by a cream coloured lace cap with a bow of velvet ribbon at the side. To complete her costume, she always wore a black silk apron with rose buds and forget-me-nots embroidered on it in silk. She it was who taught my young fingers to sew and knit. Her voice was like music as she patiently repeated the necessary directions: "In, over, through, off. That's right, dear; be careful and not drop your stitches." Her lovely method of teaching gilded my school days with a radiance which will never a fade. She was endowed with the gift of sanctified common sense to an unusual degree.

School opened with the singing of the morning hymn, "New every morning is thy love" and closed with "Evening shades are falling." In after years, when the troubles of life were pressing hard, the second verse of the latter hymn was often a great consolation: "Jesu give the weary calm and sweet repose/ With thy tenderest blessing may our eyes be closed."

In my day, the School had a gallery reaching from the floor to a considerable height. We used to get some rare thrills by carrying a form (bench) to the top, turning it upside down and seating ourselves on it whilst someone gave it a push to send it tobogganing to the bottom. It was our usual way of passing the time on wet days as, on wet days, we always took our dinner to school. Of course, we were not supposed to do it but the Schoolmistress had a daughter, Katie, who was a good ringleader in the matter so we did not trouble about possible consequences but enjoyed it as only care-free youngsters can enjoy anything. Doubtless we looked as though butter wouldn't melt in our mouths when, after washing our hands, we awaited the Mistress emerging through the door of her house with its diamond-paned windows, giving us a kindly look over as we, with much shuffling, got into line to march into our places to continue our education.

A short distance beyond the School were allotments and fields. In one field, was a barn in which, years previously, a woman was killed by a man. It was supposed to be haunted but, on the assumption that there's safety in numbers, a whole string of us would go and stand in the doorway of the barn and sing "Old Jack Danks/ played his pranks/ upon Miss Polly Button/ and with his knife/ he took her life/ and cut her up like mutton."

Jack Danks was the last man to be publicly hanged. I have heard say that my Grandfather, as a youth, walked twelve miles, with many other people to see the gruesome sight enacted at Coventry.

My home town of Nuneaton had a variety of trades which flourished along the school route. It was great fun to watch the Blacksmith shoe the horses and to attune our stomachs to the smell of the hot iron on the horses' hooves.

Occasionally, we would be lucky enough to be passing the Cooper's yard when he was firing the inside of a barrel with shavings all alight. He never minded an audience so long as we kept well away from the fire.

At the back of the Blacksmith's shop, which adjoined the Pheasant Inn, one could see on certain days the Landlord (of the Inn) brewing ale. We could always smell from the street when brewing was going on. It would not do, of course, to miss such a fascinating sight as the barm bubbling up on top of the huge tub and the women folk clumping about on pattens to keep their feet from getting wet. So we always made a point of going round to what was known as the "Brew 'us'" (brew house).

In the centre of the town, we had a flour mill which was a source of delight. The River Anker, on whose banks it stood, had ducks of various breeds swimming up and down its course. One of my earliest recollections is connected with the river and the mill. In those days, the clothing of small girls was more complicated to fasten up than the previous generation's. Also, we wore high boots with many lace holes. Mother had a great contempt for people who were what she called ''sloppy about the feet," so to lace our boots tidyly was a stern ritual; woe betide any child found minus that elusive thing called a "garter." To expedite the dressing and encourage us to help ourselves, a promise to take us to see the ducks and the mighty mill wheel go "Splash" was the sugar plum which usually did the trick.

When I was about seven, in 1885, the mill was burnt down, but it was immediately rebuilt and modern machinery installed. All the glamour, from a child's standpoint, was gone. The machinery simply made a noise; the mighty splash and music of the wheel had vanished.

Another bit of the river ran open along one side of the street known as "Wash Lane." It had posts and an iron tube as rails to prevent people falling in. It was the outdoor gymnasium for all the indecorous juveniles. We paddled in the shallow water, caught minnows under the stones and performed somersaults over the rail, to the detriment of clothes and sometimes, sad to say, of heads.

About this time, the local Council began to wake up to the fact that the town was growing. There was more traffic so they decided that the river must be closed in. Therefore, an army of workmen with all the usual impedimenta occupied the road for a considerable time until all signs of the river had vanished and poor Wash Lane emerged from the ordeal with a Royal name. But all delight had vanished; what child could catch minnows on a tarmacadamed road?

Upon reaching Standard two stage, we had to move from the Green and pass on to the school attached to the Parish Church. After a Scripture lesson on the Beatitudes, followed by a motherly talk from the Mistress on our growing responsibilities, we bade her "Good By."

Of schools in those days, there was little choice. At the Church School, we paid sixpence a week and I must say the provision of such schools up and down the country is one of the shining bits of its history. It did give the common people an opportunity to whet their appetites for more knowledge if they cared to take the trouble to acquire it as they got older.

Opposite our school was The Beeches where about sixteen pupils attended. A smattering of French was taught, also that it was very unladylike to run in the street or to be seen without gloves on; deportment was studied assiduously. The Church School pupils always asserted they were the superior when it came to maths or needlework.

There was also another source of education conducted for the daughters of gentlemen. About eight pupils were taken and the lady conducting it would have had a blue fit if a tradesman had presumed to apply for his daughter's admittance.

Higher education for girls was unheard of. It must have been dreamed of, else it would not have been here today. Boys had the privilege of the Grammar School where, after much strain and struggle, some few attained the Cambridge Junior and an occasional particularly precocious boy reached the Cambridge Senior. Today, State Scholarships and Higher Certificates are as common as blackberries in autumn. I often wonder if the children of today realise the debt of gratitude they owe to the people who, through years of agitating, have made it possible for children of all classes to be educated on a common footing.

The utterly snobbish conditions of fifty years ago have gone, never to return -- I hope. The Bishop's daughter can gain something of value from rubbing shoulders with the miner's daughter, who is usually possessed of sturdy independence; she, in her turn, should be able to capture a little of the grace and poise which should flourish in the larger home. The knowledge gained could be likened to the pomegranates round the edge of the priest's robe and be spelt "fruitfulness:" sturdy common sense for strength, grace and poise for beauty, knowledge gained for results. The combination should make for a better understanding of the other person's viewpoint.

Some quaint characters lived in Nuneaton. One old gentleman, by profession a barber, might have been a Canon in Holy Orders; benign benevolence radiated from his face as he opened the door to us when we paid our periodical visits to have our hair cut. He did not have a proper shop but one room was kept for his business. It had a small window which looked into a room at the back; in this window, two bottles of hard boiled sweets were kept, raspberry drops and rose buds in one and acid drops in the other. If we sat very still whilst he cut our hair, we were allowed to choose which sweets we preferred; we could have two. He was a staunch Conservative and ardent Royalist and always hung over his door a branch of oak to commemorate the anniversary of Prince Charles hiding from his pursuers in the oak tree at Boscabel. He was the proud possessor of a table piano, which he played brilliantly. The steps around his door and the cobbles of his patch of pavement had a profusion of scented musk growing. Why, oh why, has that delightful plant vanished?

On the opposite side of the road from the barber was a tall house with shuttered windows. An iron gate, arched over, gave entrance to a spacious garden and back premises. Is had never been occupied in my time but, occasionally, a man with a brown beard, a billy cock hat, a shabby coat and leather leggings used to unlock the gate and disappear, to emerge in about half an hour's time. Common report was that the house was haunted. Whenever this mysterious man appeared, all the youngsters in the neighbourhood collected around the gate to see all that was to be seen -- which certainly wasn't much. But we always imagined that a face could be seen grimacing through a chink in the shutter, chains could be heard clanking as a mysterious something scurried up and down stairs and the bark of a dog echoed through the hollow, empty rooms.

Eventually, the property was bought by a Co-operative Society. Instead of something to call forth a mysterious shiver, there appeared a Butcher's Department, a Grocery Department on the first floor, a Drapery Department above, and the back premises were given over to the slaughtering of animals and the baking of bread.

One day soon after the Co-op. began to function, I was walking along the Royal Walk when a bread van pulled up to deliver at the house I was passing. Walking along, were two women, one evidently a Co-op. member and the other a visiting friend. The member said to her friend "Ah! This is one of our new vans and ain’t it a luverly 'orse." The van man, as he stepped down from his seat, pulled one hair from the horse's tail and solemnly offered is to her, saying "This is your share, Ma'am."

Nuneaton had a town Crier with a voice strident enough to cut through a clothes line. Upon official occasions, he was furnished with a most gorgeous uniform: tricorn hat, brass bell and a profound air of importance. If anything were lost, he would stand at the street corner and shout "Oh Yess, Ohoo Yess; this is to give notice." Then he would proceed so give notice of whatever he had been paid so announce. He always rang the pancake bell on Shrove Tuesday as eleven a.m.; which was the signal for an early dismissal from School. That day was the official commencement for the season of battle-dore and shuttlecock (a bit like badminton without the net. The boys discarded marbles and brought out tip-cats (shuttle-shaped pieces of wood which, when struck on the pointed ends, would fly through the air).

Today, girls' games are pretty thoroughly organised. Their days are passed wholesomely and lawfully with summer camps, Girl Guides, Nature Study classes, swimming lessons, supervised games and folk dancing, with the correct dress for each. Such methods had never got a footing in my youthful days. Girls played in their own sweet way at Nancy Doodle, Kiss in Ring, Here comes poor Nary aweeping, or a vigorous rubbing of noses together to the accompaniment of "My Mother and your Mother went over the sea/ and when they came back they said 'Hack a nosee'." Now that archaic system is lost in pet theories of Educationists who are prepared to do everything for youth except let them alone to find out for themselves that horticulture and. moralculture are practically the same thing and have a definite value which can be practised in one's own garden.

The Town Crier, in his private life, was a truculent character. His face was more often than not bloated and black with bruises, and Saturday nights were frequently spent in jail, the result of a drunken brawl. He was always in the thick of the skirmish which took place in the streets on Shrove Tuesday. A football was kicked off in the Market Place and chivvied up Nunscroft and down Queen's Way over houses and in allotments. What became of it in the end I don't know, for prudent people kept their children at home and fastened the shutters over their windows.

Then the Salvation Army opened a Hall in the town and they used to preach in the streets. In a short time, to everybody's surprise, they were the means of transforming the Town Crier from a drunken wife beater into a respectable citizen.

I shall always remember the opening service of the Salvation Army; it was proclaimed on huge placards posted about the town, inviting all who would come to partake of "Ham, Jam and Glory -- all for ninepence." I can even now see two small children, my younger brother and myself, standing and spelling out the contents bill. We could understand the ham and the jam but the only thing that resembled glory was the halo around the head of Moses when he was on Mount Sinai, as was depicted in the family Bible.

We already had a Blue Ribbon Army (anti-alcohol) who held their services in the Old Drill Hall. `They also had open air services on The Green and returned to the Drill Hall via Nunscroft. The Captain used to walk backwards and beat time with her index finger. One verse sticks in my memory: "Oh Fred, do what you said/ Join in the Blue Ribbon Army/ Six out of seven all go to Heaven/ Through joining the Blue Ribbon Army." A section of the community known as "Hooligans" would march in the rear, singing lustily: "Captain Maggie's a sly old fox, Glory Halleluia/ If I had her here, I'd put her in a box, Glory Halleluia."

The streets were lit by gas lamps, which were lighted by a man who arrived at dusk with a short ladder with spikes at the bottom to keep it from slipping. They gave a gloomy light which cast shadows all around. The lamp posts served as "Den" for the exhilarating game of tic which we played if we could escape from parental observation between tea and getting ready for the evening abluting prior to going to bed.

Medical man in those days dressed very differently from present day doctors. Our Doctor was a kind, elderly man with a close-cropped white beard and eyes inclined to be watery as though strong daylight was too much for them. He wore a frock coat and tall silk hat and always when walking carried a walking stick. We thought him very grand and stood rather in awe of him, although we always felt he somehow was our own special property since his visits to Mother usually meant more work and the continuance of the washing of infants' feeding bottles. His partner was a bluff, breezy man who, had he not gone in for Medicine would probably have been a Sea Captain; anyway, he used to laugh like one.

A visit to Grandmother produced mixed feelings. On the one hand, great delight for the facilities which existed outside: the steep field which was such a thrill to roll down; the river at the bottom of the garden; and the garden containing a wealth of fruit trees were a source of great satisfaction. The other side of the visit was Grandmother's dining room chairs: they were covered in horsehair and, of all the tickly tormentations, they certainly took the bun. It was impossible for small girls wearing short socks to stoically endure such friction and appear to enjoy it. I was very jubilant when mother decided I could wear long stockings because children ware supposed to sit quiet and profit from the conversation of their elders. Parents with fidgety, distracting children were looked down on as being incompetent to maintain discipline and took shame to themselves accordingly. So, although long stockings entailed the wearing of garters they provided comfort at meal times and saved my reputation from being something my Mother would have to blush for.

A fortnightly cattle sale was another of our excitements. There was always the chance that some frightened animal would run amok and send the people scattering into doorways. The farmers, after depositing their cattle safely in the sale pens, would adjourn to the nearby Hotel to meet their friends and partake of the Farmers' Ordinary (lunch) and gossip about the weather, hay, corn or lambing or whatever farming operations were in season. Their clothes were distinctive, consisting either of whipcord or velvet cord britches, leather or boxcloth leggings and coat and vest, usually of the colour known as "pepper and salt," made to measure and lasting half a lifetime for market wear. They usually wore mutton-chop whiskers, had ruddy complexions and, upon meeting their friends, would stand with legs firmly planted wide apart, the better to throw their heads back to give the special country brand laugh when any tit-bit of gossip tickled them.

The juvenile part of the population would perambulate leisurely around, seeing all there was to be seen before spending the halfpenny which was the fashionable allowance in all families where there were more than four children. One could buy huge bullseyes, two for a halfpenny, which, if placed between two pieces of strong paper and given a few smart bangs with a flat iron or a four pound weight, would produce a good quantity of peppermint rock. Then there were long strips of liquorice known as "telegraph wires" or potatoes made from very hard rock and covered with chocolate powder and containing, sometimes -- but more often not -- a brand new halfpenny in the centre, wrapped in tissue paper. It was a thrilling suspense to patiently lick all around until one knew definitely if there was a halfpenny there -- or nothing.

There was always the chance that, in addition to the market stalls, one might come across a Punch and Judy show, a Cheap-Jack who sold marvellous watches for sixpence, a man eating fire or somebody selling patent pills warranted to cure everything from in-growing toe nails to a scurfy head.

Easter was the fashionable time to bring out skipping ropes. On Easter Sunday, my sister and myself usually returned with an Aunt of my father's to her home in the country. She always paid her first visit of the year to the town on that day. We always had a glorious time.

Uncle James had a decided flair for giving pleasure to young people. He had a lovely old fashioned garden with a brook running along the bottom. After breakfast, he would stroll around the garden and look over the hedge into a small paddock which he called the Lammas (feast of first fruits on August 1) Ground. Returning to the house, he would say "Now, you girls, if you don't look sharp, you'll be too late to see what's growing under the gooseberry bushes." Out we used to run, helter-skelter. We knew what to expect and there under the gooseberry bushes would be new pennies and halfpennies stuck on their ends and just showing through the soil. He would chuckle and say "Those gooseberry trees are the only ones in this Parish that grow money under them. That's the spring crop; it'll only grow at the same time as promroses.”

Afterwards, there was Church, which was only just across the way. It was nicely decorated with all the glory of golden daffodils, which were there in profusion and here and there an arum lily with its background of restful green.

We used to enjoy the service, especially the musical part. At home, we went with our Parents to the Brethren's Meeting Hall and there was no music. In those early days, I always thought there was something inferior in our service because we did not have a choir, nor did we have a band and procession at the Sunday School Treat, as all the other Schools did. When one grows older, such things acquire a different value; what matters very much at six is not so important at sixteen and of less importance still as the decades go on. But I always feel that the Easter service at that Church was of definite spiritual value to the people who took part in it.

Perhaps it was because the Aunt we were visiting was just a comfortable cushion of dignified kindness and treated us as though we were old enough to understand the lesson Easter taught and created the right atmosphere for it to be assimilated.

I remember we always had roast lamb and mint sauce, followed by cheesecakes for dinner. At tea time, some dainty china cups were reached out of the corner cupboard, which had on the top of each handle a wee bird with a shrill whistle in its beak. We felt very favoured. There was always quince marmalade, which we never got anywhere else.

On Easter Monday, we always went to the wood to gather primroses and to get well tired by climbing to the top of what used to be called "The Mount." Really, it was the burial place of the soldiers who fell during the parliamentary wars, when Cromwell was knocking down the nearby Abbey, which is now a ruin. There was great competition to see who could run up and down it the most times without getting out of breath.

A lot of good energy used to be wasted in Nuneaton over politics. At election times, the atmosphere became electric and the small fry did not hesitate to be positively rude to other small fry whose parents were of the opposing party. I remember one election when a Mr Johns was the Liberal candidate and Mr Dugdale the Conservative for our division of Warwickshire. The Liberal camp would call out with vicious gusto when they passed in the street anyone wearing the pale blue and yellow "Johns for iver/ Dugdale in the river." The other side would retaliate, sometimes with words and often with blows. Dignified aloofness would be considered weakness. The funny part about it was: we were none of us old enough to understand anything about politics. We decided which side we were on from the standpoint of our taste in colours. My parents kept out of politics but my Aunt was a primrose Dame and I liked her badge; therefore, I was a Conservative.

CHAPTER 3

LIFE IN OUR TOWN

We had a yearly cattle fair held in May, when a terrific hammering would begin before daylight. It was made by men erecting posts and rails at the edge of the Main Street to keep the cattle off the pavements. Towards eight or nine o'clock, the farmers would arrive with their cattle and herd them in groups, and there could be constant mooing until they were sold and driven away by their new owners. There also was a fortnightly cattle market; on that day, Mothers kept their small children safely inside the garden gate, out of reach of horns or any other possibility which might mean an upset perambulator and a general scattering of small people.

As youngsters, we loved the cattle sale days. We had an Uncle who was nearly always good for a tip, which was a thrill in days when money was not too plentiful, especially if one belonged to a large family. It used to be our custom to return from School via the sale ground, hoping to see Uncle emerge. Usually, he was in the company of several more farmers, who all accosted us with "Well, my little dears, how you do grow to be sure." They seemed never to be able to consider anything or anybody as doing other than growing or thriving.

One, a very jovial man, often called at our house for a cup of tea. He had a most original way of describing things. He always called houses "housen" and places "placen". He came from a village where every individual person except the Squire and the Parson was known by a nick-name. One day, he was describing the Chapel Sunday School Anniversary where everybody attending, as a matter of custom, wore new garments. One lady had raised his ire: "Believe me," he said to my Mother, "That Priscilla Cant is thirty seven if she's a day and if you’d seen her go sailing down to Chapel like an old yow (ewe) dressed lamb-fashion, you'd wonder whatever the world was coming to." He was a Church Warden and Church people in those days looked down on Nonconformists as something not quite respectable. So a little adverse criticism was to be expected and put at its proper value.

Nuneaton furnished a good crop of characters for George Eliot. One, called Lawyer Dempster, in the course of time, died and his household goods were sold to the highest bidder. Father, just setting up housekeeping, became the purchaser of a dinner service, two green wool mats for bedroom doors and a couch with a fascinating cover made of silk patchwork. The octagonal pieces fitted around a larger piece, with small diamond-shaped bits linking the patterns up. I well remember kneeling on the floor and teaching my younger sister to count by pointing to the pieces forming the pattern. When it had become too worn to be longer tolerated, it was given over to having its best bits cut out and made into dolls' bedspreads. Since growing older, I've often wondered if Janet made that cover in her pre-marriage days, sewing her hopes and ideals into it, or if she made it after her marriage as an occupation to distract her mind from the terrible burden she had acquired at the altar and which she could not, whilst life lasted, shake off.

There is now only one plate of the dinner service left, which I possess. About 1928, I was having lunch at my Mother's; one item on the menu was apple and bilberry tart baked on this historic plate. I remarked that it seemed a shame to put such a celebrated piece of china in a hot oven. But she, dear soul, had scant regard for literary ladies or their works, being of opinion that they were sure to be people who would leave their stockings undarned, or their garments minus buttons. However, she was quite willing to give it to me. When dusting it, I often ponder on Janet's unhappy fate and feel thankful that, in these days, there are many wholesome interests which wives not too happily married may grasp to prevent them becoming either crushed or, what is worse, dominating shrews. Personally, I think every house should have at least one oak floor so that a disgruntled wife could get on her knees and rub her superfluity of misery, or Old Adam into it. It is a rare producer of serenity.

Nuneaton was well blessed with places of worship. There was the Parish Church, the Old Abbey Church, Wesley, Baptist, Congregational and Brethren's Meeting Halls, Primitive Methodist, Roman Catholic and Salvation Army and, for several years, the Blue Ribbon Army. The last always held an open air meeting on Sunday afternoons on Abbey Green.

The Home Rule Bill was causing a lot of controversy in those days. We had customers from both sides, so often heard some heated arguments. I can assure you we did not miss cineramaras!

When elderly ladies went out to tea, they always took either knitting or crochet work. Their lace caps for indoor work reposed in a fancy wicker basket made in the shape of a gigantic walnut shell with hinges.

About the year of Queen Victoria's jubilee, the town began to get up to date. In place of cobblestone pavements, owners had to lay down large stone slabs which did improve the appearance of the street; but, in the opinion of small girls, the greatest improvement was the fact that they made beautiful hop-scotch beds.

The first of December brought out Rose's String Band, which consisted of a harp, cello, first violin, second violin and flute. They played the old fashioned Church carols and such haunting tunes as Arezous, Aberystwith and Huddersfield in a subdued key befitting the midnight hour. We used to feel very defrauded if we had not been waked up to hear them.

Many times, I have wondered what my early environment would have been had the French Treaty never been signed. For, by it, my ancestors were ruined. Their looms were thrown idle. The few which did special work, such as ribbons for military decorations, war medals, etc. were a target for a mischievous youth (who afterwards became my Grandfather) to weave string in, and otherwise tamper with partly finished work during the dinner hour. My Great Grandfather evidently concluded that he had no aptitude for fine art so, to give destructive qualities full play, apprenticed him to a butcher in a nearby town. After serving seven years, he married and commenced business in his own village and farmed a small farm in addition. He had a large family; my Father was the eldest and, after leaving School, assisted his Father. My Father was of a decidedly studious turn of mind and Grandmother, noting this, had contrived to keep him as long as she possibly could at the local Grammar School, which was run by a Quaker. The Quaker influence coloured his whole life and, incidentally, his children's. Although he was a successful business man he was, in reality, a born teacher.

After spending some years at home, then a year in County Durham and, afterwards, six years in South Wales where he met my Mother, he married. Of all the places he had seen on his travels, he thought nothing equalled his native County of Warwickshire, which he extols in a poem (space for the poem was left but it never got filled) so he bought some business premises, with house attached, in Nuneaton.

The love of the country was evidently in my Father's blood for he was resolved to some day farm. So he resolutely put by each week the money for the skins, fat and bones until he had sufficient money to stock a small farm, which he christened Tom Thumb Farm. He was the pioneer of baby beef in Warwickshire. He found that housewives wanted smaller joints than those produced by Lincoln bullocks which came to Leicester Market, so he ventured as far as Shrewsbury and bought Hereford cows and their calves, which he allowed to suck their mothers until about eighteen to twenty months old. The joints sold like hot cakes and justified his renting.

The Old Abbey Church was seated with rush-bottomed chairs and worn out ones were sent to be stored under the gallery at School. Boys with plenty of cheek used to ask permission of the Schoolmistress to use one of these decrepit chairs to seat the guy. He was usually a discarded pair of trousers stuffed with straw, a very old ragged jacket and a top hat of ancient pattern. A mask for a face and an old clay pipe stuck in his mouth. They carried him around until they arrived at a house where pence were likely to be forthcoming. He was put in the place of honour at the front while the contingent of small boys stood around, each with a stick of the broom handle type which they thumped on the ground by way of beating time to the seasonal doggerel which they sang with lusty voices: "Guy Fawkes, Guy, he did try/ To blow the House of Parliament all up on high./ By God's providence, he got catched/ Striking a match/ With a dark lantern in his hand./ Umbrella down the cellar/ They must find a naked Feller/ Burn his body, save his soul/ Please give us a lump of coal/ Or else the money to buy some./ Hullo boyo, Hullo boyo. Hurrah!"

The children of parents who were not in favour of their offspring engaging in such a pastime usually arranged to see the show and show their sympathetic admiration by shouting "Hoorah" as the cavalcade perambulated the streets.

Early on Good Friday morning, boys could be heard in the streets shouting "All hot! All hot!/ Just come out of the red hot pot/ Hot cross buns! hot cross buns!/ If you have no daughters/ Give 'em to your sons/ One a penny, two a penny, hot cross buns." The bakers used to be working all the previous night to get them ready for sale. Everybody made a point of having hot cross buns for breakfast.

I remember we had one customer, always referred to as Old Painter Thompson, who always presented us with a halfpenny when we delivered his order. He was a nice amiable old gentleman, only on the careful side. When I put up my hair, he suddenly woke up to the incongruity of presenting me with a ha'penny. He put his hand in his pocket as usual, gave me a searching look and suddenly said "Dear me! You’re getting too big for a ha'penny; you'll have to have an apple." He used to put his apples in a clamp in the garden -- like some people put potatoes. When he died, he left about £8,000, all to charity. So, considering all things, he might, without depriving anyone of their rights, have let his ha'penny grow to a penny.

A model village, Caldecote, about two miles away had a wee school held in a cottage. The children, or rather the girls, attending used to wear scarlet Red Ridinghood cloaks and hoods supplied by the Squire of the Parish. Strangely enough, the Squire got his income mainly from brewery interests and, after his death, the Hall was sold and is now a Home for Inebriates.

About this time, bicycles were seen on the roads. We used to drive a little Welsh mare who hated them. She would stop so suddenly when she caught sight of one that those who did not sit tight would go over the front of the gig and find themselves at her heels.

CHAPTER 4

OUR YOUNG LIVES

In these days of depression, it is sometimes enlightening to look back and try to visualise the drawbacks our parents had to contend with. My Father commenced business in April 1877. In November, the Industry which employed the largest number of operatives -- the cotton factory -- went on strike. It never reopened as a cotton factory. For several years, business was very slow. To make matters worse, after two children were born, my Father had typhoid fever, which drove most of his business away. I was too young to realise the significance of these early hardships but I know full well that all my early days were filled with a perpetual series of economies. And nothing which could honestly be done or tried to make progress possible was omitted. It was a case of "all hands to the pump" and we turned work into play.

At one time, the baby was delicate. Mother heard that milk from a Jersey cow could be had by sending a mile and a half for it. So, the Blacksmith made two hoops with a handle attached to bowl it along and my brother and I had to take a can with a tight-fitting lid and scamper each morning to fetch the baby's milk.

Swine fever broke out once among our pigs and so a brood sow and her piglets had to go to some fields in the country, which my Father rented. There was a barn in which they were shut up at night. My brother and I had to go early each morning, taking our lunch, and turn them out into the adjoining land or get into the road; some job, I can tell you! However, to relieve the monotony, after drinking the lemonade which we took in a pint and a half bottle, we used to catch hundreds of tiny frogs. Then, when the bottle was full, we played cock-shot until they were all out. What were not killed scurried back to the pond and so provided sport for another day. A pair of Barbarians we must have been!

Life was a pretty busy affair for us: washing, ironing and bread making were all done at home. Shirt making and stocking knitting for a family of nine children was no joke. Fortunately, we could always get a reliable country girl to help.

In those days, Maidservants stayed a long time in their places. I well remember three. Hannah, who was with us four years and afterwards married the slaughterman. She was an old dear. Nothing was too much trouble for her and she had infinite patience and would shield us from parental wrath whenever possible. I remember at one time my younger brother was suffering from a fever of destruction. He would rise early in the morning, light the kitchen fire, make the poker red hot and burn holes along the edge of the kitchen table and around the seats of chairs. Once, a great slash appeared in the leather of the bellows, which he had made in the hope of finding out where the wind came from. If she possibly could, she would always shield him from a spanking but, for that bit of mischief, he had to run the gauntlet of Father's wrath; wanton destruction was one thing he could not tolerate.

Hannah was followed by Mary, who hailed from Nottingham. Her people came to Nuneaton to work: in the elastic factory when it opened. When out for our daily walk, we often called at her Mother's, who frequently gave us a leaf of lemon scented geranium and, sometimes on a Saturday, a bit of bread crust pulled off a home made hot loaf, and a little dab of butter on it. We thought we were in clover to get it for our Mother did not allow bread to be cut until it was forty eight hours old. It was bread with a difference.

Then there was Kate, whose parents had a small farm at Hartsease. Blackberry time, we would set out early in the day with a basket each and go with her to her home, taking our lunch with us. The services of her brother, known as Our Jim, would be requisitioned along with his home made ladder to mount the best hedge for blackberries I've ever seen. We used to return after tea and, passing a wood known as Herke's Gutter, she would retail such blood-curdling tales as how, when the moon was at the full, two men without heads could be seen flashing lanterns from one end of the wood to the other. It was very near to the Windmill and the "cronk cronk" as the wing blew the sails of the mill around, and the ghostly atmosphere her tales conjured up made me feel thankful when we reached near enough to the town to see the street lamps with their cheerful gleams.

When it was Kate's Sunday evening to stay in, she always read us, from the fifth chapter of Daniel, the story of the Feast of Belchazza. And the writing on the wall, she read with such dramatic effect I always put my head under the clothes when I went to bed in case someone or something supernatural would pop out from the shadows cast on the wall by street lamps and would grab me. We were very intrigued as to what Belchazza's concubines were. We should doubtless have decided that they must be a type of cucumber had it not definitely stated that they drank wine out of golden vessels. Not having a dictionary among our own pile of books, it remained a mystery for many years.

When it was Kate's Sunday evening to stay in, often on the winter evenings she would pop small onions in the fire to roast; we then peeled off the outer part, which was quite black, and ate the inside with pepper and salt. We thought it a feast fit for the Gods. There was always a mad scramble to get everything cleared away before the elders returned from Service.

As we grew older, a general help was dispensed with and a widow living near came to help as required. She was a breezy character and could turn her hand to anything. She taught me to raise pork pies, which I found great difficulty in doing properly. When one dropped before I could get the meat packed in, she would say encouragingly: "Never mind; patience and perseverance made a Bishop of His Reverence."

One of Mother's particular friends was an elderly lady whose leg was what she called "gammy", owing to varicose veins. She was glad of my young legs to leave messages at various shops on the way to and from School. Her husband, a retired Excise Officer, was a humorous character. He said they always had seven spring cleans a year and he expected they always would until the Resurrection Man -- meaning the undertaker -- called and put a stop to them. She certainly was a house-proud woman and the best cook I've ever seen. Her cheese cakes were something worth remembering. On my country walks, I used to gather for her May bloom whilst it was in the hard bud stage. This, she put in a glass jar with a tight fitting lid. When it was absolutely full, she would pour gin over it and leave it a full year before straining. The result was a flavouring which added distinction to cakes, puddings or custards. Every weekday, all broom handles were scoured; scrubbing pails, also. She had a decided knack of enlisting the help off anyone who happened to be around. Her stepson held an important position on the Island of Montserrat. When he came home on furlough, I used to go to play with his children. I remember they brought yams, which were kept in a huge brown crock; we used to eat them with bread and butter and they were sweet, sticky things.

Sometimes, we went to visit Father's Aunt Susan, who was a widow. After her husband's death, she returned to the old homestead and occupied herself with hand-loom weaving, as she did when a girl.

The wooden loom, which looked like a relic from a museum, was as ancient looking as Aunt Susan, with her mob cap and prim ringlets peeping from beneath. As she worked the foot treadle, she flung the shuttle from hand to hand through the warp with remarkable rapidity and to the accompaniment of the noise of metal weights worked by the feet. The winding wheel upon which she prepared her work stood in the corner beside the open fireplace and, as small children, we used to long to play with the wooden spools. When she left her loom to take her meals or escort us around her garden, she always covered up her work with a large silk handkerchief.

She was a firm believer in herbs for maintaining health, and always put four leaves of rue in the teapot when she brewed tea.

The families who took a yearly holiday at the sea were few and far between. Day excursions were an innovation, only patronised by the venturesome who did not mind arriving home about three a.m. the next morning. The first long railway journey I ever took was when I was ten years old. Mother went to visit a cousin at Barrow-in-Furness and took me with her. It was a decided change from our inland town to go and see how big boats were built.

At the time we were there, a boat was in dock loaded with maize; the Captain was a friend of the cousin we were visiting. I remember how indignant I felt because he carried me up and down the steps when showing us over his boat. Another friend took us over the blast furnace, where we saw the molten metal through smoked glasses, and the huge chunks of hot steel drawn from the ovens and rolled into rails. It was a terrific din and the men looked so hot.

There were allotments not far from the steel works and they seemed to be devoted mainly to parsley crop, which the men's wives made into tea and sent to the works for the men to drink. The wives of the allotment holders were there each morning, in big print aprons and cotton bonnets, selling garden produce freshly cut. We visited Furness Abbey and Walney Island several times. That was a topping holiday. A great aid to the fun was a staircase which allowed us sitting on a big tea tray and slithering from the top to the bottom. I was sorry to return home.

The next year, Mother had a serious illness and I had to stay home and mind the baby. By the time household affairs became normal, I did not want to return to School, feeling I would be far behind in my work. I cried good and hard about the matter. Father, seeing how seriously perturbed I was, gave permission for me to remain at home, provided that I kept up my studies. It was never any trouble for me to read. History, I fairly revelled in and a sympathetic Schoolmistress guided my studies and, with a tribe of younger members of the family doing homework each night, one unconsciously absorbed knowledge.

Mother was a martinet for system. Each day and every hour brought its own particular job. Monday morning, all the boys' suits were brought downstairs end thoroughly brushed and any loose buttons made secure. Ten pairs of boots were cleaned and put away on top of an old fashioned oak wardrobe which stood on the landing. That was before shoe polish as we know it today; Day and Martin's blacking was purchased in packets wrapped in oiled paper. It was moistened with water and applied with a round brush and the polishing entailed real hard work before we could see our faces in the shoe -- which was the condition aimed at. Our general help applied the blacking and I used to sit on the scullery table and polish. I made up my mind that, if I ever had any boys of my own, they would clean their own shoes. And I kept my resolution: my six boys cleaned their own shoes from the time they were seven years of age. It gives boys a false idea of superiority for girls to be compelled to clean their shoes.

From now on, youthful pastimes fell into the background. Part of each morning was spent taking out the baby in the perambulator -- generally combined with delivering a joint to customers living on the outskirts of town. It was seldom possible to choose the direction desired, as a late order arriving after others had gone out decided. It is strange how fascinating and easy to walk along some roads are and how difficult and dreary others. Then again, at some houses, radiant occupants wearing brown lace in a voluminous apron would open the door and it was a pleasure to call at these houses. Others would open with a vinegary countenance and say in a scathing tone "A nice time of day to bring steak and kidney," not waiting to hear that the husband had forgotten to deliver the order until half way through the morning. Dear me! If one learns nothing else in business, one certainly learns who are the good housekeepers and who are casual, any time, any how, kind of people.

On Thursday of each week, cow heels were cooked. After they were dished up, the liquor was skimmed and the skimmings came into the house to be clarified for sale as Neats' Foot Oil. It was the perquisite of the children of the family and anyone requiring it was sent round to the kitchen door. We sold it at one shilling per pint and it averaged eleven shillings a year for the nine of us when it was divided each Christmas.

One day, a quaint old character came round for some. He was the Cemetery caretaker. He must have been almost sixty years of age for his hair was quite grey, and he had mutton chop whiskers. His wife had recently presented him with a son. He was as proud as Punch about the matter and gave us a full length description of the baby and how they looked after it. He told us how he met his wife and all about their marriage and honeymoon. He said "You know, we'd neether of us ever bin to London so we decided to go. Well! when we got there, I made up my mind to see Madame Tussauds but I didn't want the wife to know because I felt the Chamber of Horrors was no place for a female to visit -- especially as she'd have to come back and live beside the Cemetery gates. It might ha' scared her like. So I took her into a nice eating house and ordered a pot of tea and told her I'd be back soon. Off I went and saw all there was to be seen. But, golly! when I got back, there she was, tearing up and down the pavement like a caged lion. She thought I'd eloped.

Years after that episode, one of my young brothers was telling me about a boy who attended the same School as he did in Coventry. We called this boy "Joey Chamberlain" because he was clever, had a decidedly political mind and was great at argument. "Well," I enquired, "who is this wonderful Joey Chamberlain?" "Oh, he's the most old fashioned kid you ever saw. He must have been born old and he knows everything. His Dad keeps the Cemetery."

When I was fifteen, Mother decided that, as we were four girls at home, I ought to learn dressmaking. I was apprenticed for eighteen months to learn "scientific pattern draughting" and how to put a dress together. However, when I had been at it for thirteen months, Mother was ill and I had to leave. I did not shed any tears, for sitting all day was irksome work. Three hours a day was quite enough for me. I would rather be cooking meals and moving about.

That year, our present King and Queen were married. I know leg-of-mutton sleeves were fashionable and dresses buttoned down the back with about twenty three buttons. Stiff collars and all seams boned; the finishing off of a frock was a lengthy process. It's a wonder all middle aged women did not die of apoplexy. It was a sweating job to sit through a Church service in those days.

Gas stoves began to be fashionable about this time and the bedroom my sister and I occupied was over the entrance to the back part of the premises. There was no fire place under it and, consequently, it was intensely cold in the winter. Father bought a copper deflector -- something like the hood of a Dutch oven -- with a row of gas jets across it. I can assure you, after that comfort was installed, we did not envy any Duchess in the land. It was a haven of refuge from the small fry, where one could curl up on a warm sheepskin rug and read undisturbed. My two younger sisters could be very gracious towards hair-brushing time, in the hope of being allowed to come and work on its floor. We used to wish Father and Mother would sit up later because, when they passed the door, Father would call out “Now then, lassies, it's time that light was out." And the fear that it might be removed if it were not promptly put out sent us scurrying to bed.

Usually, at Whitsuntide and August Bank Holiday, Father took the whole family into the country. Mother used to pack half a home-cured ham, a large loaf of bread, butter, cakes, tea and sugar. Churches which had played a part in History, or some spot on which Oliver Cromwell had left his mark were usually our objectives. It was a most interesting way of learning the history of one's own country. And it is amazing what queer epitaphs were allowed, in olden days, to appear on tombstones in country Churchyards.

CHAPTER 5

MY MAN APPEARS

One of our most frequent callers on business was a farmer's son, Narth (William Nathaniel) Heath, who lived two miles out of town; he passed our house twice a day on his way to the Station with milk. He was nearly six years older than me and I looked upon him as one of the ancient tribe. He always annoyed me exceedingly by calling me "Missie;" it sounded ridiculous. I found out years after that it is the Cornish way of speaking to girls -- like "lassie" is in Scotland. Anyway, I always put the iceberg bit of me forward when he was around. And, although Father did quite a bit of business with his Father, we did not at that time know much about his own life.

On Saturday evening, we always had a hot supper, generally a mixed grill of steak, sweetbread, sausage and ham -- just odds and ends that only a butcher's business could supply. Usually, Narth Heath would call while Father was having supper and would be asked in, like many other business friends.

When I was about eighteen, I was one day cleaning my shoes on a bench outside the kitchen door, when Narth passed along with his horse to put it in our stables -- a thing he was frequently doing. Today, however, instead of passing by with his usual cheery, provoking "Good afternoon, Missie," he paused long enough to produce from his waistcoat pocket a strip of paper which had evidently come out of a Christmas cracker. He just dropped it in my shoe, his Celtic eyes twinkling in a provoking way. The words it contained left me in little doubt regarding his feelings toward me. I felt very perturbed. In the first place, it was a situation I had never contemplated and, secondly, his people worshipped at the Established Church and mine were out-and-out Brethren. The two were as wide apart as the poles.

Even had my inclination been as he wished, there were more obstacles in the way than I could climb over. So, for a long time after that disturbing day, I contrived to keep out of his way, trying to treat the whole affair as joke or a dream. Events of which I knew nothing at the time were, however, shaping the destinies of both of us.

It seems that, when he left School, his Father arranged that he should do his best on the farm, without being paid any wages until he was old enough to settle in a home of his own. He was then to step into a small farm, fully equipped in every way. When he told his Father that he would like to farm on his own account in about three years' time, his Father, who was a most erratic character, said to him "My lad, when that child," pointing to a stepbrother one year old, "is off my hands and settled in life, then I'll consider what I can do for you." Which was a most unreasonable decision, considering that he had already given ten years of hard work without any payment other than food and drink. Also, his own Mother had died suddenly and left sufficient money to put the four children she had left in a comfortable way towards getting settled in life. Which money the Father had used free of interest. However, the fact that Narth had dared to ask for anything definite acted like a match to gunpowder. Narth, therefore, suggested that he should find a job where he could be paid and this enraged his father so much that he literally turned Narth and his sister, Mary -- three years younger than Narth -- out into the world without sixpence between them.

It was a heartbreaking time. He came to tell us all about the matter and, instead of his brown, twinkling eyes flashing all kinds of things, they were just full of tears and his face full of despair. I felt at that moment the only decent thing to do was to get thawed out. It just jerked me awake.

Narth got a post next day with a well known cattle dealer and, before he went, I promised to write to him once a week. I did not stop to consider that my parents might have something to say about the matter. And they did! Father told me candidly that he liked and admired Narth; his character was such that he had no excuse to forbid my friendship. "But," he said, "if you get linked up with old Mr Heath, you'll have sorrow and heartache as long as you live. He's a perfect blight as far as happiness goes." The longer I live, the more right I see Father was -- up to a point. I was aware of what Mr Heath would do if he could, and to be forewarned is to be forearmed. There is little of an eggshell in my composition: if folk barge into me, I roll out of the way and, if they hit hard, I just bounce like a sorbo ball. And I felt womanhood itself would be disgraced if I let Narth down. Since all he required at the moment was to feel that he had a staunch friend, I was willing and, in time, became happier to have that privilege.

During the next year and a half, I only saw him for a. short time about every four months. And his visits were never planned beforehand, so I lost the pleasure of anticipation. Cattle deliveries in Nuneaton were usually the reason for his presence.

Just a little distance from our house lived a dear old lady, Mrs Bursley who, when she was not ushering infants into the world, was always delighted to see her young friends. So often, in the evening, I would take my needlework and sit with her awhile. She was then about seventy years of age and had seen a lot of trouble. Her husband died and left her with four children and nothing to support them with. He had always helped his Mother, who paid him a small wage and promised he would inherit her farm at her death. He, unfortunately, died a few days before his Mother and her will left her Estate to any children that survived her. The will was made after my friend's husband died, which fact was kept from his Mother, who was too ill at the time to be troubled. Mrs Bursley was able to sympathise in a very real way with Narth and me.

She had known several of George Eliot's characters and could tell some interesting things about them. One evening, we were talking about the ups and downs of life and comparing the lots of various people we knew when, quite unexpectedly, Narth Heath came. "Sit down, Sweet William,” she said, "while I tell you one of the names made famous in a bit of poetry I learnt in my young days: 'If love's your disease and you inwardly groan,/ to the old Parish Clerk your disorder make known./ Then a full publication three Sundays will tell/ that you feel yourself sick and desire to be well./ Then, next, to a jeweller's shop I've been told/ you must go and procure a small circle of gold/ and on her left hand put the magical charm/ which the little blind urchin will quickly discern.'"

We had to hurry away because Narth had to catch the last train to Coventry. He had come to tell me that he had definitely accepted the offer to manage a large farm in Essex belonging to Mr Harkness, his sister's Godfather, who wished to live at Westcliffe. His sister was to keep house for him. They went the following week and it proved a happy arrangement for them both. The greatest drawback was the fact that he could not save much money, although the experience was good. However, he stayed thirteen months and, during that time, went to the Dairy Show at Islington.

Whilst there, he saw the Dairy Supply stand and it brought to his mind an incident which had occurred years ago. Mr Barham, afterwards Sir George Barham, came to Warwickshire on business and, whilst there, called at Narth's home. Narth's Father was one of the earliest senders of milk to the Dairy Supply. Whether he saw that family affairs might some day be strained between Mr Heath and his children, we never knew but, when Narth drove him to the Station, he remarked as he said goodby "Well, I've enjoyed my visit and, if at any time you're in need of a friend or a job, come to London to me." So, on the spur of the moment, he called to see Mr Barham, who offered him a post right at the bottom of the milk business: washing churns, with the management of a Branch in view. It did not sound very alluring yet the sterilizing of churns was a necessary and important part of the work. Promotion was to be according to aptitude to acquire business sense after mastering the preliminaries. It looked as though it would be some years before he would be able to afford a home of his own.

By this time, my sisters were growing up so, with my parents' consent, I decided to take up nursing. In those days, it seemed impossible to enter a large hospital until one was twenty four years of age; it was a fashionable occupation and many rich people gave their services free. However, after much persevering, I was accepted by a small Infectious Diseases Hospital, situated at Gallows Hall between Hertford and Ware, in the Parish of Hartford Heath, the home of the celebrated novelist, Mrs Florence Barclay, who we often saw when on night duty and taking our morning walk. We always admired her radiant personality and trim, tailor-made costumes. Her chief characteristic seemed to be an utter lack of snobbishness.

Considering my nursing career was to be short, I feel that I was fortunate in working with two nurses who were well trained and willing to assist me to gain all the knowledge I possibly could.

During my stay there, we were kept busy with typhoid cases until the last week, when an epidemic of diphtheria broke out, which was good experience for me. Medical science was branching out and experiments were being made in various ways. A new serum had been discovered, which medical men hoped great things from in the treatment of typhoid; the first patient to be treated in the County was in my ward. Fever nursing is hard, exacting work -- but interesting. The Medical Officer for the County had his laboratory at the Hospital and it was interesting to see the result of the incubated germs which were sent to be tested.

I was allowed a day off duty each month and usually spent it with an elderly relative who lived in Willesden. She, dear soul, had seen a lot of trouble. Her husband had been a brute to her. She said to me, one day: “You know, dear, patience always gets its reward. I prayed every day for thirty one years that the Lord would let me tie my husband's jaws up -- and he did. I laid him out and put him away without many people knowing what I had endured. Now, in a quiet way, I'm enjoying life. I get a bad attack once in a way but I've never had one yet when there's been salmon for tea, which is one thing to be thankful for.”

Narth usually contrived to spend a short time with me on those days and we finally decided to be married as soon as he was given the management of a Branch. He thought it would be about three years. However, due to some reason or other, he was shortly sent to the East End of London and, finally, appointed Manager of the Stratford Branch.

Which paved the way to our marriage and the home for which Narth had an intense longing. His own Mother died when he was eight years of age and his Step-Mother was an invalid who seldom left her room. The housekeeping was done by one of her relatives, who systematically had made things uncomfortable for the first family. So, early on Sunday morning, September 17th 1899, we walked to the Church where Narth's Mother was buried and were quietly married by licence. The Vicar, Rev. A.E. Hunt, gave us a nice, inspiring address afterwards, which I have never forgotten. After breakfast, we went as usual to the morning service at our own Gospel Hall; in the afternoon to Sunday School; and service again in the evening; then we went to Birmingham, en route to Cornwall.

My Father had a great objection to Sunday travelling but, because I had been sensible enough, as he put it, to get married quietly without any fuss, he gave me a cheque for £20, which I saved and for which in after years I was very thankful.

CHAPTER 6

OUR HONEYMOON

We spent the first day of our honeymoon in Plymouth. Narth thought the Hoe was one spot on Earth from where one could get a good blow and look forward as well as backward. Then, down to see an aged relative of Narth at Lostwithiel, whose husband was, on two occasions, Mayor of that town, with its attractive Station. Afterwards, to the Bodmin Moors, where Narth had promised years ago to spend his honeymoon. Mrs Runel was a distant cousin of his Mother and had no children of her own. She had always mothered Narth and her constant letters during the years when his character was being formed played a great part in helping him realise that they who commit their way unto the Lord never have cause to regret it.

We arrived at Bodmin Road Station in pouring rain. Mr Runel met us and we drove seven miles across the Moor in an open trap. Hector, the horse, stepped out well, however, and we soon reached Woodal Warleggan, where the door stood wide open sending a stream of light down the garden path, and a dignified lady stood in the doorway to bid us welcome. Kindly graciousness exuded from her. We were soon seated around the supper table, whilst a gloving peat fire was most welcome after the damp drive.

When we were almost half way through supper, Elizabeth, an elderly woman who had been, for many years, general factotum came in and placed the bedroom candles on the sideboard. Her features were exactly like the pictures of Deborah in Uncle Tom’s Cabin and her skin was as dark as a negress. Will 'e be needin' anythin' else, Missis m' Dear?" she asked.

"No, thank you, Elizabeth," replied Mrs Runel.

"Good night, then; don't sit up and get too tired."

Mr Runel's eyes twinkled, with a roguish smile, as he explained that Mrs Runel frequently had heart attacks and was more or less an invalid. Elizabeth was a martinet in looking after her. In a few moments, he had recounted a long list of Elizabeth's peculiarities. "But," he said, "She is worth her weight in gold from a domestic standpoint.”

She was recounting to Narth next morning that, the previous week, she had been to pay a visit to her sister, who had lived for many years with some friends of his. They had recently built a new home and she explained, her black eyes rolling in a weird way the whilst: “You know, Mr Narth, they’m got a beautiful cimitery before the front door."

"Cemetery! It must be a gloomy place to live in."

"No it bain't."

Mr Runel exploded with laughter: "It’s a conservatory she means, Narth."

"No, it bain't," she argued. "Eliza said 'cimitery' and it's full o' the most beautiful flowers," she added with a final snap. Turning to Narth, she went on: "Maister must have his bit o' fun. It's contradictin' he always is. I told him that, at Eliza's, there was a beautiful full moon and he said ‘Not half as full as the one at Warleggan.’ An' I'll bet a new black lead brush that it was," she added with vehement energy.

I have never been in a house where three people had such decided personalities. There was thoughtfulness and dignity in the Mistress, infectious cheerfulness in the Master and devoted cheerfulness in the maid. Elizabeth was always up at 4 am. The washing was done before the family sat down to breakfast; consequently, there was never any muddle.

My honeymoon was not at all conventional. Mornings were usually spent in the kitchen; all the Cornish dishes my husband liked, I learned to make: Cornish pasty, clotted cream, saffron cake and bun loaf or, as it is called in Cornwall, "Currant bread," and leek pie. Afternoons were spent visiting old friends of my husband's Mother, who seemed to have lived in the vicinity for generations.

That was my first visit to the West but I made friends who have remained friends through all the years. Some have gone to their reward, but there are still a few left who delight to talk of old times and recall jolly events when the ones we loved were still here.

One day, there was the yearly round-up of cattle on Rough Tor, which the men seemed to enjoy exceedingly. They came home tired after a long day in the saddle.

One morning, Mr Runel, Narth and myself went over a tin mine. It was great fun, crawling through tunnels with a candle or scrambling over rocks as high as oneself and finally arriving at the spot where the tin, after being put through the stamps, and looking like mud, is shovelled into a huge tub. It is a good thing the tin stamps have to be erected in the quiet places of the Earth, for the monotonous "thump, thump, thump" would be very wearing if it were next door to a bed-ridden invalid.

The Captain of the mine paid me a great compliment: he said to Narth: "The girl you've married will never sit down calmly by the side of difficulties. She'll climb over them just like she climbed this morning. It's very few ladies would have scrambled like she has done today." Considering that I had been brought up with five brothers, a scramble more or less seemed nothing to boast about. Personally, I thought I'd been in clover, as Narth or Mr Runel were there to give me a hand over the more difficult bits.

Returning from the mine, we met John Trewithin, Mr Runel's hind, carting home a wagon load of faggots to Woodal, to be stacked and used as required on the open hearth fire in the kitchen. It seemed John had been, the previous evening, to a special service at the little Chapel nearby. Mr Runel asked him what kind of a meeting it had been. “Well," replied John, "The Reverend Tregowan spoke about Elijah an' do 'e know, Maister, 'e might ha' 'ad tea with un, 'e seemed to know un zo well."

The next time I saw John was many years afterwards. I was staying with friends near St Tudy and, on Sunday, went to a tiny Wesleyan Chapel on the Moors. A Minister from Bodmin was supposed to come and take the service, but did not turn up. So John emerged from his pew and officiated. His prayer puzzled me for some time; he prayed "Oh Lord, we have strayed and divited from they ways like lost sheep" -- he evidently meant "deviated." Surely, the almighty needs to be an understander of much besides orthodox language.

Have you noticed how the personality of certain types of people banishes constraint and gives one a feeling of liberation'? Never had I spent a holiday in such a charmingly mysterious County, with a quaint, unmistakable "foreign" atmosphere. It is the land of the imaginative Celts, and the land made the Celts. Visitors staying at the fashionable Hotels and Boarding Houses along the Coast do not come into contact with the alluring charm which may be found on the Moors. Simply because many parts of the County are being commercialised by outsiders, who fleeces the visitors in a way a genuine Cornish person would scorn to do.

Paying a call at a farm in the Parish of Candyman gave me another insight as to how Cornish housewives obtain such delectable food. We were admitted into what I once heard a Minister call "the inner Circle", meaning the kitchen. A long table was simply loaded with fruit tarts, huge loaves of bread, about two dozen hefty pasties and, just being fetched out of the clone oven was a large joint of beef, surrounded by baked potatoes. Another member of the family was dishing up kidney beans, into which she ladled several tablespoons of thick clotted cream, which was chopped in with a knife until it had all melted.

Elizabeth took me to see where she stored the butter. It was along the lane, in the bank, with bramble bushes growing thickly all around. A wooden lid was lifted, which brought into view a well of cool, sparkling water. Shelves of Delabole slate were arranged around three sides and Maidenhair and Harts tongue ferns were growing between the cracks, with water like dewdrops trickling down, made it a charming refrigerator. The butter, in round pats, was awaiting the Regrader (?) to pick it up to take to Plymouth Market. "Now, m'Dear, what do 'e think o' that? Wouldn't they folk up along o' Lunnon like a butter shelf like that?"

"They certainly would and I, for one, will always keep its cool atmosphere in mind when the affairs of life incline to flurry me. I'll think of those illuminating dewdrops."

The time to return came all too quickly. When we reached Plymouth, it seemed very strange to see so many men in uniform and, at Bristol, where we had to change, it was even worse; we had difficulty in getting our train. We had not seen a newspaper since coming to Cornwall and knew nothing about disturbing events in South Africa, which had evidently moved rapidly, and troops were embarking as quickly as possible to the Boer War.

We went to London via Nuneaton, to pick up my baggage. Before leaving, we went to say goodby to dear Mrs Bursley. “Well, my Dear," she said, "I shall not ask if you're happy. I'll wait until you've had a summer and a winter together." At the time, I thought she meant a year but I've come to the conclusion she meant until we had experienced the ups and downs of life -- the bright, sunshiny spots and the shadows of anxiety which most people get sooner or later. It would be most interesting to discuss the matter with her now, after all these years. The fact that she has been in the Glory Land a long time is just one of life's checkmates. However, even to have known such a splendid woman is just cause for satisfaction.

CHAPTER 7

LIFE IN LONDON

To go from a country town, where one knows most of the inhabitants, to a place like the East End of London with its teeming thousands of people, all intent upon their own pursuits, takes some settling down to. Then again, I had to learn what food the new acquisition in the shape of a husband liked -- and what he disliked. One needs to do a good deal of adjusting mentally, as well as putting the new linen away tidily and arranging the furniture.

I shall never forget the first night I spent in my new home. It was a flat, one of a block of eight and ours was Number Five. The ground floor was composed of business premises, offices and stables, with a gateway and yard at the rear, with a platform along two sides to load and unload milk churns. Usually, my Narth had the key of the yard but, whilst he had been on holiday, one of the foremen had had it, and he lodged some distance away. About midnight, a most horrible din commenced -- horses squealing and kicking the swing boards which separated the standings; it was like a wild beast show gone mad. There was nothing for it but to get up and find out the cause of the commotion.

It was impossible to go through the gate, as it was locked, so my husband had to climb over the balcony which overlooked the yard and climb down the drainpipe. The cause of the row was a swingboard which had become unhooked at one end; the horses were kicking it back and forth and the whole stable full -- sixteen horses -- were squealing their applause.

At four a.m., the day's work began. The Roundsmen arrived and drove out with their loads of churns; some had single horse loads and some had double. After they were away, Narth went to the Station to receive and check the milk arriving from the country, after which he had the office work to do, which occupied him until breakfast. Then, at intervals during the day, milk would arrive and have to be checked. A part of most afternoons was spent interviewing customers, who often lived several miles out in the country; I often accompanied him.

The first Sunday evening, we went to hear the Rev. Mark, Guy, Pearse at Wesley's Chapel in City Road. I remember he read the lesson from a small pocket Bible. The subject was Jesus walking on the sea; he treated it more like an address to Sunday School children than a proper service.

One tenant in the flats had a large family of children, the youngest only a few weeks old. On wash days, I used to have her baby in my rooms to give her a chance to get on with her work. I was thankful for outside interests, for my rooms were so convenient and easily run there was more leisure than I had ever experienced before.

On Wednesday afternoon, I often went to a Medical Mission held at Forest Gate. It was an enlightening experience to see how different types reacted to their various difficulties. Some were brave and perky, determined not to be crushed, whistling like sparks from a pine log fire. Others were one sad chunk of dejection, as though every bit of spring had gone out of their lives. People always working amongst them must need a tremendous amount of vitality, for it seems impossible to refrain from giving something of oneself when the need is so real.

One thing bothered me very much at first: we had no gas fittings in the flat and had to use oil lamps. I had never used them before and was scared stiff in case they would explode for, I argued to myself, if the lamp sets on fire, there is no safe place to throw it. If I open the front window, it would fall on someone in the street and, if I go out of the door and pitch it over the balcony, it will probably set fire to the stables. So, to be safe, I used two candles when Narth was not in the house. I was teased unmercifully about it but it did not alter matters. Fire is one thing I really am afraid of.

Our first visitors were my two youngest brothers. They revelled in Angel Lane, with its bustle as people congregated there. And such people! They were all imaginable types and seemed to have been gathered out of every nation under Heaven. The wares exposed for sale were heterogeneous as the people who sold them. The atmosphere was exceedingly jocular and noisy, and everybody was ragging everybody else. What they lacked in correctness, they gained in piquancy. My brothers were of opinion that the allusions made were not always in good taste. One very red-faced man used to hold up a leg of mutton and yell "Buy, buy, buy a lady's leg at four and a half."

To reach Stratford Broadway via Angel Lane was a tussle only equalled by trying to drive through Nuneaton Market Place on a Saturday night to catch the milk train. Then, all the rowdy elements from miles around congregate there in groups until one's horse has to nuzzle them out of the way.

On Sunday evening, Narth used to indulge in the country occupation of feeding the horses. The horse-keeper appreciated the rest so, after returning from evening service, we always fed the gee gees before returning to the flat. I filled the scuttles while Narth carried them to the mangers.

Spring found us with several new friends. On St David's day, we went to the Welsh service in St Paul's Cathedral. I did enjoy the measured rhythm of the singing. Shortly afterwards, the Dowlais and Merthyr United Choir had a command to sing before Queen Victoria and, whilst they were in London, gave a concert in the Queen's Hall. It was Father and Mother's old choir and Dan Davies, who I had heard so much about, was conducting. It was a real treat but, unfortunately, we had to come away before the Hallelulia Chorus as Narth had a bad headache and the applause seemed to make it worse.

On Monday afternoons, Narth had to take his books to the chief office in Museum Street to be audited. One day, he and the Manager from Romford were approaching the Manor House as the relief of Mafeking was just about to be proclaimed when, instantaneously, such a huge crowd collected that the Romford man found it impossible to get out until hours afterwards. Narth was more fortunate but he always said it was a wonderful scene and how much akin everybody seemed when they heard the good news. The cheering was terrific.

One afternoon after lunch, I explored on my own account and, ferreting around, I managed to find a grocer who served behind his own counter and, therefore, took an interest in supplying his customers with what they liked. Also a butcher who, when I wanted undercut did not try to plank round steak on me. They both lived at Forest Gate, which was good exercise for me to walk to do my shopping. When the days got warmer, we frequently spent tuppence on a tram ride out to Epping Forest when the day's work was done.

By the time the leaves were turning to russet and the days getting shorter, a wee son arrived to add to our happiness and responsibility.

He was so tiny he just had to be kept warm and cozy until he grew big enough to wear the garments prepared for him. However, by the time he was four months old, he weighed nearly six pounds and Nurse Cameron remarked "He had all the world to grow in." In time, he became quite an average size and he certainly had all his buttons on regarding intelligence. We felt we were very rich and my youngest brother strutted about with as much importance as the chief figure in a Lord Mayor's Procession because he was an Uncle. My three sisters were all wonderfully good to him, for which I was thankful; his coming had taken all the pep out of me. A long visit to my home did the both of us good but we were doubtful if the East End of London was a suitable place to rear a delicate child in.

Then, circumstances pointed a way out of our difficulty. Narth had always hoped that, in time, he would be able to farm and that was the reason why we went to the small flat over the stables: to enable us to save money. Early in 1901, we heard that a farm at Higham-on-the-Hill would be at liberty in March. We had not nearly enough money to take it, but were able to borrow.

CHAPTER 8

FARMING AT LAST

The farm was what Narth called a ranching kind of a place: nothing neat, spick or span about it. About two hundred acres of it ran with hedges in instalments -- to be continued in our next kind of style. Quite near the house were two of the most muddy gates in the whole of Leicestershire, I should imagine and, to get across to the main drive, down which we had a right of way to reach the Watling Street, was a perfect quagmire.

Narth had rather an amusing experience as a result of being compelled to negotiate those gateways. After looking over the farm, he was returning to London with his boots and leggings all muddy. Two men of the bookie type were in the same compartment of the train. Narth was sitting in the corner with eyes closed, apparently asleep, when one said to the other "I wonder what this greenhorn will do when he gets to town?"

However, the Landlord was willing to make several improvements and give Narth a free hand to carry out his own ideas. Also, three thatched cottages which had been an eyesore for years were pulled down and we had the bricks, etc. to make up roads and gateways. Narth arranged with the Engineers of the factories in Nuneaton that, whenever he sent a wagon load of hay or straw to Town, the empty wagon was to load up with ashes. Altogether, it was a good place for young beginners to start in and, a few years later, we had the place looking very different.

It had one great advantage: one Friday every month, the Hunt met on the farm and, the first Monday in the month, met a few miles away and came straight to the coverts on the farm to draw. That meant two days in every month our land was over-ridden and ploughed up by hundreds of horses going over it. Gates were left open by irresponsible followers; the public at large do not realise what a lot of damage and annoyance can be caused by folk who are either too lazy or too insolent to shut a gate after them. However, the hunting stables in the district could take all the hay we had to spare, so that was a definite compensation for the work they often made. Knowing that we should only be there until our financial affairs were on a sounder footing, and something more to our taste turned up, we hailed with delight anything which would bring in an honest penny.

The house was one of those kind with plenty of space: large rooms and oak floors in the bedrooms, except the attic, which was concrete. It was so arranged that work was carried on under difficulties. One seemed to waste energy running after the wind. For instance, to the left of the front door was a sitting room and the pantry, which was reached by descending two very ungainly steps, with mortar worn from between the bricks and smelling like a vault; huge fat snails oozed out all around between the thrawl (slate shelf) and the floor. On the right of the front door was a square, sunny room with two windows, a good big store cupboard, an inglenook on each side of the fireplace and a rough quarry floor which soaked up water like a sponge. Then came the kitchen and, each time we wanted to go to the pantry, we had to pass through the aforementioned room. The dairy, with the cooler, was right South and, each summer, it was like a greenhouse for heat -- which proves that there are some lunatics outside asylums. The kitchen had no less than five doors, which made it a miserable cold place in winter. We had a wooden partition put along one side, which shut three doors off and made it more cozy.

Labour must have been cheap in the days of long ago, when old farmhouses were planned. One may, by a fluke, meet a well planned farmhouse but, to do so, is to call forth a comment. Certainly, the keeping clean of such barmy structures may well strike dismay to any girl who is contemplating taking on the job, and one cannot wonder that farmers' wives find difficulty in getting help.

Farmers themselves are indifferent to the convenience or inconvenience of a house so long as they have room for a comfortable chair. “We don't get the living from the house," they say, "so why bother?" Therefore, the home which looks so inviting externally remains to call forth the rapturous remarks of passers-by, who yearn after rural surroundings but have to live in semi-detached villas, with space for garage to hold the car they hope to possess even if, at the moment, they cannot afford to buy it; not knowing how well off they really are, with a sure income regardless of milk prices or weather conditions.

Yet Narth's logic was sound. He said "We're not married to it and we can make the rent and a bit over." So we settled down to get well and properly established in the ancient profession of farming. Like most young people, we thought we had a monopoly of wisdom, but fortunately found out our mistakes before it had cost us too much financially. Narth had been used to rearing calves but, after seeing twenty one out of forty die of blackleg, decided to go in for sheep, and buy cows instead of rearing them.

Poultry rearing, I found interesting work but it was some time before I could find enough courage to pick up a broody hen. The second spring was nice and early and I was lucky enough to get some Silver Wyandottes hatched out in time to be laying by October. One day when I went to feed them, there seemed to be one short and, at the next feed, some more were gone. I could not find any trace of them when, suddenly, my small son was seen sitting by the coop and, as the chicks emerged, gripped one tight in each hand, exclaiming with great glee, his face shining with satisfaction, "I can make 'em squawk."

"But that's very cruel and naughty. Where are the others?"

"In the bath, learning to swim," he replied: and there, sure enough, were all the small corpses in the horse trough, which he could just reach into. He had a rubber duck with a whistle in its tummy which, when pressed, said "Quack." It always swam in the bath with him when he had his daily bath, so he concluded live chickens which could squawk were legitimate things for a small boy to squeeze the breath out of.

This world is a large place and there are so many things for a small child to learn, so I suppose one should not be too impatient with them. But all the powers of darkness seemed to be conspiring to prevent me making headway with poultry. Having a good pond in the rickyard, we decided to keep ducks and invested in four Indian Runner duck and an Aylesbury drake. Feeling assured that I could find a ready sale for table poultry, I got some settings of Javonills eggs, which were, at that time, being boosted. They hatched out splendidly; then the drake thought they would be a choice morsel and set about gobbling them up. I saw the wee legs of one sticking out of his beak, as he stood gulping to transfer it to his internal regions.

"Well," I exclaimed, looking aghast at his brutal behaviour to the hen which was struggling to get out of the coop to him, "This is the last meal you'll have," as I caught him by the neck. "You're a real bar to progress." I shut him up in the dog kennel until one of the men could kill him. Narth suggested that I had been dreaming. "No," I indignantly replied, "You get him slaughtered and you'll see the evidence for yourself." So his internal apparatus was, in due time, exchanged for sage and onions, thus spoiling his destructive propensities in a most efficient way.

Farmers looking back on the year 1903 always wonder however they came through, the weather was so dry. In July, Narth's Father sold, to the member of parliament, a cart load of hay for twelve pounds. A local colliery offered him a thousand pounds for a rick of approximately one hundred tons. He would not accept the offer because it was at a lower rate than the odd load he had sold. Narth was furious because his Father would not take the chance to make money; instead, he was feeding a group of bullocks which he sent to the sale, where they did not fetch the reserve price. He took them home and, later, fed to them the hay the colliery had offered to buy. At Christmas, he sold the bullocks for less money than he was offered in July.

Local farmers, for many years afterwards, when talking of the struggle they had to find water for their stock, usually concluded the yarn with "That was the time when old Heath was too mad to accept a thousand pounds for a rick of hay. He ought to be compelled to let Narth do his business for him; he's got no more judgement than a scupper nail. He talks about making the world starve! Why, bless my life and soul, his little world, after it has starved, will only laugh and say 'The man must be daft to turn good money away!'"

I used to hear all these different opinions, as business friends talked over a cup of tea, but they fell upon my ears without making any impression. I little dreamt that, in after years, Mr Heath's methods would affect me in any way.

There was no time, and less opportunity, in our busy life to sit down add talk things over but I often think it's a pity that Narth and I did not discuss his Father's business method at greater length.

The day after our fourth son was born, Narth's brother came over to see if Narth would be reconciled to his Father -- his Stepmother had suddenly passed away the previous day. Narth was only too pleased to find the way was clear to a friendly footing. He returned with his brother and had a long talk with his Father. But the stepbrother and step sister were very antagonistic: one could feel their resentment whenever they came near.

We soon found out why our friendship was desired: Narth's Father had muddled his affairs until he was like a piece of knotted string, and unable to get out unaided. Narth said the only thing to do was to have a sale and turn the surplus machinery into money. The implement agents used to make a bee line for his Father whenever a new implement was put on the market, knowing that he could never resist them. Consequently, he had dozens of implements in good condition but never used -- simply because he had acquired something more modern. So a sale was arranged and he came to live in the next Parish to us. For several years, he seemed a new man: cheerful, friendly, went out and mixed with his fellow creatures and was all the better for it. Yet the one stepbrother and sister were still like bears with sore heads; nothing we could do made any difference to their off-hand behaviour. They hotly resented their Father having any desire to be friendly with his first family.

We had nice neighbours and there was a very helpful atmosphere surrounding any Parish event. The Rector, who was the Father of the present Bishop of Chester, was a sound evangelical preacher. His wife trained the choir and his daughter took an active interest in the young people, especially the boys. She had classes for various things several evenings each week, teaching the violin to any boy who desired to learn; also, basket making and wood carving. Many of the articles were sold at the annual Garden Party held on the Rectory lawn, in aid of foreign Missions.

The Rector's second daughter was a Medical Missionary in Palestine and her enthusiasm infected the village. Her hospital was of real interest to old and young. An old man we frequently employed to do hedge-cutting, himself a confirmed lover of alcohol, told Narth that there would be no chance in Higham to get drunk. He said "Miss Fisher keeps the young uns busy until they're old enough not to want to go crooked. Every house you go near has somebody fiddlin' away in it and, if it ain’t music they're making, they think it is, so it answers its purpose." But, really, there was quite a lot of musical talent and some good concerts were held in the School Room.

A women's bible class was held weekly in the Reading Room and, during Lent, a sewing meeting at the Rectory in aid of the cot which the village contributed to in the Hospital at Salt in Palestine. A yearly account of who had occupied the cot, their ailments and general progress and needs, both spiritually and physically, gave us a chance to remember them in our prayers.

When Miss Fisher came home on furlough, she used to bring the quaint garments the people in the East still wear. I well remember the time when the later Bishop of Chester was a boy at school, the annual Garden Party was held in the Rectory garden and he, with all a boy's zest and love of a noisy job, going round with a big brass bell, announcing to all and sundry that, at six o'clock, Miss Katie Fisher will be under the mulberry tree, to explain to anyone interested all about the native dress and customs. Admission three pence. Thereupon, at six o'clock, we adjourned to the shade of the mulberry tree, where various ladies were dressed up as inhabitants of the East. The significance of the embroidery on the various garments was explained and we heard what a sad, drab affair life in the East is for women. They seem to jump from childhood to womanhood without any girlhood intervening, making one realise what a wonderful institution Christian missionaries are when they try to bring brightness, health and wholesomeness to people who are loaded with care and trouble.

Market Bosworth was about six miles away and Narth thought he would like to see what kind of a cattle market it was. So, when some lambs were ready for sale, he took them to the auction. Being pressed for time, he decided to get a shave when he arrived there. When he returned, he still looked like an animated scrubbing brush and walked into the house with a nonsensical air a small boy might assume, who knew he had transgressed, yet hoped to find grace by putting on a bold front. He said "I know I still look disgraceful but if you could have seen the ancient apparition who operates the razor, you'd understand; he is over eighty years of age and looks more than a hundred. I let him lather me but, when I saw the razor getting near my face, held by a hand which shook with palsy, I just jumped up and washed the lather off and paid him his money, feeling that I'd had a good escape."

"I then went to the Blacksmith to get a bolt rethreaded and he was another queer character. An Italian organ grinder was playing just outside his forge. The Blacksmith, a big, fat man with twinkling eyes, said 'Just you wait half a mo' and hear a man swear in Italian.' With that, he took a penny piece out of the hot cinders and, almost at the same moment, the Italian came to the door with a most ingratiating smile for money. The Blacksmith picked up the penny and tossed it back and fore, from one hand to the other, until he reached the Italian, then dropped it into his outstretched hand. Well, I don't know if it was swearing words he uttered but his looks were sufficient to kill. The blacksmith shook with laughter, saying 'My money's always hot and a Fishmonger's is always cold.'"

Narth asked him how many more years the old Barber was going to remain in business. He replied "Well, he's a rum un; he arranges every day to drop in at some house just at dinner time. He has about a dozen places to choose from. Yesterday, 'e came here and my wife, thinking to choke him off, said 'I'm sorry, Mr Weaver, I can't ask you to stay today; we've only got bacon and beans.' 'Splendid! Splendid!' he replied in tones of great satisfaction, 'I love beans and bacon.' It

clean took the wind out o' the old lady's sails. But, all the same, 'e's a rum un."

During our third year at Higham, another son arrived to add to our responsibilities: a child who was the exact opposite to Number One. He was fair, plump and the essence of contentment. Nothing ever perturbed him. It was often amusing to hear Number One put Number Two right, when they grew old enough to play without supervision. Right opposite the scullery window, the road to the main drive was reached through a gate with a spinney on each side. Often, squirrels would run along the top of the gate from one spinney to the other. Upon one occasion, Number One was caught swinging on the gate, which Daddy thought was dangerous, so he explained that the gate belonged to the Landlord, who would be angry if it were used for anything else than to keep the cows in the field. A long time after that, Number Two was having a nice little ride, his feet planted firmly on the bottom bar of the gate and his hands clutching a higher bar. Number One was heard to exclaim, with great indignation, "You get off at once; if the Honourable sees you he'll be furious."

Both boys showed they had a streak of Welsh in them, by their love of singing. Number One, also, was proud of the fact that he could pronounce long words. A song very popular at that time was "0h, do let me go!"; my sisters used to put him on a chair and bribe him with chocolates to sing it. The last line always came with a terrific rush, as though someone inside him was pushing the words out pell-mell; this was because he did not control his breath, he wanted to get at the chocolate and he wanted to be what he called "Clapped off." "Oh! Flo, do let me go/ riding along in your motor car/ Some people say you're peculiar/ and singular and so you are/ but there's room for two, me and you/ in your elegant motor car."

The only car in our district at that time was a small electric car, owned by our Landlord and mostly driven by his wife, whose name my son thought must be "Flo" and he certainly thought she was elegant to go sailing along, so gracefully. The said car would run almost twelve miles without being recharged. Upon several occasions, the Footman had to return on foot to fetch the Groom and Tony, the carriage horse, to tow it home, because the power had given out before it was expected to. Narth suggested that a box be built to attach to the back of the car so that Tony would always be at hand to bring then home.

When my second boy was one year old, my Father suddenly passed away. It was a terrible shock to us all as he had not been ill and appeared to be in his normal health when he went to bed the previous evening. He was a very efficient hub, around which our family life revolved in a methodical, even course. He was intensely interested in the doings of all his family and we never thought of embarking on any new enterprise without discussing the matter with him. "Threshing it out," he termed it, saying that two heads were better than one, even if they're only sheeps'. We missed his wise judgement and quaint quotations and the cheery welcome he always gave us when we paid him a visit in the old home.

Whitsuntide, 1905, was rather late. Narth had not been well during the winter and our oldest boy was recovering from measles, which had left him with a bad cough. So Narth's sister kept house for me whilst we went to Cornwall for a change: Narth, Ivor, my sister and I. We stayed at Camelford and our bedroom overlooked the River Camel, whose ripples made music over the boulders and was a great source of pleasure to Ivor, who caught small fish in the shallow part whilst we sat on its banks with our books. It was a real rest. Narth renewed old friendships; all the old inhabitants remembered him and the donkey he used to ride to school. We visited friends who lived at an ancient farmhouse which, in smuggling days, often played a part in hiding the smugglers -- whether the inhabitants wished to hide them or not. When pursued by the Customs Officers, the smugglers simply entered, barred the door and kept the inmates quiet at the point of a pistol. It was an old world setting for old fashioned folk, but they were modern enough; they dearly loved to spend a day in Plymouth and would not miss the Royal Counties Show for anything. Narth said that it was like going back three hundred years to go to Cornwall. At the same time, if you wished to see the latest thing in machinery and artificial manures -- go to Cornwall.

As time went on, Narth frequently had an attack of asthma. The Doctor thought the house was too low and advised us to move. It was ten years before we saw our way clear to do so.

CHAPTER 9

OUR GOOD FARM

By this time, we had two more sons; therefore, it was imperative that we should, if possible, get near a decent school. The very type of farm Narth had always hoped for came into the market on the Market Bosworth Estate. We were fortunate enough to be accepted as tenants though, as is usually the case, there was one fly in the ointment we felt might cause trouble. The Landlord, Mr Scott, was a most eccentric man; he might really have lived in feudal days. His will was law with tenants and labourers. His own workmen were supplied with smock frocks and, consequently, looked very picturesque. We were told that, if we could get over the first year, we should be all right. However, the second day of our tenancy, he called with the Agent, a retired Sergeant Major, who looked after the cottage rents and the workmen; a man large in stature and ideas of his own importance. The Business agent who let us the farm lived several miles away on another Estate he managed.

The only thing I objected to in the house was the kitchen range; or, rather, the fact that the arrangement which held the fire was not a range at all -- it was merely a cottage grate with an open fire and very small oven. The kind of thing no practical woman would ever attempt to cook with permanently. The Agent had agreed to take it out and install a proper range. Apart from that, the house was a good one.

The visit proved satisfactory until Mr Scott expressed the hope that I should be happy. "Oh, yes," I replied, "I shall be quite happy when the Agent has put the new range in.”My goodness! If I'd put a match to gunpowder, sparks couldn't have flown much quicker.

"New range," he roared, as he dashed across the kitchen and opened the oven door with a slam. "Oven and a slam! Oven and a slam'. Damn it all, what more do you want?"

"I want a range with a large oven. And I must have it."

He fairly danced with rage -- real or assumed, I know not. I've never seen the like before or since. He took his hat off and put it on again several times in quick succession, then rushed off, leaving everybody wondering what it was all about. Narth looked at me with a face the picture of consternation. The Sergeant Major boomed in stentorian tones "What a pity! What a pity! I'm afraid you'll never do any good here after upsetting Mr Scott so badly."

I told him "If Mr Scott gets upset so easily, I can't help it; but I'm going to have a range. It's no use my husband working hard to buy food if I can't have proper facilities for cooking it. The lack of cottages on this farm makes it necessary for us to have four men in the house; those four men make it necessary to keep an extra maid, which makes a large family to cook for. Besides, the Agent quite agreed with me that a good range was needed in a house of this type.”

With that, they went out. Shortly afterwards, Narth returned, looking far more cheerful, to tell me that he had met Mr Scott returning to say that he would send me a book of range designs and I could choose whichever one I liked best. He said "Tell your wife, if a range is the only thing she wants to make her happy, she shall have it. She knows how to talk without getting angry or shedding tears.”

So I chose a good one, with an oven each side of the fire, which is still doing good service, although the farm was sold during the war and is now a Farm Training School for Roman Catholics.

We wanted a bath fitting in, also, but did not care to venture upon another possible display of fireworks, so had it done without asking permission. The tenants who followed us were very delighted to take it. Fortunately, we never had any more unpleasantness with Mr Scott during the whole seven years we were there. He was always reasonable.

One time, we had the painters in. The rule on the Estate was that any work required had to be done by the Estate men and the farmer paid the bill. Mr Scott seldom ate luncheon. He would say, when he found them eating their meal, "Eating! eating! eating! You're always eating." The painter said, when telling the tale, "There's the Squire, talking as though there could be any comparison between him and the likes of us. He gets up to a hefty plate of porridge with dollops of cream all over it. Then, when he's galloped all over the place to see we're doing as we should be, he goes home to breakfast -- devilled kidneys and frizzled bacon and such like, washed down with coffee and marmalade. Ugh! He might well not want anything else at one o'clock. He must keep an Agent to have one more man to tear about after."

Anyway, no one could call him a lazy man and I do not think that landed gentry are, as a rule, lazy. The ones I've known worked real hard. But I don't know how they're ever going to work effectively, because they never have a chance to learn. The people who could teach them would be given the cold shoulder immediately if they presumed to disagree with their methods. Those who want to gain their favour can only do it by saying "Amen" to every proposition they make.

Narth was as pleased with the farm, Westfields in the village of Carlton, as a child with a whole bag full of new toys. The Station adjoined the farm and every field had either the canal or the river running through it; there would never be any shortage of water for the stock. It had been farmed by one family for nearly a hundred years and they had taken a pride in their work. It was no trouble to go ahead. The only drawback was: they had been bullock feeders on the old fashioned system of open yards around a shed with a thatched roof. We were milk producers and needed different buildings. All the first summer, the cows were tied to the fence to be milked and the men were kept busy hauling building materials for new sheds.

We had a nice orchard, which was a great joy; also, a splendid help from a housekeeping standpoint. The Keswick apples were ready by the end of July and the Northern Greenings kept until the following May, by which time the other fruit was coming along.

The dairy faced North, which was the proper place for it. There was a handsome oak staircase which was a real pleasure to keep polished. The floors were all new, as the house had been improved and thoroughly overhauled three years previously. The kitchen was a most cheerful place to work in.

The Parish, from a spiritual standpoint, was as dead as a doornail. The congregation at Church usually consisted of children and the Vicar's wife. The service was a series of gabblings and the paying of great reverence to vestments. We did not enjoy the prospect of worshipping there. Our neighbours invited us to go to the Baptist Chapel in the nearby hamlet of Barton-in-the-Beans. Narth was not able to go in the Sunday we were invited, so I went alone. It was the week previous to Whitsuntide and, for more than a hundred years, in Whit week that Church had celebrated the beginning of the Baptist cause in Leicestershire. Tea is provided and partaken in a large tent for five hundred people. A special speaker comes. During our time, the Rev. F.B. Meyers, Dr John Clifford, Mr Duxbury and the Rev. F.C. Spurgeon were the speakers I remember. After the service, which was taken by the Senior Pastor, a white haired gentleman with a gentle manner but a rather monotonous voice, the Ladies' Committee gathered in the roadway and discussed the forthcoming tea arrangements. The discussion was both vigorous and heated.

It appeared to be the rule that women presided at the tea table and supplied the cream. One stern visaged lady, who did not keep cows, seemed to feel that, with advantage, they might depart from that rule. She argued the point with great force, emphasising her words by beating her right hand knuckles in the palm of her left hand and nodding her head vigorously. I was fascinated by her teeth; they bobbed up and down like castanets. I felt that I had been hurried behind the scenes before being properly prepared for the shock. At my old Sunday School, we did not have any special committees. The provisions were ordered by the Brethren in Oversight and the teachers all worked together harmoniously and assisted the Caretaker to wash up afterwards.

Upon returning home, .Narth wanted to know how I had enjoyed myself. "Well," I told him, "The service was nice and bright: good hearty singing and a well thought out sermon. If we keep clear of the social side, I really think we should enjoy attending.''

There was a good Sunday School, which was attended by both the Anglican Church people who lived near, as well as the Baptists. The service was at an ideal time for farmers: 2.15 pm. They get their shepherding done in the morning and get home in time for the evening milking. So we settled there and never regretted it. Some very nice old fashioned people attended. There were several families named Deacon and one Deacon who farmed in a small way and mended clocks was always known as Ticker Deacon. He was the Sunday School Superintendent, and a very good one he was, too. But we found it quite a business to make our boys understand that the Superintendent was to be called “Mr Deacon” -- not "Ticker". Mr Samuel Deacon sat in the pew behind us and always gave the boys a peppermint drop when we stood up to sing the last hymn.

About a year after we had made his acquaintance, Mr Samuel Deacon was taken ill and kept his bed for a long time before he passed away. Narth and I often called to see him. He was very disappointed in his doctor, who was new to the district. The doctor came three months after we settled down at Carlton. He was young and rather reserved. When the retiring doctor brought him round to be introduced, I thought “What a boy! I hope I shall never need his services." However, I was to learn that he could be a tower of strength if the occasion required. Mr S. Deacon said “When they're that age, you know, these youngsters think they know everything. This man sends me very pretty coloured physic but it don't do me any good and when I tell him how I feel, he just says, pondering like, 'Uum.' Now, old Doctor Tommy was never in a hurry and could tell yarns about folk and take you out of yourself. Never mention any name, you know -- Oh no! -- but he'd cheer you up, like. Ah well! the old uns have to make way for the young uns and we shouldn't grumble. Just I do wish he'd talk more."

On Michaelmas Day, 1909, Narth was going around the shed in the early morning, giving the heaviest milking cows a little extra cake. He had always done this but, this morning, a Welsh with very sharp horns, eager to get her allowance, turned sharply end caught him at the side of the left eye. He reeled back, unconscious. The men carried him indoors. I sent one for the Doctor and another on the early train to Nuneaton for ice. The Doctor came and ordered ice packs and perfect quiet but it was several days before he became conscious. When consciousness returned, so did intense pain, which nothing seemed to relieve. Finally, the Doctor brought some leeches and those queer, tenacious little creatures sucked the blood which had clotted at the back of the eye and gave the comforting relief neither ice packs nor hot compresses had afforded.

Fortunately, my brother who had been with us for several years and knew the routine of the work was a great help end comfort to us. By slow degrees, Narth returned to apparent normality and took up his usual work again. But, upon looking back, I cannot help but feel that the bump from the cow's horn set up mischief which just crept like a subtle serpent until it destroyed every bit of nerve force he had. It came so insidiously: forward a little, then retreating until we breathed freely, thinking it had gone. But never until the very last giving indication of what real power it had. For which I can feel devoutly thankful. The lack of knowledge made it possible to travel hopefully and face the days with cheerfulness and feel thankful that the bad times only came infrequently, and might stay away altogether.

CHAPTER 10

FARM CHILDREN

Life on a farm was good for the children. Each season brings its particular interest: lambs in the spring and hay in the summer; autumn and early winter is a busy time on a farm which prides itself upon its well kept hedges and clean, tidy ditches. Whilst the corn dries, hedge splashing begins; and general tidying begins as soon as the corn is cut. When it has been carried, and threshing is out of the way, the hedge cutter has a chance to show his inherent skill, acquired from generations of ancestors, most of whom earned their bread at the same calling. It is a fascinating sight to see a man hack the bough nearly through, bend it over and then skilfully interlace it through the stakes, which are driven in as required. The process requires clever axework, and this shows to advantage the following spring, when myriads of tender young shoots and fresh leaves appear, to form the luxuriant growth so necessary to act as a barrier through which adventurous sheep and cattle cannot penetrate.

Hedgers and ditchers are often quaint characters and very weatherwise. One ancient gentleman of the axe kept our stretch of road in repair. He had reached the old age pension stage and did two days' work on the road in addition. At one period, the weather had been most hindering and Narth had twenty acres of wheat still to cut. He decided to ask the road mender's opinion of the weather prospects. "Well, Proudman," queried Narth, "Don't you think the weather's taken a turn for the better?” "Nay, nay, .Master," he replied, "It's only seemingly. You know, my old Dad used to say that a Saturday's change and a Sunday's full niver wor no good nor niver wull. You bide a bit till the new moon comes in and 'appen the weather'll mend."

When Ivor was old enough, he used to drive the old horse in the milk float on Sunday morning and take the younger ones to Sunday School. Previous to that stage, I had a class in our dining room, to which children from adjoining farms came.

In the summer, on Sunday evenings, the whole family used to go in the milk float around the farm, shepherding. It was great fun.

The second July we were at Carlton, our fifth boy was born. A sturdy, noisy youngster he proved to be as he got older. Whatever games were being played, he always had to take the lead. His voice had good carrying qualities and, when they had accumulated boots, shoes, nails and tin cans to serve for animals, with him on the rostrum as auctioneer and the others all around bidding, it made me feel thankful that we were not living in a town suburb.

I began to think that I had the most mischievous set of imps on the face of the earth. What prank one could not think of, the other ones could. They were all very open about their escapades. There was no hole and corner work about it and most of their games had serious business at the root.

The third boy, known as "A.J.", was a chip off the old block as far as horses were concerned. Life, to him, was quite incomplete without a horse. When he was about three years of age, he had his toe smashed by a barrel falling on it; how the accident happened, we never found out. It was a great trial for him to keep quiet so, to help him pass the time away, we bought him a small horse, the exact counterpart to a Welsh pony, with a real hide and mane. Also, a small brush to groom it with. He just adored that pony; it was quite real to him. He called it "Betty."

One day, when Betty was getting the worse for wear, I had planned curried mutton for dinner but could not find the curry powder; yet I knew it should be in the cupboard, as I had put it away myself. The next day, I went to make salad dressing but could not find the salad oil. I enquired from all the adults in the house but no one knew anything about either article. I never thought to ask the children. That afternoon, Narth came in, laughing as though he had found something very amusing. "Come here," he said and conducted me to a small shed. There stood Betty, with a huge yellow plaster on her shoulder, bandaged on with discarded braid from the bottom of one of my dresses.

They had seen a mustard plaster, and it was yellow; there was no mustard in the cupboard and the only thing resembling it was curry powder and olive oil. Underneath Betty's nose, was a tin of pears with a hole made by the pointed end of a coal hammer. After that, a lock was put on the cupboard; their veterinary ideas were becoming too costly for my housekeeping allowance.

Whatever farming operations were in season, the children copied; and the queer, serious importance in which they discussed what they should do if it happened to rain next day often made us smile. The men usually whitewashed sheds or chopped wood if it came a real soaking day, so that outdoor work could not go on. That was work the boys were not allowed to do but they had several corners in the house as cattle markets; they could go to Shrewsbury or Uttoxeter or Craven Arms, as the fancy took them. A box on wheels was the train and the bathroom was the cattle truck from which their imaginary purchases emerged, to be driven home with sundry "Co-ups" and wild flourishes of arms and sticks. The old counterfoils from Daddy's cheque books were used to make the payments.

They put every ounce of thought and energy they possessed into their games. Furniture would be arranged as sheep pens, where the imaginary flock would be penned whilst the youthful shepherds would trim their feet or maggot or drench the lambs, as occasion required. Two upturned chairs would serve as a vehicle to take four lambs to the sale. One boy would drive whilst the others arranged themselves in the rear part of the strange wagon and said in various tones "Baa baa" until they arrived at their destination, where there would be a laboured heaving over the side to get imaginary lambs out and deposited in the pens at the sale ground.

When they returned, they would come looking either despondent, telling me they had met a very bad sale -- "No buyers there at all worth a mention" -- or radiantly happy, as they informed me with importance that they had met a rattling good sale: "Buyers simply tumbled over each other to get them. Wish we'd had a hundred there!"

They were very ingenious in doing their tasks in the easiest way possible. One day, during harvest, finding that we would probably be short of bread before the baker called, I told A.J. and Edward to bring a large loaf from the village, which was a mile away. To enable them to carry it comfortably, I gave them a cloth, with instructions to tie the four corners to form a handle. A narrow river ran from the village, emptying itself into the river running through the farm. They conceived the idea that, if they placed the loaf in the river, it would sail home without them having the trouble of carrying it. It was no sooner thought of than done. Consequently, it was in a soaking condition and quite unfit for use when they arrived home. So, that night, they went supperless to bed to teach them that the lack of bread is a serious business and, if such a prank were repeated, drastic punishment would follow.

The time came when Ivor entered as a Scholar at Market Bosworth Grammar School. This was a square, stone structure, with a very uninviting exterior. One entered by a huge double door, closely studded with enormous heavy nails, placed in a wall looking out over the Market Place. Above this prison-like entrance was a clock, which told the time to the whole village. Just below the door, on the Station side of the School, was an embrasure in a high brick wall which surrounded a garden. In the embrasure were a pump and a horse trough, in which the hardiness, or otherwise of the new Scholars was tested. Any boy caught not playing the game according to the tenets of MBGS, and all newcomers, had a severe ducking in the horse trough. I’m sure there must be hundreds of mothers, who, during the decades, have had reason to wish that, whoever put that trough in such close proximity to boys, had been pushed up a flue before their project had been carried out. I had reason to bless them by the time my six boys had all been initiated.

At Whitsuntide, in the beginning of June, 1909, I took the three oldest children to Builth Wells in Breconshire. My Mother kept house and looked after the two youngest. It was a nice break. Narth came for the last weekend we were there and brought the youngest but one (Ted), a sturdy youngster who, when someone asked him his name, replied with a beaming smile "Mother calls me Fatback.” He was on good terms with all and sundry and had some queer ideas. His main idea was that his parents were Mother and Daddy to everybody and everything. One day, he was heard to say to the sheepdog, Shep, who was waiting for his master to come out of the house, "Shep, your Daddy's gone out of the front door to see the lambs in the orchard."

After Narth and he changed at Shrewsbury, the only other occupant of the railway carriage was a gentleman built on generous proportions, ensconced in a corner seat reading the paper. Edward sidled along the seat from the opposite window and, putting his hand on the back of the gentleman's collar, looked into his face with a beaming smile, asking "Are you going to Builth to see your Mother?” Narth said, when recounting the story, it all happened so quickly he had no time to stop him. Fortunately, the man was very understanding and, instead of repulsing him, responded to his friendly overtures until he alighted a few stations further on. We met them at Builth Road Station with a hired push chair and, whilst we walked along the banks of the Wye to Builth, Fat Back marvelled that the nice man in the train was not coming to see his Mother. .Another thing which puzzled him at this period was: he could not understand why it was our arms and legs moved. He would walk a few steps, swinging his arms, and then stop and ponder.

In February, 1910, we were made very happy by the arrival of a small daughter. She had Narth's twinkling brown eyes and the same complexion as her Cornish Grandmother. Narth was radiantly happy but I was afraid to feel too happy. I had looked at much which was hidden from ordinary lookers on, as I watched by Narth's unconscious form, and yet reason told me that, since God puts it into our hearts to love our earthly belongings -- in fact, commands us to do so – it cannot really be sinful. The only conclusion I can come to is that, where our treasure is, there will our heart be, also. While all our treasure is on Earth, our mind is apt to be there to the exclusion of the yet-to-be. In spite of the fact that we may realise that in the depth of our soul, God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son that whosoever believeth in him should not perish but have everlasting life and, realizing that amazing fact, be free to accept it in full. We naturally crave that our loved ones will remain by our side so that we can administer to them; and we shrink from facing the thought that they can ever be removed.

Anyway, I was profoundly grateful and the boys were very proud of their sister, and most attentive and helpful as she grew older. Gretta was her Father's frequent companion on his journeyings around the farm, sitting on a box on the floor of the milk float. Her very first memories are connected with the carting of sacks of chaff, roots and cake to the field by the Station where the bullocks used to feed. She was two and a half years old when the sixth and last boy was born.

Daddy told her one morning to make haste and come with him to the Station with the milk. Not waiting for her shoes to be put on properly, she helped herself and put them on the wrong feet. They were buttoned boots and looked very queer with the buttons pointing inwards. While Daddy put the milk in the van, she went to the Booking Office to get the paper from an old lady who got them from the train, then sorted them at the Station before she trundled them up a steep hill in a large basket on three wheels, delivering them to her customers en route. The farmers, who came from several villages around to put their milk on the train, collected their own papers. The paper lady, seeing how peculiar her boots looked, put her on the seat, rearranged them to the foot each belonged to, and buttoned them with string. Gretta thought it was very clever to manage without a button hook. To her mind, the paper lady was the cleverest person she had ever known and she confided to her brother, when she returned home that, when he wore buttoned boots, she would show him how to fasten them with string.

The following June, 1913, was a red-letter month in our business careers, for we repaid three hundred pounds, which was the last instalment of the money we had borrowed. It was a delightful feeling to realise that all our worldly possessions really were our own. We made a firm resolution when we commenced farming that we would always pay our bills each month when the milk cheque came; by doing this, we always knew exactly where we stood, and could spend our money to the best advantage.

To celebrate the wonderful event, Narth went with his Father to Cornwall during the break between hay and corn harvest and, on September 4th, I took the family to Watchet in Somerset. Narth thought I had my hands more than full with such a tribe and the elder boys, who were thirteen and eleven years of age, had strict instructions to help Mother all they could; this, they did right well. Friends had found accommodation for us with a widow, whose daughter assisted her in looking after her boarders. Her two sons were connected with the local paper, one as a reporter and the other as printer.

We were right on the harbour wall and could almost touch the gulls as we lay in bed, which delighted the boys. There was much for the older boys to be interested in, for Watchet has played its part in the history of England. It was repeatedly sacked and the Royal Mint was looted by sea pirates. The reporter often took them out in the district with him, also, eel fishing among the rocks after the tide had gone out. They went around the rocks in a motor boat, and to see the boats from Norway unload wood pulp for the paper factory was thrilling.

One day, we took the push chair and our lunch on the train to Dunster to see the first meet of the season of the Somerset Stag Hounds. We saw the deer as it raced along the Quantocks and, finally, into the sea. It was decidedly different from the flat running of our own foxhounds in Leicestershire. Altogether, we had a happy time. There was just one little rift in the clouds, and it had not touched the children; it was just a persistent sadness in my own soul, which I could not account for.

The walk to Blue Anchor and a picnic there was something we all enjoyed. August 6th had been the Sunday School anniversary at Benten. One member of the choir had been ill and I had been asked to take her place because they were rather short of treble singers for the anthem. That afternoon is still like a bad dream. I suppose the singing was all right and that I sang with the rest of the choir but the only thing I remember was that there seemed to be a voice coming out of a trumpet, telling me that, before that day next year, my family would be broken. When I returned home, Narth exclaimed, when he met me "Whatever is the matter? You look positively ill." I told him what a queer experience I'd had. He just laughed and said it was time I sojourned awhile in pastures new. "You're getting morbid!"

We returned from Watchet the day after the fourteenth anniversary of our wedding. It had been a rule of Narth's to have a bit of business a few miles away to attend to, usually to buy a horse or a cow, so that we could go for a drive. If work was well forward and a whole afternoon could be spared, we went and had tea with Mother, or to Astley to see some elderly relatives. This year, being at Watchet on September 17th, the rule had to be broken.

However, it was the Annual Sheep Fair at Nuneaton, so Narth met us there and the elder boys returned home on the train alone, which gave them the idea that they were quite grown up. Narth and I and the younger ones drove the ten miles home in the gig. Narth was more than delighted to see us home again; he said that, in his opinion, the most terrible punishment anyone could suffer was to eat all meals alone, with no one to talk to, with nobody to take an interest in plans and schemes for the common good.

That autumn was one of the happiest I ever remember. Our youngest was able to toddle about and had a most angelic disposition. It is very strange how each member of a family will differ from the others. The only resemblance there was in our children was in the eyes: they were brown and blue-grey alternately. The ones with brown eyes had the quickest tempers but the blue were more resolute when roused.

CHAPTER 11

I WAS LEFT ALONE

In November, Narth's Father came to us to convalesce after an operation and the time passed quickly until Christmas drew near. On Christmas Day, we were eighteen to dinner. Some cousins of Narth came to supper and, altogether, we were a gay, noisy household that day. The young folk thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Father Christmas had brought a large bagatelle board, which kept the old folk and the young occupied. Gretta confided to me when she went to bed with her dolls cuddled close that she thought Father Christmas was lovely. Bryan was happy with his rag picture book and enamel plate with the letter alphabet around and the face of a clock in the middle. But the thing he liked most was a pencil.

We were to have gone the following day to Narth's home but he was strangely tired -- had been for about a month, after falling as he was climbing a fence. He had seen the Doctor, who said he let his nervous energy outrun his physical strength and advised that he arranged his work so that he could have a few days complete rest in bed. His eyes were also troubling him so, on the last Saturday of 1913, we went to Leicester to see a specialist about his eyes. He examined him and gave him a prescription for glasses. He went to the optician and left it to be sent to us by post and started to walk back to the Station.

Instead of proceeding straight to the London Road, Narth completely lost his bearings: he first turned around, as though he were in a maze and could not find his way out. Knowing that a man hates to be thought incompetent, I took no notice for a few moments. He had always been the leader and I had followed. However, time was getting on so I told him in rather a sharp tone, anxiety probably making it sharper than I meant it to be, that, if he wanted to get home, he'd better come my way to the Station. Eventually, we reached the Station and had time for a cup of tea before commencing our journey. When we reached Desford, he still seemed as though he had no sense of direction, so I had to drive the seven miles home.

The Doctor came every day the following week, although Narth did not seem to be definitely ill; he was simply tired, with occasional bad pains in the head. One morning during that week, Ivor had carried his Father’s breakfast tray up, when he suddenly ran downstairs, asking me to come quick. Narth had sat up in bed to take his breakfast and, in some way or other, had fallen out. The more effort he made to get up, the further he floundered towards the fire.

I’ll never forget his look of terror when I entered the room. It is a pathetic sight to see a man beaten and, when the man is the dearest .person on earth to you, it is heartbreaking. We helped him into bed. I sponged his face (he had blacked it in the coal scuttle) and left Ivor with him whilst I made him a cup of Sanatogen. The Doctor came during the morning and looked very grave at the new symptoms. He suggested a Leicester doctor, who came next day and ordered certain treatment. Narth and I were full of optimism that the rest would do him good.

Some days, he would appear much better but could not regain his balance. Someone always had to sit in the bed at his left side or he would fall straight out. At nine o'clock in the evening, he had a sleeping draught, when he would sleep until about one a.m., and always awake with a splitting head, which seemed to get easier if he had a meal. So I always put a tray ready and the kettle filled. When he roused up, I brought it to the boil and made tea. He really enjoyed what he called "Our tea party on the quiet." The Doctors had advised that he give up the farm for the time and take a complete rest. He wished to go back to the parish where he spent his childhood: St Teath. So he wrote to a cousin, who took a small house for us, and the farm sale was advertised to be held on March 4th. However, our planning was in vain.

Narth got worse and a Birmingham doctor came and advised an operation, but prepared us that it might not be successful. He diagnosed it as a tumour on the brain. He sent a car to take us to a Birmingham Nursing home. Sir Gilbert Barling operated on February 17th. The trouble was much worse than the doctors anticipated and Narth never recovered consciousness.

Oh dear me! What a day that was! And what a year that followed! Only those wives who have passed through such fiery furnaces know the meaning of the numb misery and the total inability to look at things from a cool, sane standpoint. The years do bring submission, and God has definitely stated that his Grace is sufficient. Yet it is only by way of natural rebellion, subdued by Grace, that we can say “Thy will be done."

The night Garth passed away, I spent at the house of a school friend in Birmingham, whose husband was the son of a Wesleyan Minister. Some artistic member of his congregation had presented him with a quotation from …'s Night Thoughts, which had descended to his son and which hung in the bedroom; Sleep, troubled soul/ thou needst not fear;/ thy great provider still is near./ He loved thee lost,/ he loves thee still./ Be calm and sink into his will. Another proof that pebbles thrown into the pond of life send ripples on and on. I felt too exhausted and sore to pray but the comfort those words brought to my heart as I lay down that night, only God himself can know. And, if the person who painted them ever prayed that they might prove a blessing, her prayers were answered.

The remainder of that week was like a troubled dream. It seemed terrible to return home and to know that never more would Narth's cheery voice call out "Mother, do you know where this, that or the other is?" Never again would he be available to discuss the problems of what was the best way to take with childish pranks, or the solution of ways and means. His business arrangements had controlled my outgoings and ingoings to a great extent. Now, I was free and I felt like a boat which had broken away from its moorings, and I was slightly afraid of what I might encounter on my new voyage. But work was there waiting and crying out to be done -- just another name for God's compassion. Narth had gone but his interests remained to claim every moment of my time.

The children, four of them, had been paying visits to friends during Narth's illness, so that the house could be kept quiet. They all returned home and Narth's remains were taken to the country Chapel where we had worshipped together for seven happy years, until he was laid to rest the following Sunday in a quiet corner of the graveyard. I sometimes wonder if I did right in not allowing the children to see him. But, with his head shaved, and a cap bandage on, he did not look a bit like the Father they knew. I felt it might frighten them and cause them to think of him with a shudder.

Friends were very helpful at that time, and I needed all their sympathy; Narth's Father had taken umbrage because he was not placed in sole control of things. Several of our old friends, who had known him for many years, tried to find out in what way I had offended him and all they could get out of him, as he waved his arms excitedly the whilst was "That woman! That woman! I'll never have anything else to do with that woman as long as I live." It was a real trial to me. But Narth purposely left him out of his affairs, knowing that he was a man of unreasonable impulses. We were not under any indebtedness to him from any standpoint and it was a real mercy that we could be free agents. He and Narth's stepbrother proved to be our most bitter enemies in after years.

Eventually, the farm sale was over and it was arranged that I should go to keep house for a bachelor brother for a time, whilst I considered what was best to be done. After the furniture had gone, and whilst waiting for my brother to fetch me, I wandered idly through the house. What a desolate thing a house can be when every corner of it holds a memory! I sat on the bottom step but one of the stairs, imagining that I was just waiting with the candle whilst Narth wound up the grandfather clock, after which we would ascend the stairs together to give a last look at our sleeping treasures in the big, cheerful room over the kitchen, before turning into our own room to tuck up the youngest in his cot beside our bed.

There, as I sat, my soul wandered down a long, dark, silent valley and met the souls of the women of all ages who had lost the fathers of their children. Our communing had a soothing effect, infusing courage for the lonely days to come, dispersing the sadness which threatened to become hopeless.

We stayed with my brother for a year, in a village which seemed miles away from everywhere. There were a few inhabitants, very nice and kind to us. The Church was one of the ancient ones, with high pews with seats all round, and my mischievous boys took advantage of this. The Vicar's Father, a retired School Inspector, sat in a pew on the opposite side of the aisle from the pew attached to my brother's farm. One Sunday morning, the boys were at Church alone and, hearing a slight shuffling, the Vicar’s father stepped across the aisle and looked over. He told me about it the following week and thought it a good joke but I was very distressed: they were playing draughts and had pieces of macaroni in their mouths to serve as cigarettes. They no doubt felt they were very grown up. He was very stern with them and read them a good lecture when they came out of Church. He told them that, unless they promised to behave better, he would sit with them when I was not there. It had the desired result. The eldest boy, who would have restrained them, was taking care of the baby whilst I cooked the dinner. The third and fourth were the most mischievous imps I ever saw, and were just brimming over with energy. They have often laughed over their naughty pranks as they grew older.

I never thought it possible to be so tired as I was that year. Morning found me quite as tired as when I went to bed at night.

We were near enough to Whittington Barracks for the men training to take in our village on their route marches. The boys were all agog to see all there was to be seen. They were keen to count the number in each group so they could tell any enquiring Officer if he asked them -- which he frequently did. Their games gradually changed from agricultural pursuits to drill. They took it in turns to occupy the various ranks: a private one day might be a Colonel the next. In August that year, war broke out and I should think that, financially, people like me, with a modest income invested in Trust Funds, were worse off than any other class.

CHAPTER 12

WE BECOME COTTAGERS

In March, 1915, a cottage became vacant in the village of Shenton, near enough to Market Bosworth for the boys to walk to school. So we moved there and began life as cottagers; and a very illuminating experience it proved to be. We were fortunate to have, adjoining the garden, two small fields of seven acres, with a cowshed and a good barn. The farmer who rented them sub-let them to me, with the Agent's Permission. We were able to keep a cow and chickens. The work entailed in looking after them also helped to keep the boys out of mischief, which was of quite as much importance as any profit we might make.

Boots for the boys had never cost more than ten and sixpence but, before one could say Jack Robinson, they had soared to thirty one and sixpence, and most other things corresponded. It was a puzzle to know where, or in what way, to economise to cope with the altered, war conditions. I had always made, and remade, garments until they were beyond anything but the rag bag. Stockings were always hand-made, so that they could be re-footed. But it was marvellous, the new dishes which were invented to try and get a balanced ration for growing children.

In many ways, we were fortunate. We had the cow and chickens. One of my brothers, a butcher, was very generous. When conditions looked like becoming difficult, he told me that, each week, there would be a parcel ready for me to pick up on my way to the train after doing the weekly shopping. I gave him my ration tickets and, in return, I had something to roast, something for soup and odds and ends of fat which I rendered down and, each morning, a lump was put into the frying pan and a slice of bread fried for each member of the family, after porridge. Frequently, I boiled groats in a cloth in the fish kettle; they came out like a roly-poly. When cut in slices and fried, they were both nourishing and appetising. We frequently had clotted cream instead of butter, because it was not rationed.

At midsummer, Ivor left school and went as a farm pupil. He was near enough to come home one evening in the week, and always on Sunday, which was a great comfort to me.

There was a small school, part boarding and part day in the next village, which Gretta attended until she was old enough to enable her to be eligible as an elementary school scholar. She was fortunate enough to pass and, in due course, went on the train every day to Nuneaton High School. Five of the boys, also, won scholarships, which was a great help towards their education although, to my mind, school years are just a preliminary canter towards education.

Life itself is an education, and never in the history of the world were there so many facilities for people past school age to gain knowledge; or so many people ready, for a consideration, to help them attain it, as there are today. After all, knowledge is only profitable if it be good and wisely put to its proper use. But so many things interlock. A farmer needs to be half a vet and the mother of a family needs to be a walking encyclopaedia, with the patience of a Job, the wisdom of Solomon, and resolute enough to comfort and sympathise when children are hurt in body, soul or spirit; although she may feel in her own mind that the hurt is necessary for the ultimate well-being and growth of her children's character.

Our village was a quaint old fashioned place. The Hall dated from 1654; it was surrounded by a high brick wall, with heavy iron gates at the drive leading to the house. The River Scense ran through its grounds and emerged at the lower end of the village, running under a bridge, just below the cottage we occupied. From the bridge to the village, the road was narrow and wound around in the shape of the letter "S". There was a notice board up to warn people to drive slowly. The fields each side of the road were higher than the road, which fact, combined with the shade from the trees, made the lane very muddy in wet weather. The river needed only twelve hours' rain to send it swirling over its bank and this, whenever it occurred, cut us off from the village. There was an emergency plank by which we could cross the river and gain the village by way of a field, but this was not suitable to negotiate on a dark night. Occasionally, we went to Church via the road and, on returning, found the floods out. It usually meant that shoes would be sucked off in the mud, making me quite willing to forego picturesqueness if only the river could be made straight and wide, and so do away with an ever recurring inconvenience.

There were five houses on our side of the river. At the top of the lane, standing alone, was the cottage occupied by the Squire's gamekeeper -- a man with a pronounced Yorkshire accent. He was a genial kind of man and would pause at our garden gate occasionally when passing, if he had any information he thought would interest the boys.

There was a three acre field between the keeper's cottage and the next house, or, rather, two houses together. The first cottage went with one of the farms and the occupants were frequently changing. The next was occupied by the man who did the rough carpentering work on the Estate; he was old, crotchety and disgruntled in the main, and it was reported that he frequently went a whole week without speaking to a soul. Perversely, I always got on all right with him and, when it was in season, he would bring me a cauliflower or some celery, which I thought was a nice neighbourly action. He was an excellent gardener and took great pride in his work.

The pump which supplied the five houses with water occupied a central position between his house and two more built on the same plan. The occupants of these houses were often moving. They all had a generous strip of garden. Adjoining these gardens, with a copper beech hedge between, was my cottage. It had a nice porch, a small room each side - which would have been worth lots more to me had it been one large room -- a scullery and larder at the back, and a good garden. There were three bedrooms above, with good sized casement windows.

On the opposite side of the road, was a large wood with a rookery and, in the spring, as the cold hard radiance of the day advanced from the East, bird melody poured from every tree and bush. The dawn chorus was magnificent, as all varieties of birds which inhabit the Midland Counties greeted the day with full-throated song. But he eternal "Caw, Caw" of the rooks made sleep impossible; and the sharp tap of the woodpecker on the trunk of a horse chestnut tree in the corner of the garden was a definite reminder that he who would thrive must rise at five. At least, if he could not rise, he certainly could not slumber. By May, the young rooks were independent and the fact was proclaimed by the parents with vigorous cawing.

Joining in the chorus, by way of a diminuendo, a pet dove from the Keeper's Lodge would perch on the iron rod which fastened open the casement window of my bedroom and "Coo, Coo, Coo" until I sat up in bed and flicked it with a stocking. Never have I heard notes of such variety as came from that dense wood. Certainly, bird land is funny and important in its housekeeping arrangements. It fully intends the world to know that it is busy preparing for next year's population and continuation of song.

In the garden, were blackbirds; they haunted all parts, at all hours of the day, strolling along the grass edges, airing their frequent quarrels and carolling the triumphal song of the victor after the fray. These sounds might have spelt thanksgiving, if one had not noted their shockingly malicious encounter the previous moment. Down by the river, where violets with rain-sprinkled petals speak of all that is cool, fresh and heartsome, they sing, and the river replies to the song, which has an intensity that verges on the painful; withal, exquisitely pure, as well as sparkling. And, on a wet day, his song is like the caressed notes of a harp, as he pours out passionate notes at measured intervals -- as though he must call for the return of the sun. In spite of the rain, it inspires one to linger over the feeding of the poultry, if only to listen to such melody.

In the winter, the robins and cheeky sparrows had their headquarters in the holly hedge just outside the scullery window, and washing up the pots and pans was always done to the accompaniment of their "Cheep, cheep."

The inhabitants of the village were allowed to walk through the Hall gardens during daffodil time. What a wealth of sunshine seemed to carpet the earth as the golden blooms nodded in the spring breeze, symbolising the return of the sun in all his splendid power of growth promotion and banishment of gloom.

The farms were occupied by people we had known for years; they were nice and neighbourly. The Estate Agent and his wife had resided in the quaint house by the Church for forty three years. They were Scots from Edinburgh, and they proved to be true friends to me and mine.

Four thatched cottages, known as "Rustic Row" were the habitations of some quaint old ladies. When I had visitors, I always took them to call on the inhabitants of Rustic Row; it was a real entertainment. There was Mrs Watts, aged ninety four; she always sat in a straight backed, rush-bottomed chair. She herself was as straight as a yard of pump water, and walked as resolute as a Grenadier Guard. In features, she was as much like the Countess of Asquith as could be. If one could catch her in a reminiscent mood, she would tell of bygone days and of aristocratic customs which would not be tolerated today. She would say “Yes! In Lady Arbuthnot's time, things were done in style. The villagers had to curtsey to her Ladyship, but they got something in return. And they had to go to Church on Sunday; if they didn't, she'd know the reason why. She always went herself. That was when we had the old Church, with real old pews with proper doors. The Footman came first and opened the pew door and bowed her Ladyship in, then went and sat in his own seat. After the service was over, he came and opened the door and bowed her out, and the congregation stood until she had passed through the Church porch. Then, hail, rain or shine, she drove around in the pony carriage and left a hot dinner at all the old people's doors -- and always a little bottle of gin. They were real good old times," she emphatically declared, "None of this 'Jack's as good as his Master' kind of business. People knew their proper place and kept it."

She was a born story teller and could knock spots off many boosted raconteurs. She entertained us not with the forced and superficial wit of the moderns, but with the humour and reality of life's experience. We used to listen in rapt admiration. There was something fascinating in the way her memory had garnered the experience of life into one pleasant whole. One story led up to another, even more attractive, and presented with the skill of a virtuoso.

In spite of her great age, she went every Friday morning to assist the wife of the Estate Agent; blacking the kitchen range was her special job. After it was finished, she walked along to the woodyard and carried home as much wood as her capacious hessian apron would hold. One day, I met the Agent when he had a broad smile on his face. He had all the pawky humour of the Scot and could tell a tale as well as the best. When I asked the reason of his mirth, he replied "I should really like to find a situation which would put Mrs Watts into a corner. About ten minutes ago, Bill Cheshire was holding forth to the other men, stating that he would get married again before another winter; he was tired of working hard all day and going home to no fire and no meal ready. While he was talking, Mrs Watts came along with her usual bounce, so I said to her 'Here's Bill wanting a wife, so now's your chance'. 'Oh,' she said, 'I'll have him -- be delighted to -- only he'd have to buy me a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, a gold watch and chain, and give me all his money every Friday'."

Bill loved money and it was well known that his first wife never saw the colour of it; he did all the spending. So she had touched him on the spot which would make him curtail any desire he might have for a permanent house keeper. The part which amused the Agent was the quick retort she gave. Her reply to his suggestion was as well thought out as though she had taken a week to consider it.

It was reported that Bill put away all the two shilling pieces he received in wages; everybody thought he was rich, for a labouring man. Some years after the above episode, he had a seizure. His son, a middle aged man, came to my house and asked me if I would go and see him. He was unconscious and very near the end, so I stayed the night and left him ready for his coffin. The next day, his daughter came to see me. She had to come over about three times a year and do his sewing, wash blankets and look after him generally. She cried bitterly that he had told her where she would find his money when he was gone. However, the key was not where he said it would be. She got the Blacksmith to open the box but there was nothing in it but his best clothes. "Oh dear," she said, "I do wish you'd ha' laid the corpse across the box instead o' leaving it across the bed. It couldn't ha' been tampered with then".

His son was a ne'er-do-well and it was only by a fluke he was home when his father was taken ill. But what really became of the money, no one knows, since the son denied having it.

Mrs Watts would often end her yarns by saying. "Yes, I've lived in this village all my life but I don't intend staying here all my days; it gets more dead every day!" One day, I called to see her and thought she looked tired; I told her so. "Well," she said in an exasperated tone, "The Squire sent us some wood, that is to say me and Betsy and Ann Lee (they were her neighbours). The wood was tree trunks in long lengths and, really, I’ve no patience with these old maids; they're as helpless as pigs in pattens. So, to save them lying in bed awake all night, wondering how it was going to be managed, I sawed their wood, as well as my own, and I'm just tired enough to be snappy.”

The two Miss Lees were quite ancient: one was eighty four and the other eighty eight. The trifles of life, to them, took on a monumental importance. Rain on a washing day, or the cat refusing to take its milk were items to be recounted for months afterwards. Betsy kept two purses: her deposit and current accounts. The latter was never burdened with more than four pence at a time, just enough to pay for a quart of milk. They were quaint, simple hearted old ladies who took pleasure in the small things of life. They had discovered the secret of living and found in it the joy of self expression through service. They really delighted to have someone call who would take a cup of tea and so give them an excuse to reach out a teacup with "A Present From the Isle of Man" painted on it, a souvenir of their one and only trip to the sea.

Our village was situated in a direct line for Burton-on-Trent and, sometimes, during the war, a zeppelin would come over. Ann would say to Betsy, in a tone of tolerant astonishment, "Well, whatever next! Now, what do you think o' that?" Mrs Watts would chip in, regardless of Betsy, "Well, I've always wanted to be the last person on Earth, to see how everything ends up -- the Parsons say its going to be a great upheaval -- and it looks as though them buzzing, sizzling sausage things might do the trick.” But we noticed that she always kept her blind down so that her small domain would not attract them.

Just before Christmas, she decided to pay her only son a visit. He lived in County Durham. She said her liver was out of gear and a good train journey would jolt it up. Early in January, she was not well but would not see a doctor. Her son was worried and, leaving her sitting up in bed, eating her breakfast, went for a doctor in spite of her. When he returned, she had just passed away. The Doctor, after examining her, was of opinion that she had died of a strained heart, and one could not be surprised when an old lady of ninety four saws wood -- especially when she does it in a fit of exasperation. Truly, one's character is one's destiny.

But she had kept her word by going away from the village to die. When her son came and sold up her house, he gave me her tea caddy spoon for a keepsake. When I am putting tea in the pot to brew, I often think of her and her bouncing cheerfulness. The very thought of her is as good as a tonic. Her like will not be met in future, for education is eliminating all the quaintness from people. It is giving us the artificiality of the wireless and the gramophone, which is akin to shepherds' pie, compared with roast sirloin.

About a year after we went to live in Shenton, a general moving of farmers took place. The largest farmer in the place was a young man named Hatton, who had learned farming in Scotland, where the relationship between landlord and tenant is very different from the stiff attitude of many of the Midland Counties' landlords. The landlord of Shenton not only ruled the village but, also, the Church. Although his ancestors had built the Church and vicarage, he had decreed that there should not be a resident Vicar. Therefore, the Church service was presided over by the Rural Dean or his Curate, who lived three miles away. Consequently, the village from a spiritual standpoint, was as dead as a doornail. Nothing whatever was done from the standpoint of Sunday School work, or to help or uplift the women of the village.

You don't need profound knowledge of either rural psychology or ethics to forecast what happened. The main difficulty was the fact that Shenton lacked its resident Parson. Anyone who knows anything of country life will know that the work of a country Parson is not to be measured like that of the Bank Clerk or Business Man, by the outward record of hours and material results; rather, its value consists in the fact of the Parson living in the village community and sharing in its life. He is there not as an exponent of agriculture, or intensive onion growing, but as one who knows and understands the hopes and fears, the joys end sorrows and the unobtrusive problems of the rustic mind.

Mrs Hatton organised a Young People's Society, which met once a week in the Village Room -- a really good room. They organised various entertainments and lectures. Mrs Hatton stipulated that one Thursday evening in each month should be given up to a devotional service. Hatton arranged for the speaker, usually a Minister from one of the Free Churches in the towns around, and put him up for the night.

The Village Room used to be packed to its utmost capacity and really good work was being done. Cheerful Gospel hymns were sung and an address given, which stirred up the minds of the villagers to a realisation that life meant more than rising in the morning, slogging through the day, and tumbling into bed at night with a sigh of contentment akin to that of a horse which has just been divested of its harness. They began to wake up to the fact that there are more important things in life that the ethics of the village pump. A new interest had been introduced into their lives, rousing their dormant intellects, giving them an impetus.

As one old lady said, “I could fair hear a tune in the soap suds as I was alathering my 'usband's shirts and that chorus we learnt is fair haunting me: “The call of Christ is to mercy/ that never shall cease/ 'til we shall enter that land of promise/ where true joys are found./ Then onward press, my comrades,/ we are gaining ground.' You know, there's nothing comradely in our church. The Squire and his servants sit in what I call the '"Holy of Holies," and the farmers sit to their side of the transept, and the cottage folk sit in the body o' the Church; that is, when they go to Church but a good many are like me: they feel they'm just tolerated and stay away. Now, when you go to the Village Room, Mr Hatton and what he calls his Welcoming Committee show you to a seat and hand you a book and smile as though they was pleased to see you there."

Matters had reached that comfortable condition when, without any warning whatever, the Squire sent word, through his Agent, to Mrs Hatton that the Village Room could only, in future, be used for dances and whist drives. The Church was available for divine worship, and the Rector would officiate. It was reported that someone had told him that the speakers who came talked politics, that they were red-hot Liberals which, to a Tory Squire, was like a red rag to bull. Instead of asking the regular attenders, who could have told him it was an absolute lie, the Squire simply refused to listen to anyone; just put a stop to the whole proceedings.

Mr Hatton asked for an interview with the Squire but was refused. The whole village was bitterly disappointed. Mr Hatton, therefore, gave up his farm and went elsewhere whilst his friend, who was the Church organist, also moved away.

Mr Hatton's farm was taken by a Scotsman from near Penrith, who did not stay long; he thought the atmosphere was not conducive to real neighbourliness. It was every man for himself and de’il take the hindmost. We were sorry to see them go; they were the kind who, if it were in their power to do so, helped lame dogs over stiles and, if they were driving, picked up pedestrians as though it were a pleasure, instead of condescension. Their successors were people who, with the help of war prices, had made rapid strides and lost their heads in the process, which quite spoilt them for ordinary wear and tear of life. They used their new prosperity as a pedestal and were astonished when the people around failed to see it, nor yet fall down and worship.

CHAPTER 13

THE NEW FARMING COMMUNITY

The new atmosphere of snobbish aloofness made the village quite a difficult place; it was more like sheep without a shepherd than ever. There descended a feeling of loneliness and isolation which made the vital bit of me wilt. There seemed nothing left to help me develop. I had often lived for weeks at a time, when the children were small, without being able to go beyond the garden gate, but there had always been intelligent people coming and going; they acted like the steel to the knife edge: kept me keen and my intelligence supple. "My goodness!" I thought, "the people who bepraise the rural life ought to live for a spell in this village and be compelled, as cottagers, to walk in the rear of bucolic minds who have never been five miles from their garden gates. And would certainly feel it too much of a condescension to walk alongside anyone living in a cottage."

Truly, the noble and ancient profession of Agriculture is composed of diverse types. There are farmers who are true gentlemen: courteous, intelligent and refined. There are others who, by dint of hard work and, mostly, with the co-operation of an industrious and thrifty wife, win first a small holding, then a small farm; they are the salt of the earth. I know many of both types. The type I had to live with now were new to me; they were good workers but were very mincing and affected in their tone of voice when wearing their company manners, and as narrow as a clothes line in their outlook. To crown all the pettifogging conditions, my husband's stepbrother married one of the very select, mincing ladies of the Parish, took up his residence in the village, and was elected a Church Warden.

Truly, we were living in a small circle, where the worship of self and self-advancement was the God of all who were eligible in this rustic community to be elected to any office, either secular or religious. Church Warden! A man who had openly boasted that he would not rest until he had seen his dead brother's family hounded out of the place. Boasted that he had put his spoke in their wheel of progress, not once but many times. Simply because he was afraid his Father might realise that he owed a duty to them, and he himself would therefore get a little less if the duty were performed. I believe he thought that I had deliberately gone to live near them, to be a perpetual reminder that the ties of kin should be something tangible. When, in reality, I had shrunk from going near them, but I dared not deprive my children of a sound education; and my income would not stand a town rent. For a time, it seemed as though the Parish was full of people who had a positive genius for putting grit in the wheels of life. There were, however, some bright spots. True friends abounded outside the Parish -- if few in it.

The Estate Agent and his wife were always nice and friendly. One day, I called on them to discuss my problems. My cow had died recently, and I was desirous of buying another. Cows, like everything else, had gone up in price, due to the war, to an unheard of extent. The Agent advised me to apply to my Father-in-law. He said "I don't see how he can refuse to sell you a cow; he's frequently sending cows to the auction."

"I believe he would be far happier to see me absolutely crushed than help me to keep his grandchildren in a respectable place in life."

“Never mind," he replied, “I know he's a cantankerous, extraordinary man, but try him." Here, a sudden inspiration came to him: "Sit down and write a note now," he said, as he placed writing materials before me.

So I wrote a note, stating what I wanted and that I could not afford more than thirty eight pounds. I knew that he had at least twenty cows which my husband had bought as down-calving heifers at Shrewsbury, which had averaged seventeen pounds each. He had let his Father have them for exactly the money he had paid for them; had he sold them to anyone else, he would have taken a pound each profit.

The Agent read, and approved of, my note; it was simply a courteous request written in business language. I sent it to him by one of my boys, who told me that, when his Grandfather had read it, he handed it to his son. They conversed together and, after so doing, he turned to Edward and said in a fierce voice, "You tell your Mother I've no cows in my dairy under fifty pounds." Poor Edward returned very crestfallen. He knew that fifty pounds was beyond my means.

The Agent was indignant; he concluded that it was brutal treatment. "Anyway," he said, "don't stand staring at a closed door. I've known windows open before today."

But it's rather difficult not to feel disappointed when people seem determined to keep you in a corner, and bitterness is added when you know it is all undeserved. Our need of a little encouragement came in a decidedly tangible way, which strengthened my realisation that God is faithful to his promise to care for the fatherless and the widow.

A few days afterwards, my brother who lived a few miles away delivered a nice Shorthorn cow. All the information he would give was that he was under a pledge not to tell who had sent it. It was a gift of five friends, who sent it with their Christian love and good wishes that it would prove a blessing to us. The children were delighted. "Now, Mother," they would query, "who do you really think did send her? Do you think they all clubbed together or did one, perhaps richer than the others, put in the bulk and the others put in a little?"

"I can give you a shrewd guess as to three of the subscribers but, since they wish to remain anonymous, it would not be kind or in good taste for us to investigate. But the real point, in my estimation, is that it is an object lesson to you children as to what constitutes real Christianity. To organise a dance or whist drive in aid of Church funds, simply because the organisers like dancing and playing cards, is no proof of Christianity, especially when the organisers never attend Church and give as the Lord prospered them -- which is what is constantly taking place in this village. It is the looking around and, when you see people afflicted with a load which is too heavy for them to pull single-handed, to give them a hand over the steep bits. It is carrying out the precept 'If you have a kindness shown, pass it on.'"

They were imps of mischief, bubbling over with fun and nonsense, but it made a profound impression on them and I believe, as a family, it filled us with humility and even awe. After all, the only way we can see or realise God, is in the actions of those who profess to follow him. And when, without any moves on one's own part, a need is supplied in such a miraculous way, we cannot fail to realise that we are being cared for.

Moreover, I fully believe that the vitriolic thoughts and designs towards us from my husband's stepbrother, though they made the atmosphere of our immediate neighbourhood not pleasant to live in, were to our advantage. They drove towards us helpers, men and women with the spirit of fair play, who, from time to time through the years, as the necessity arose, often from most unexpected sources, came to our aid. The aid was often just a suggestion as to a way in which we might help ourselves, a smile or a handclasp. Many times, it was professional medical service worth many pounds, cheerfully rendered and bestowed in that wonderful spirit which makes of it a benediction instead of something which an independent character might hotly resent.

Another farm in the village changed hands and the family who came were Devonshire folk. Although they were strangers to me, we found we had mutual friends in Nuneaton, and quite a lot in common. They were Wesleyans and used to drive to a nearby village to worship. Sometimes, when special services were being held, they would ask me to accompany them, which made a change. The children enjoyed the hearty singing and the warm welcome the Stewards gave us.

The walk to the Post Office was the adventure of the day. There was sure to be something to relieve the monotony: everybody seemed to arrive at the post box at the last minute, before it was emptied at 4:20 pm. There was Mrs Green, who was a confirmed burbler. She burbled about "our car, our Sissy, our Roger, our Dairy, our chickens, our ducks -- Indian Runners, you know, and our Cissy calls them the Royal Warwicks because they march so straight and our Charles says he's going to put his foot down if he ever catches them in the rick yard."

"Our Roger went to London yesterday you know to see about the milk contract you know and the gentleman who went with him -- Roger's never been to London before you know -- said ‘We'll cut across Piccadilly Circus it'll save time.' After they'd been walking a long time Roger asked when they'd be coming to the circus and would they have time to stop and see a performance? You know" she burbled on, "he felt so sheepish when he found it was only the name of a street and really you know to travel is the best way of getting an education. You know we sent him to a Ladies' School with the girls so he would not mix with a rough type and now we feel that they didn't half educate him but then you know he knows all there is to know about cows and seeing what a large dairy herd ours is that's important."

I listened to her amusing burbling until I could get a question in; when I could, I asked if he'd ever been to the Dairy Show at Islington.

"No," she replied, "and I don't see how they can have a proper Dairy Show right in a large town.”

“Well, he ought to go, and take you with him. Go for a week and see all there is to be seen. It is a great place to make small farmers feel as though they were mere tom-tits perched beside a round of beef. You can also see the result of brains and good management, and meet interesting people."

"Oh! I'm afraid we should never be able to get away. You know our Cissy and our Elizabeth have not had many opportunities to get away to make friends -- not the type of friends we'd like them to meet -- so they're going in our car to north Wales to a smart up-to-date boarding house where they take sixty boarders. They're going chiefly to copy style you know; it's quite time they had a taste of different society. And you know when they come home it will be time to settle down for the winter and you know there's so few people to do anything for the Church if they didn't get up dances and whist drives and you know there's so few people they can ask to join the Committee, so few I mean of our own standing."

"What about Mill Lane (where my cottage was)?" I asked. “There's quite a lot of really good talent there."

"Oh dear me! That would never do. If you're nice to cottage people, they take such liberties." So, burbling, we reached the bridge where our ways split and she said in such a sweet, gushing way "Do call when next you're passing, and take a jug of raspberries home. You know, our raspberries this year are fine."

Why a jug of raspberries instead of a basket, I don't know, unless it would be the jug would hold the juice better. So, in the course of time, we had the jug of raspberries, which I called "the pumping machine;” Mrs Green had something up her sleeve to induce such benevolence. After handing me the jug, she walked to the garden gate, burbling about gardens in general and her own in particular. With her hand on the latch of the gate, she asked "Do you know what rate your husband's brother is paying for his farm? You know, rents are sky-high and we're really curious to know how much the Squire's had the cheek to ask."

"You know I’m the last person on earth to know, seeing Narth's brother merely raises his eyebrows when he sees me -- as though a fly were tickling him." Actually, the outgoing tenant had told me but I'd lived near enough to Scots folk to have learnt the art of evading unwarrantable questions. I really did feel that l had not given value for raspberries.

Cissy and Elizabeth went, in due course in their own car to Wales. When they returned, they made a point of informing everybody they met what very nice people they had met who, from their accent, were all of such good families you know. It's really been an education to meet them and such a delightful man Major Somebody who organised the journeys to the beauty spots and entertained the guests generally. He also bestowed a personal photograph on each of them. Such a charming man you know look what delightful teeth he has. One flippant youth, after being asked to observe the same, said "So had the wolf in Little Red Ridinghood."

They were very indignant and did not realise that it was their own simplicity which called forth such sarcasm. Their brief contact with the great made them more hoity-toity than ever. However, their relations of holiday adventures to the village was like the onion in the stew: it gave a piquant flavour which was harmless, if not nourishing.

CHAPTER 14

VILLAGE CHURCH AFFAIRS

Change is inevitable in Church matters, as well as in domestic, and it touched us as a Parish. For several years, our services had been taken by a Curate who had, years before, suffered treatment which had left him dead but not buried; he matched the Sanctuary in being proper, precise and well proportioned. His voice matched the deep, mellow tone of the organ. -When paying parochial calls on weekdays, he wore buff coloured spats and, on Sundays, white ones. He was as stiff as a ramrod and couldn't say a sentence which was not written down; consequently, his discourses lacked life and he frequently alluded to the congregation as "dear people"; this made us feel very respectable, but were never convinced that one needed to grip a vital truth, as well as know the catechism parrotwise and submit to confirmation. But he fitted in well: when the Squire cleared his throat, the Curate quickly said "Now to God the Father" and gave out the last hymn, giving one the impression that he was thankful it was over and he could go home to lunch.

The Rector passed away and his successor decided to do without a Curate. Hereafter, a service was held only once each Sunday, morning and evening alternately. The time arranged antagonised everybody. So, to a mere handful of people, the Rector gabbled at breakneck speed through the service, and rushed back to his own Church. It was just an impossibility for one man to do the work properly. The tithe payers were justly indignant and spoke plainly about the matter. So, to satisfy the disgruntled parishioners, a series of young men came to minister unto us.

The first one came just before Easter and the kind of service he presided over on Good Friday startled everybody. The prayers, as arranged in the prayer book, were dispensed with and the congregation was expected to repeat after him, as he knelt in the centre of the aisle facing the altar, a long rigmarole, almost every other word being "Sweet Jesus." He departed before we found out what his name was.

The next one, the Rector brought around and introduced to the parishioners. "He was a braw Scot" the Rector assured me, and told me I should like him. `Well," I said, "if his ideas are anything like the last one we were inflicted with, I shall dislike him very much. Here was I, having been taught that our Lord was the Lion of the Tribe of Judah, the chiefest among ten thousand, and the altogether great. He, being made flesh, came and dwelt amongst them, as the bright Morning Star. Then along came your Curate, who expected me to join in addressing him as though he were a treacle tart and, since treacle tart is anything but inspiring, I hope to goodness such folly will not be expected of me again. A big, booming North Country laugh greeted me, as the new man assured me he would never be guilty of so doing. We liked him and enjoyed his Ministry. He was, by birth, a man of the people, and understood them.

The third, strangely enough, although a product of Eton and related to people high in the Ecclesiastical world, understood them just as well. He had been through the war and rubbed shoulders with all types of men. Shell shock had left him with a bad memory, which was a real trial to him and a serious handicap. A village is a rare place for items of news to leak all over the place. It was reported that the curtains of his room had scraps of paper pinned all over them, with messages: "I must call on Mrs So and So today," "Must see Church Warden," "Must pay So and So." One item of his forgetfulness came under my own notice.

The Sunday before Easter, he startled his Church Wardens by announcing in Church that, no funds being available for spring cleaning the Church, offers of help would be appreciated. Would any persons willing to assist send in their names to the Church Wardens? Gretta and I talked over the matter and decided we could give eight hours during the week, so I sent her to the Church Warden to ask what day and time would be most convenient to the other helpers. I felt it too good an opportunity to let go by; straitened circumstances made it impossible to give much in the way of hard cash but we could give service, and the chance to indulge in an orgy of oak polishing was a matter for rejoicing.

We were the only folk in the parish who volunteered and the Church Cleaner, who had not been consulted by the Curate, took umbrage at other people being brought in. However, after tactfully explaining that one woman could not be expected to take up carpets, beat hassocks, and many other things which could not possibly be done every week, her very natural resentment was smoothed over and we set to work.

The Curate was most keen to get to the polishing of the pews and was astonished to find that, before that point was reached, carpets and hassocks had to be taken out and beaten, and walls swept down. Which process brought to the floor a large quantity of dust and small particles of stone from the wall fabric. I happened to remark, as we walked home to luncheon that, before sweeping, we would have to sprinkle the floor to prevent dust from rising again. Upon returning after our meal, there was the energetic man with a pail of water and a two pound jam jar, just beginning to chuck water by the jar full. One thing I liked about him, he was a good sport; he cheerfully went off to the Estate Office next door to borrow a watering can, admitting that it was his first attempt at spring cleaning. I was jolly thankful that I had arrived in time to prevent him, in his zeal, from slopping the floor all over.

“Now,” he said, "There must be a head in every department, so I think we must all defer to you, since you seem to be so conversant with the correct procedure."

We made use of the strength of any lusty boy who came around, to carry away litter and beat hassocks. Eventually, we reached the polishing stage. The Curate had evidently studied the question of polishing agents and was very uncertain as to which would be the best to employ. He was very willing, however, to try my favourite mixture for old oak -- especially as I had a supply on hand, left over from the time when I had a staircase worthy of good treatment. It was linseed oil and vinegar, with a pinch of resin and a few spots of spirits of Hartshorn in to prevent finger marking. The Church really did pay for the trouble we had taken and we were justly proud of our work.

It was an understood thing that certain people in the parish undertook special parts in the Easter decoration, so their usual part was left for them to do. The Curate, however, had decided to put a cross of daffodils and narcissi at the back of the reading desk. He had the foundation already made and had ordered the flowers from a nursery man in Nuneaton Market. He went to Nuneaton on Saturday morning to get them, and had luncheon with his Mother and Aunt, who were staying for the weekend at the principal Hotel. They had come expressly to hear him preach on Easter Sunday, coming to the village by bus on Sunday morning. I had gone to town on Saturday and my two children, Gretta and Bryan, were helping him put the finishing touches to the decorations. Bryan came to the Station to meet me and we called into Church to take Gretta home with us. Work was just finished and, when we arrived at the bottom of the Chancel steps, the Curate went towards Bryan's bicycle and stood looking at it in an absent-minded way. When he realised that the style of it was decidedly masculine, he lifted his hat off and stood scratching his head in a most perplexed way, as he said in a sad tone "Dear! dear! Whatever shall I do? I cycled to Nuneaton and came home on the bus. I left the cycle outside the Hotel. It was the one the members of the Mothers' Union gave the Rector's wife when she left their last parish. Dear! dear! she will be grieved. I do feel that I have been neglectful."

Anyway, it transpired that the police took it in charge and, on Monday, it was retrieved from custody and returned to its rightful owner. But that was clear indication that shell shock can play havoc with a man's life. There was a man who could preach a good Gospel sermon and yet he failed to get ordination owing to his bad memory. If the Bishop could have fitted him up with a good wife who would be willing to jog his memory, he would have been a Godsend to a village community.

Anyone knowing anything about rural psychology must realise that a Parish without the resident Parson is a one sided affair. Spiritual needs cannot be supplied in the same way a Baker leaves a loaf of bread at a house on a given day. Its value consists in the fact of the Parson living in the village community and sharing in its life, as one who knows and understands the hopes and fears, the joys and sorrows and the unobtrusive problems of the rustic. Truly, whoever has the ordering of such matters is lacking in foresight if he leaves a Parish without a resident Parson. And, if the Parson has a God-fearing wife with a talent for getting to know the women in the Parish, so much the better. There must always be a leader, and the manner in which the new Rector's wife set about forming a branch of the Mothers’ Union, and the happy meetings we had as a result, convinced me that the right woman in the right place can do much to bring contentment to a rural community. The tea party we had after the service in Church gave us a chance to get to know each other.

One old lady who cleaned the School had never been further than Nuneaton until the Mothers' Union organised an excursion to see the Mary Sumner House. During tea, she retailed all the happiness of that eventful day. The Rector nearly sat on the floor, he laughed so much. "You know, Sir," she said, "I never thought there were so many women in the world and we were treated so nicely and saw such a lot. The young man on the charra were quite the gentleman; we made a collection and gave him a box of chocolates and he were real pleased. We told him how much we'd enjoyed it and hoped the next time we came we'd see him again. He said “I trust so, Madame, and the dinner we had at the big restrong were real good, real proper Brussels' sprouts and real -- what d'you call it? -- parlour maids rushin about, all so obliging. I said to one 'Me dear, d'you think I could have a glass o' stout? I'm used to having one on a wash day and I feel more tired gallivanting about than when I wash!’ ‘Certainly, Madame, she said. So I had me stout, Sir, an' I hope you won't think be that as how I likes a drink, but what wi' catching the early train and bein' too excited like to eat a proper breakfast, I were fair sinking."

What seemed to astonish her the most was the fact that cabbage of any description could be seen in London. Brussels' sprouts loomed larger on her horizon than the Houses of Parliament or St Paul's Cathedral.

CHAPTER 15

OUR LIFE IN THE VILLAGE

Our life in the village was far from monotonous. The children went to school -- boys to Market Bosworth Grammar School and Gretta to Nuneaton High School -- and, every Saturday, I went to Nuneaton market to do my shopping. Saturday mornings were spent in school but each Saturday afternoon during term the children were all, in their own estimation, the centre of the universe. A space in their affairs was cleared so that they might gaze at, or participate in, the battle of keeping their own end up. The next morning would bring more than a trace of "the morning afterwards" feeling and, in its wake, a don't care attitude as to whether homework was done or not. They had energy sufficient to walk two and a half miles after playing a strenuous game, to say nothing of milking the cows, but this gave no concern to the education authorities; they still expected them to compete with boarders who, after the game, had a bath and then, in charge of a Master, did their prep in comfort. If the village boys fell behind in the struggle, they were dubbed "Clod-hoppers." Meal times always brought a heated discussion regarding the merits or demerits of various members of the team. What did long walks and the milking of cows matter in comparison to the privilege and ability to knock scores or kick goals. Fortunately for me, with all the arguefying, there was never any quarrelling.

Differences of opinion appear to incite youngsters to hunt after knowledge, just for the satisfaction of saying "I told you so." Very few meal times went past without one of them reaching for the dictionary, which was always kept on the window ledge so as to be handy to settle the point in dispute.

One Saturday, I had been to Nuneaton as usual, to take eggs and do the weekly marketing. When I arrived home there was an air of subdued sadness about Gretta -- which was unusual. I tried in a roundabout way to find out what was wrong, but failed to do so. After she had gone to bed, her whole body shook with sobs, and still she would not tell me. Truly, youth has a camel-capacity for suffering! When I came downstairs, the boys were all seated at their homework, looking with a don't care attitude on one side of their faces and a crestfallen wondering what's going to happen next look on the other side. "Now, boys," I said, "You can put your work away and there'll be no meal got in this house until I find out what happened to make Gretta so distressed."

"Well, Mother, you don't approve of tale-telling, do you?"

"No, I don't in a general way. Tittle tatters are mostly strife breeders.”

“Gretta was going to tell you tales and we hanged her doll over the clothes line as a punishment, and she's taking on like this all on account of a miserable rag doll."

After cross examining them, the whole business came to light. We were surrounded by fields containing old fashioned ponds which, in season, were alive with water hens. The boys had found a nest full of eggs but it was a long way from the edge of the pond. They returned to the house for a spoon to tie on a long stick. The spoon they considered would be the right size and shape for the purpose was a silver one -- one of a set given to us for a wedding present. Gretta knew that the spoons with Daddy's initials on were used only at tea time and, to be taken to get water hens' eggs with was, to her housewifely mind, a sacrilege. She said "I'll tell your Mother," and they retaliated by saying her doll was a witch and hanging it.

Their peculiar point was: that, if she had repeated after them, with the desired degree of emphasis, “I'm pos’tive I'll never be a snitch-pot," her doll might have been saved. A half-hearted statement was no use to them. Truly, boys at a certain age are Barbarians.

Poor doll! It was only a home-made affair, composed of worn out stockings with a rag face and eyes and lips embroidered in silk. But, to Gretta’s heart, it was dear. She poured out her love for it by knitting it jumpers galore with wool presented by various Aunts who knew of her skill with knitting needles. She really was, for a time, heart-broken. It was difficult to convince her that her doll had no feeling and, therefore, could not be killed.

After striving to explain to the boys the difference between tittle-tattle and the reporting of wrong doing, and uttering a few scathing remarks on the brutality of hurting the feelings of small girls, and sisters in particular, peace and comfort was restored. Homework was finished and we retired to bed, the boys doubtless still considering that girls were babyish, and myself to comfort Gretta, thankful that the next day would be quite new, and hoping it would be quite calm.

The weekly visit to market often brought amusing and enlightening items of interest to my notice. One day, the other two occupants of the railway carriage were, from their conversation, obviously School Mistresses. They were discussing a recent visit from an Inspector. They were types as far apart as the poles. One was tall, wore pince-nez, had a commanding presence and a commanding voice and, from her talk, evidently college trained. The other was a farmer's wife: short, rotund, happy old-fashioned body, with scant respect for Inspectors who did not confine their questions to the things country children would be likely to know. The Inspector had asked her children about macaroni and she said "It he asks about it next time he comes, they'll be able to tell him.” “Oh!” enquired the pince-nez lady, in a judicial tone, "How will you proceed to instruct them?" "Why," laughed the chubby lady, “I've got a pound here and I shall make a big pudding and let 'em all have a taste."

I was telling a farmer friend how tickled I was about her practical way of instructing children about macaroni. He said, "I heard a funny bit yesterday from a Schoolmaster. It appears that one of the Scripture Inspectors from the other side of the County was going the round of schools and, at each, he asked the same question: 'What is prayer, and why do we pray?' Rather a puzzler for small children. One teacher, on hearing of it, decided that her scholars should have a reasonable answer to give him when he arrived to examine them, so she instructed them accordingly 'Prayer is supplication to God, to be made in the morning, in the evening, in time of trouble, time of trial and at the hour of death.' In course of time, the Inspector came and, as it was an agricultural community, he talked about farming. Then he said 'Now, children, can you tell me when cows should be milked?' The Teacher, standing behind him, formed her lips to say a silent 'Morning' and, in a trice, the whole class chorused with gusto 'In the morning, in the evening, in time of trouble, time of trial and at the hour of death.'"

Parents’ Day at Nuneaton High School, at the ends of term, was much looked forward to. Several of my old school friends had daughters attending, so we used to meet and talk over old times. We always concluded that, whilst the present generation flew, it was a good thing for the world at large that there were a few solid-thinking folk about to act as a balance like the tail of a kite, so that the flighty ideas would be wound down slowly, without becoming entangled in telegraph wires, and so be unable to fly again.

Adult labour was, at that time, short and the boys in the village were in great demand during the holidays for seasonal work on the Estate, such as sweeping and general tidying up of the paths in the woods and outlying parts of the Hall grounds. During the summer holidays, we did our hay-making. My brother sent a man with a mowing machine to cut it, then we turned it and carried it into the barn. After that was finished, the boys were at liberty to take on any job the Agent could provide them with, suitable to their age and strength. The only stipulation I made was that it must he something which did not necessitate them going until after the breakfast hour. They had the milking to do and it did not seem fair that they should have to get up earlier in holidays than in term time.

The Agent was an understanding man and a great student of human nature. He seemed to have a wonderful knack of knowing when to appear blind and deaf, but he always gave the guilty party the impression that he suspected. One day, I was in my garden and saw him emerge from the wood, where Edward and Harold Dawkins were supposed to be raking up leaves. He paused to speak to me, saying "Is there any situation which those boys wouldn't treat as a huge joke?"

“Why? What are they up to now?"

"Well, they seemed to have worked for a time with frantic haste, from the size of the heap of leaves they've collected, then looked around to see what enjoyment they could get out of a breathing spell. Where Harold Dawkins was, I don't know for sure. Edward is, at the moment, being very industrious but, from the sound of a mouth organ playing Hark the Herald Angels Sing, and the sound coming from the depths of the heap of leaves, I should say that Edward had been tucking him up, under the impression that he was a babe in the wood. Yesterday afternoon, I found them swimming in the river. If all your six boys are as lively and mischievous as Edward, you've got your work cut out to manage them."

"Well, fortunately, they are growing up and their ideas of enjoyment vary -- which is fortunate. Edward certainly seems to have a superabundance of energy. He has been up all the tall trees in the Parish and, the more ragged he can make his clothes, the happier he seems. I wish he would take his elder brother as a pattern; he is as faddy as an old maid about his clothes. The youngest of all is a problem: he is only happy doing something with a pencil. I find all kinds of weird things drawn on his pillow. The only regret he has when I scold him is that he cannot do justice to the things he is drawing, because he has to do them in the dark. He is bitterly disappointed at the moment because he cannot get the drawing of the Tabernacle in the wilderness in the same precise proportions they are in the model in the old family Bible. He is quite under the impression that, at six years of age, he is sufficiently grown up to accomplish anything. I tell him that, when he is twenty six, he will recognise that he is only just beginning to learn although, if he aims at killing a stag, he might by chance hit a haystack. One thing I am very thankful about is: they all like reading which, on a wet day, is a blessing."

But why women should be so desirous of teaching boys, I fail to understand. Boys can't be taught without discipline and men possess the temperament to administer it. I have to spank my boys sometimes, and I always feel I've raised a barrier between them and me. Whereas, if their father had been here to administer it, they would have taken their licking philosophically, feeling assured that, while Mother agreed it was necessary, they felt sure of her sympathy.

When Edward arrived home for dinner, I enquired how he had got on. He said "Golly! the best lark you ever saw, Mother. Tubby came along just as I'd got old Daws nicely covered up in a dandy heap of leaves. Daws didn't hear him come, or talking to me, and he was playing away for all he was worth on his mouth organ. My heart was in my mouth, nearly, in case Tubby went and prodded his stick into the heap. Gosh! it would have been funny if he had, because Daws would have thought it was me and he would have enquired in a disrespectful manner 'What I was up to, stopping the band in that fashion?' He thinks his performance on the mouth organ is the whole cheese. But Daws is a lucky blighter: yesterday, just at the time it was so hot, we went in the river and we were not in many minutes when Tubby came along. He always seems to come just when we slack off – and even steam engines have to stop to take in water, sometimes. Daws was cooling himself under the bank, which shelves over by the Whirly Hole, and I was the only one to answer his questions. He said ‘What are you doing in this river?' I spluttered out 'Please, Sir, I came in to get a drink.' 'Drink, indeed! do you find it necessary to undress to get a drink? Besides, this water is not fit for drinking purposes.' Anyway, Mother, I don't think he was really angry but, in his position, he has to appear so."

"But you should not call him "Tubby"; it's most disrespectful."

"Oh well, everybody working on the Estate does. It suits him. You should just see how the wrinkles on his waistcoat wriggle up and down like a concertina when he laughs."

And so the days were spent. The evenings, after the milking was done, were devoted to cricket on a pitch in our field. Gretta could play as well as the boys, and run a great deal faster than most of them. Considering that, for several years, there was no girl in the village for her to play with, we were fortunate in having nice, wholesome types of boys as neighbours. They treated her with great chivalry on the whole. But when she lapsed into what they called “snitch-potting sloppy cissie pranks," the punishment they doled out was drastic.

One hot day, in a very ingratiating tone, my boys asked me if they could go to the canal. "No," I emphatically replied, "You'll be drowned."

"No we shan't. We learned to swim at the Grassy Bridge, where it isn't deep. We didn't tell you because we knew you'd be nervous, but we really can swim strongly."

So I sewed a piece of soap in flannel and they went off with a towel apiece. It was a place after their own hearts to bathe in. They liked to do what they called "wallows", which they could only do in the bath when it was pouring with rain. Our soft water supply was restricted because we only had water barrels. The only good thing about such a restriction was, we had no water rate to pay.

Winter came again and, with it, frosty weather. Alan was cycling home from school and his bicycle skidded on the icy road. He fell on a large stone and broke his leg, and this was the first of a series of misfortunes. He was carried into a nearby cottage. The Doctor was, fortunately, passing and he set it temporarily with a cricket bat and, afterwards, put it in a plaster case. It was a wearisome job until he could walk about again. When it was quite strong, he left school and went a few miles away as a farm pupil.

The next year, Edward broke his wrist, and Alec his arm; both accidents were due to climbing. Fortunately, there were several months between the two accidents or I do not know how the milking would have got done. They had a great time! Their spirits were not the least bit subdued and a large elm tree, close to a small triangular bit of wood, with the river running through, was where they were usually to be found. Sacks fastened together with nails and arranged as a tent, with a wood fire close to the entrance served to enable them to be, for a time, wild Indians or Ancient Britons, or anything else their imagination suggested. Tea boiled in a billy can was, to their minds, a drink fit for the Gods; and potatoes roasted to a cinder were, to use their expression, spiffin. I felt in those days that, even if my small holding was not worth much to me financially, at least it kept the children happy and under my own eye. School books were read in a desultory way. Edward was deep in Coriolanus and, as a consequence, all the animals born that year had classical names. The kittens were Sohrab and Rustom.

Then Edward, who was a great cricketer, entered the seventh Heaven. Leicestershire Gentlemen were playing a two-day cricket match in Bosworth Park. One of their players was, for some reason, incapacitated and they applied to the Headmaster of the School for a substitute. Edward was sent along and, with him, went his eight-day smile, his shirt sleeves -- one up one down – his hair all over the place and his flannel trousers anything but what they might have been. He was quite unconscious that, from the standpoint of appearance, he was disreputable. That he represented his School was the main thing and he wouldn't have changed places with the King that day. Cricket was, at that period of his life, the one and only thing to be considered, talked about or contemplated. Other things had to be done, of course, but they were details compared with cricket and it was not Schoolmasters or Mothers who were looked upon with favour, simply because they stood for the enforcement of duties which interfered with the game.

In the course of time, my eldest boy, Ivor, began to wonder what the future held in store for him. He had a great hankering to go to New Zealand. Someone had told him it had a nice climate, and much higher wages were paid than in England. He often talked to me about it after the younger children had gone to bed at night. I did not feel very perturbed, as I knew the fare was more than he would be able to save for several years and, by that time, I hoped the desire would have passed away.

One day, he said to me "Mother, if I could get my fare paid, would you object to me going to New Zealand?"

“No. You could go to Mrs Hocking, Father's old Cornish friend.” I did not feel there was much chance of him going. However, Dalgettys, an export firm, were wanting someone to go out to Australia in charge of pedigree cattle, and he got the job. They paid his fare and a wage and, because one of the heifers calved during the voyage and he looked after her so well, they gave him an extra five pounds. He said the Officers called him the baby cowboy and treated him very nicely.

It was a terrible wrench to part with him but I argued with myself that, if I kept the boys tied to my apron strings, they would never get anywhere. And while I could always provide a bed and food for them, I could do little more. And God's care could surround him as well over the sea as in England.

After delivering his cattle, he was recommended by the Export Agents in Brisbane to Major Lowther-Crofton, who wanted a capable, refined man to help him on his ranch until his son was old enough to leave college and assist him. So Ivor spent three really profitable years on the Lowther-Crofton's ranch, on the borders of Queensland. Mrs Lowther-Crofton was like a mother to him and, altogether, the influence surrounding him was all that was good. When he left them, he crossed over to New Zealand, where he still is, happily married and has one little daughter who, judging from her photograph, looks to have inherited the Celtic eyes of her Cornish ancestors.

CHAPTER 16

DISASTER

September came and the day to commence school drew near. One morning, Edward was not well. He milked and had his breakfast but complained of a headache, so I suggested that he would like to lie down. At eleven o'clock, he was no better; I gave him an aspirin and a glass of milk. At four, I sent for the Doctor, as there was decidedly something radically wrong: the perspiration was simply soaking through the mattress and the room was like a wash house with the boiler bubbling like mad. The Doctor came and thought it might be rheumatic fever; at the same time, he said there were symptoms which were not usual with that complaint. He came again the next day. By that time, every limb in poor Edward's body, with the exception of his right hand, was paralysed.

A Doctor from Leicester came and pronounced it anterior polio-myelitis. He wouldn't say if he thought he would recover. In any case, he said, it would be a long, painful journey before he reached the sitting up stage. In the meantime, he would need all the patience and cheering up we could give him. I felt numb with consternation. It was as much as I could manage to pay my way without having additional expenses but, even while I was trying to collect my scattered wits together and not show the white feather until the door had shut on the Doctor, I heard him say, in a voice which seemed to be coming from a long distance, "Now, don't worry too much; I shall not send you a bill to add to your troubles and, as soon as Edward is ready for it, we'll have him in the Infirmary for electrical treatment and massage. Go on for the present doing what your Doctor advises."

With that, he went and I wondered how on earth I was going back to Edward with a cheerful face and, even more important, a cheerful voice. To think that a bundle of energy and mischief like him could be stricken down so suddenly! in the evening, playing cricket and, the next day, helpless. I thought to myself that it's a mercy to poor humanity that God broke the year into hours and days, and we have his power to help us bear the burden of the hour. Poor Edward! his body racked with agonising pain and not able to help himself in the slightest to gain relief.

The children, one and all, were splendid. Nothing was too much trouble for them to do to make things easier for him. Eventually, the day came when he was to be admitted to the Infirmary. Our Doctor brought his comfortable, roomy car, helped to lay Edward in it, and motored us to Leicester, where he remained for one year, all but a day. The house seemed desolate without him. It is strange how each individual member of a family fills his or her little niche in the family circle. One privilege the Ward Sister gave me, for which I was very grateful: I could go and see Edward any time I could get. It is not always easy for anyone running a house single-handed to leave it at stated times.

The Lady at the Hall was extremely kind: several times, she sent to tell me they were motoring into Leicester, if I cared to go. By so doing, I was able to be home in time to give the children their evening meal. When I went by train, I could not get home until after seven o'clock.

For several months, Edward was most depressed and my visiting seemed to cheer him up more than anything else. He would frequently ask "Mother, do you think I shall ever be able to walk again?" I could only reply that, of tomorrow, there is only one thing to be sure about: that Providence will always rise much earlier than the sun to fulfil the promise "As thy day, thy strength shall be" and that we must try and cultivate a faith that would carry present loads, meet present assaults, feed on present promises, and commit the future to a faithful God. He was terribly afraid that he would be a helpless cripple and I was glad that he told me his fears, because fears are miserable brutes to have tucked away in the innermost recesses of one's soul. So we used to spread them out on the bed, as it were, and give them beans.

"Now," I would say, "Instead of playing cricket with a bat and ball, you'll have to play it with fears. Sock 'em well, to use your own kind of slang and, when they are particularly aggressive, go over in your mind the 23rd Psalm. There isn't a word in it that won't help you to stand on your feet both physically and spiritually."

The Duke of York visited the Infirmary to lay the foundation stone of a new block which was being built. He was taken to Edward’s bed and told all about his case. He was very kind and sympathetic, which bucked Edward up tremendously. He said "Even if I can't run about, I can say I've shaken hands with Royalty!" The next time I visited him, he was full of the honour bestowed upon him. There was a glinting, humorous light in his blue-grey eyes, not quite defeated by the acute suffering of the past months.

One day when I went, he was very ill; he had gone just to a skeleton and tears of weakness kept running down his cheeks. I was cudgelling my brains for some method of helping him to forget himself. His bed was very near the stove which was in the centre of the Ward. Sister Beech was standing with her foot on the curb, reading a note. Presently, the Sister on Accident Ward came and they were conversing together in low tones. I said "Isn't Accident Sister pretty?"

“Yes,” he replied in a grudging tone, "but wouldn't our Sister make a lovely Mother?”

"She would. She is the type which must have inspired the poet who wrote, ‘A noble woman, nobly planned/ to warm, to comfort or command.' She is the embodiment of restful competence and I'm very thankful for her."

“You know, Mother, she brought me my dinner herself today and she always comes to the Ward at night after she's had her dinner to tuck the boys in the Ward up. She must know we miss our own Mothers."

Knowing that my train did not leave until nearly six o'clock, she often told Nurse to give me tea, which was a real delight to Edward and it enabled me to stay longer with him.

After about eight months, he was able to sit up and was wheeled each morning to the Massage Department. The Sister there, I never saw but she taught him the names of all the muscles in his body, which gave him a new interest in life. Also, his bed was put out on the balcony, which appeared to thrill him out of all proportion, considering the short distance of the move.

I did not, at that time, go to see him so frequently so, often, he would be alone on visiting days. A white-haired gentleman, with a most benign face -- a retired School Inspector -- used to walk through the Wards on visiting days; if a patient had no visitors, he would stop and speak and, sometimes, give them chocolates or a stamped post card. After speaking to Edward several times, he lent him a book entitled "Life.” It gave the chemical composition of the body and was as dry as dust. Anyway, it gave Edward the impression he was not so insignificant as he had hitherto assumed.

The day he was telling me about it and reading paragraphs out, there happened to be a photograph in the Daily Mirror of the Archbishop of Canterbury in his elaborate episcopal robes. "Now, Mother," Edward said, in tones of great satisfaction, “would you believe that even a man as grand as that Archbishop is twenty five per cent water? I heard a farmer say, once, that mangel wurzels are nearly all water, so why trouble to grow them: let the cows go to the brook to drink. But I never thought men were the same. Even the Headmaster at School is, and yet he has it in his power to make a whole class of boys tremble."

"But it isn't the water part of him does that; it's the spirit part, the bit which goes to the making of his personality. The bit which makes the boys tremble, as you put it, is also the bit which makes them strive to excel. Which brings me back to "Life" again. Nothing comes to birth successfully without a struggle. Think how a grain of wheat must have to struggle and tremble before it bursts itself out of the grain. It is only the alive, alert people who have an emanation of life of sufficient volume constantly going out from them -- for good or evil. There's no remaining isolated or unrelated to all with whom we come in contact. The thing called "life," twenty five per cent water or no, wafts out from us all, just as atoms waft out from the sun; and the people who do not possess sufficient of it to influence others and to make their presence felt have souls as dead as sardines."

"Talking about life, Mother, this week, the Nurses have changed over to different Wards and a second year with auburn hair is on our Ward. I call her 'Ginger.' She is just like a rollicking boy. She squeezed water out of a sponge all over my face today. You'll see her at tea time.” I did! She trundled the tea wagon along as though it were a huge joke, her face one continual beam of brightness. Edward introduced her with great decorum. I said that I hoped she was not finding him too much of a trial, and would pardon his liberties.

“I know I deserved something for giving him a wetting but he looked so despondent I had to do something drastic to relieve the situation, and water in a sponge or a tumbler does not attract much attention until it spills over."

"There you go, Edward. Nurse has given us another definition of life. That must be another way of saying that Christ came that we might have life and have it more abundantly. Until it spills over and gives people a shock. Jerks them to a realisation that life was not meant to be a sleepy perambulation, but a stern race."

"That," said Edward, with a sad look, "Is all very well for the people who can race but for people who have to lie flat, where do they come in?"

"They have to accept the ministrations of others cheerfully, at the same time using the life force or will power to strive and strive and above all, never lose the spirit of hopefulness which is worth more than gold."

Train time arrived and I had to leave. As I was saying goodby, a young Nurse came and put a screen round a nearby bed. Edward said "We've got nice Nurses this changeover; that Nurse is ever so obliging; she's a first year Pro..”

“She has a nice face," I remarked after a pause.

"What are you looking at, Mother?"

"I can't quite explain. Probably my imagination but I could see a halo of brightness around that Nurse's head and it startled me."

The next time I visited Edward greeted me in an unnaturally subdued manner. "Do you remember the Nurse you saw with a halo around her head, Mother? She died, quite suddenly. Before we realised she'd gone off duty, she was dead. It's made us all feel sad. Did you think she looked ill the other day?"

"No. But I'm not surprised to hear that she's gone. I’ve had the same feeling about two other people and they both went for no apparent reason. I wish that I did not possess such intuition; it is an uncomfortable feeling. One satisfaction is, the same intuition will probably preserve me from ever being cheated to any great extent."

On one of my visits, a Porter who was usually in the Out Patients’ Department was on duty at the main entrance. He was dressed in a uniform of that colour known as "puce" in my young days. He had rather a pompous manner and walked flat-footed. He was writing when I arrived. I paused until he looked up, to ask if I might go through. Eventually, he asked in a tone which made me jump "Well, my good woman, what do you want?"

"A money-making machine," I replied, "but my immediate need is permission to go to Oliver Ward." He graciously gave the required permit and, when I saw him afterwards, he refrained from saying “My good woman." Doubtless, he meant to be kind to me, but to be so accosted, made me feel sarcastic; as though one told one's wants to the man in the street!

Eventually, the great day arrived when Edward was to learn to stand on his legs again. He was allowed to simply stand, supported by two Nurses. Then, after a short time, a pair of crutches was supplied and the date fixed for him to return home. On that day, he walked around a small Ward and sat on the side of the bed while a Nurse put the crutches in a corner. When she turned back to him, he had slipped to the floor in a faint. The fall broke his femur, so he was put in a plaster cast from his armpits down, and brought home in the Fire Brigade ambulance. It was impossible for him to have massage in a plaster cast and the change to country air would, we hoped, prove beneficial. A bed was put under the chestnut tree in the garden and three of us carried him out each morning and in each evening.

There was simply a low hedge between him and the village street and everybody passing paused to speak to him, which gave him a new interest in life. The labourers told him of their hedging and ditching operations; the Keeper, of hedgerow happenings and the prospects for the autumn shoots. The boys all gathered around his bed after school hours and some heated discussions took place, which circulated his blood and did him a power of good. The only time the weather was unkind was one Thursday afternoon and, even then, he was fortunate: the rain commenced just as the Baker's van drove up, so a pair of stalwart arms were willingly offered to help get him indoors.

The time arrived for him to return to the Infirmary to have his plaster sawn off, and also that he might learn to walk under professional supervision, and have a further course of massage. He was home for Christmas, however, and making slow but sure progress. He had several falls of a mild nature and one bad one which, while it was intensely painful and sent him back to bed for several days was, from the Doctor's standpoint, of great benefit. It limbered his knee up and did in a second what would have taken months to do in an ordinary way.

CHAPTER 17

LIFE GETS BETTER

Edward's future was a great problem; it often prevented me getting to sleep at night. One day, I was discussing the best thing to do for him with the Doctor who, throughout his illness, had been a tower of strength to me. He suggested seeing the Headmaster at School and asking if he were willing to make concessions for his return to School. He was not able to get to the classrooms, as they were up stone steps.

The Headmaster was kind enough to arrange for him to work in the boarders' sitting room, and he lived at the Doctor's house from Monday until Saturday of each week for several months. Then, the Headmaster invited him to live at School, as his visitor, for a time; so, in one way or another, and owing to great kindness from people interested in his education, he proceeded to Matriculation.

Just before that time arrived, I was lying awake one night, when the thought came that, if he could get the necessary training, he might qualify as an Agricultural Lecturer. Agriculture seemed to be the only thing we could think about; it is like the man said about wooden legs: it runs in the blood. So I went to Leicester and interviewed the Agricultural Organiser for the County. I explained the whole situation to him. He was a sympathetic, fatherly man and he promised to do his best to secure a scholarship for him to enter an Agricultural College.

Edward was still very lame and found great difficulty in walking but, each holiday, he spent in the Infirmary and in two years, forty two muscles were induced to return to life, in response to the treatment received. So I hoped that, as his general health improved, his walking powers would do, also. Our optimism was rewarded as, in the course of time, he was able to discard his crutches and use one stick. Then the day came when the Infirmary could do no more for him but he certainly is, today, a monument of wonder and a walking testimonial to the skill, care and encouragement received at the hands of the medical and nursing staff of Leicester Royal Infirmary.

The first holiday after he had finished electrical treatment, he and a school friend went to Cornwall on his friend's motor cycle. They took the journey by easy stages and came back, after a month, refreshed in body and spirit, with a new outlook and ready to begin another lap of life's race.

When home for holidays, he always had some amusing things to relate. One term, buns which were served were so hard one man nailed his to the floor as a door-stopper. Another term, a student who could climb like a cat, as a retaliation, went on the roof, tied a clothes line to the chimneys, and pegged another student's clothes on. Another term, he would relate how a group of men of various nationalities were congregated in one of the men's studies, discussing religion and generally airing their opinions. They evidently had peculiar and decided ideas. One turned to Edward, who was sitting quietly in a corner, and said "Now, Heath, what's your opinion?" "Well," said Edward, "if my Mother were here, she'd say that John III and XVI would knock all your theories into a cocked hat and itself remain foursquare." (I certainly would not have put it precisely like that!) So one of them - a Scot - reached his Bible and turned to it and read in a deliberate tone how God so loved the Wor-r-old. They then discussed it and finally concluded it applied to all nations. "In fact," said Edward, "before we'd finished, it had provided a very illuminating sermon. There were two Indians there who had never heard it before." I thought to myself as he told me that it truly was seed sown on new ground.

By this time, three of my boys were in Canada. Friends in Saskatchewan found posts for them. Gretta was leaving school and her last term was one of excitement. Looking back on her schooldays, she came to the conclusion that boys had by far the best time, and often wished she could go back to the days when she could be a tomboy without a Mistress at hand to discountenance such behaviour. During her last term, one girl who had a turn for poetry composed a verse for each girl in the form, describing their individual peculiarities. Gretta and another girl, Mollie, were inseparable friends and were immortalised thus: "Gretta is so gay and jolly/ we love her quite as much as Mollie,/ although she's sometimes sore and sad/ because she was not born a lad."

Mollie was, unfortunately, stone deaf. She learned her lessons by lip-reading, and was a clever girl. One day, Walter de la Mare came to School to read poetry to them. It was a bitter disappointment to Mollie because she could not hear him. At lunch, one of the mistresses told him so. He asked to be allowed to speak to her. He then presented her with a copy of his poems and wrote her name in it. The whole School took it as a great compliment. In their estimation, he was something superior to a poet: he was a sport!

She went to Cornwall to get a preliminary training for dairy work [autumn 1928]. It is a County which makes of dairy work a dignified occupation and an enthusiastic interest and great pains are taken to get that degree of competence which will produce, in after years, winners of championships at the Mecca of Dairymaids, the London Dairy Show. They teach that dairy work is a fit occupation for intelligent girls, and not just drudgery for uncouth country girls -- though this is not the picture given by novelists who know nothing whatever about the matter, and who are under the delusion that townsfolk have monopolies of all the brains in the universe.

Not having any further use for the fields now the boys had left home, the cows were sold and I shut up the house and went to Cornwall with Gretta. I took a post in a boys' boarding school. The Matron was very kind and helpful and she gave me every opportunity to learn how Institutes are run. I also realised that my home training must have been practical, as the only thing I saw done there which I had never seen before was: if a bowl of custard left over from the day before was beaten up with an egg-beater, it made it look as if it had been freshly made.

Gretta and I often saw each other. During the summer holidays, Edward and his friends came and we all spent the holiday together in the cottage of a Schoolmistress in a nearby village. She was desirous of going to Edinburgh to visit a sister and was glad to let her house to help pay the expenses of the long journey. In October, Gretta had her examination and came out first in both practical and theory of Dairying in the group of girls taking it. The presentation of certificates made a nice social afternoon; tea was provided and, afterwards, we left together and visited relations in Wadebridge before returning to Leicestershire. Gretta then went into Derbyshire to get experience in a pasteurising plant.

Whilst she was there, I was asked to help the Superintendant of a Girls' Hostel run by the Church Council on the South Coast. Her assistant was ill and passed away without recovering her health. I stayed until the summer rush was over and found it a most interesting experience. Sixty two girls, of all types, formed our family and my chief work was to take a motherly interest in them, and carve and generally supervise their meals. The greatest drawback, to my mind, was: the house was on a hill and the dining room was in the basement, and tram cars and motor cars were passing without ceasing. All vehicles changed gears just before reaching us, and the variety of petrol stinks which seemed to squirt right into our windows was enough to turn a body's tummy upside down. If that Free Church Council had been compelled to live in it, they would have soon organised a collection to remove the hostel a little further off the main road. It seemed as though the Committee prayed for everything except wisdom sufficient to look at the matter from the standpoint of the inmates.

One of the older members asked me to go with her to view a room in a block of flats for bachelor girls. She was a telegraphist supervisor, keen on her job but reaching the stage when, if the fiddle string is not slackened a little, it is liable to snap. Sitting on a box in the almost finished room, with carpenters hammering overhead, we discussed domestic arrangements, cost of furnishing and so on. Observing that her idea of catering left much to be desired, I remarked that she had much better stay in the hostel, where she could depend on well-cooked food.

"Well, you see, the war killed my little romance, so that a house in the ordinary way is never likely to be mine, and I do so want tea out of a nice little brown tea pot, and be able to pour it out myself. After working with a crowd of girls all day, I feel it will be Heavenly bliss to be quiet. The way of life in this present decade seems designed to seduce woman from her proper destiny, and prevent her practising the primal duties: the simple virtues on which life rests."

They were a mixed crowd, in varied occupations, but the most tired ones were undoubtedly those in charge of sub-Post offices, and girls in Hairdressing Salons. We had many girls engaged in the various departments of the Post Office and their movable hours made meal times difficult to contend with. One contingent had breakfast very early and would return to a hurried meal at eleven thirty am. Dinner was served from twelve noon until 2 pm when, in addition to the boarders, about fifty girls engaged in business would drop in.

The longing of most of the older ones was to possess a small house of their own. Some of the younger ones, who were engaged to be married, kept their rooms beautifully spick and span; by way of getting their hand in, they laughingly declared. It was good to hear their opinions and ideas as to how they intended to budget their housekeeping allowances and what indulgencies they would allow their husbands, to keep them in a good mood. One would feed him well, another would permit him to put his feet on the fender, yet another would allow him to leave the bathroom in any old muddle so long as he never failed to kiss her when he went out. A group of them asked me one day to come out to tea. We went right into the country to some tea gardens by the riverside. I asked them during tea why they had taken so much trouble to give a grey-haired old woman such a pleasant time. "Oh, Mrs Heath," one exclaimed, "because you're so understanding. You never cut my good-night with John abruptly, or get cross if we are one minute longer than we ought to be. John's quite sure you've got tremendous faith in the solidity and happiness of the marriage state."

"I certainly have, provided the right couple are marrying, and they bring the quality of give and take into the contract. But the real reason I'm so patient with you is that, in my early days, what with being a member of a big family and having a delicate Mother, I never had a chance to enjoy my engagement and, inwardly, I've always hotly resented it. I feel that I was done out of something which one should be able to look back upon with a glow of delight. But," I declared in a humorous tone, "don't try me too far or, instead of a gentle cough as a reminder that I want to lock the doors, I shall fling open the door and get a full view of you locked in John's arms. I'm wondering what the Committee would say if they knew the inner and outer porch doors are used as whispering boxes for sweethearts?"

"Well! They needn't grudge us that spot of bliss. The rules are strict, and no man can ever get beyond the door."

"Don't be too sure. At the moment, I stand a chance that the Committee will ask me to explain why, upon a certain date, I was bold enough to ask a man inside."

"Oh, do tell us about it, there's a dear. Where was the Dragon?"

"In her usual place: her own sitting room. To see the funny side of it, you must visualise Miss Millon, who had retired to bed at her normal time, just previous to locking up for-the night. The bell rang and, upon going to the door, I was asked by a most respectable man, about thirty five years of age, if he could speak to Miss Millon. He said it was important that he should see her, if possible. He'd had an appointment with her for three o'clock but his car had broken down and he'd only just arrived in town. He had to go away again at seven the next morning. He was from a Wholesale House in Bristol. I knew that Miss Millon goes every month to buy for her firm, because we give her breakfast early on those days. I did not hesitate to invite him into the drawing room. I argued to myself that we are a house, not a Club, and, therefore, the inmates are entitled to interview their visitors in respectable comfort. Miss Millon was partly undressed but quickly put on her house coat and came down. I left them together with the door wide open. But, in less than two minutes, the Principal came to ask me who was in the dining room and why I had admitted a man. I explained the situation to her but, in twelve minutes by the hall clock, she walked into that room three times! Now, can you imagine Miss Millon, with her grey hair and demure ways, of being anything but discreet with a man?"

"No! no! no!" they chorused "She's just a bit of concentrated business and the man would be just a part of it."

"She probably is but she may have a sense of humour. I could almost swear that she winked as she apologised after her visitor had departed."

"My boy's calling for me tomorrow," said Sheila Hamer, "Do be a dear and ask him in. He'd love to smell the atmosphere in our secluded abode."

"No! I quite admire the Committee's strict rules, but there must be exceptions; however, a business breakdown and a sweethearting appointment are two very different things."

And so we returned: me to ladle out macaroni cheese and the girls to return to their affairs for the building up of their healthy young bodies.

I was the Deputy Superintendant of the Hostel. My predecessor, Miss Morriss, seems not to have been one of Nature's workers, but all the girls loved her. However, her very aptitude for sitting made the maids slack with their work and, often, she was desperately afraid to say what was obviously right, in case she hurt someone's feelings; and the carving had nearly driven her crazy. One of the older boarders asked me, when I had been there about a month, if I found the post difficult. Because, she said, poor Miss Morriss used to stand and keep repeating "The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ Amen" while she was carving; she said that was the only way she could keep going. Poor dear! she used to get so flustered.

I laughed as I assured her that the thing which would worry me would be if, when all you girls arrive hungry, I had no beef or sharp carving knife to get to work with; my prayer would be for no hindrancies to me getting on with the job. "Miss Morriss sounds as if she belongs to the Mary persuasion and I belong to the Marthas."

I hope I live to see a translation of the Bible which makes the Mary and Martha episode clear. I never can see why Mary's was the better part. Any well cooked meal or successful business or well run home shows that somebody has soaked in the ferment of anxiety and solicitude and, since the Marys like to do the sitting, the Marthas must do the sweating. Miss Morriss, a Wesleyan Minister's daughter, was capable of taking a Mothers' meeting and possessed a charming personality; but that seems to have been her limit. I've concluded, after many years of close observation, that seventy five per cent of the folk who imagine they have divine approbation for their sitting propensities, and feel very superior for so doing, are really at bottom just lazy; and it's their laziness that makes the Marthas so cumbered. In many cases, the Marys adore the man in the pulpit. Before the Marthas adored, or even approved, they would want to know how the idol would react to a meal not cooked quite as it should be, owing to poor Martha's having to combine the duties of cook, housekeeper, nurse, housemaid and half a dozen other things. With, possibly, a teething baby thrown in!

Since I left the Hostel, I have seen an advertisement to fill a similar position. The Committee required a lady who must be a dedicated Christian, able to conduct prayers and Bible classes, keep accurate accounts, have a thorough knowledge of cooking and domestic science, possess a nice, kind manner, and be able to control girls without them realising they were being controlled. In fact, what they really wanted was the qualifications of half a dozen women in one skin. A place like that needs both a Mary and a Martha.

In spite of drawbacks, we were a happy family in the Hostel, and the views of the girls on politics and religion were very entertaining. For many things, I was sorry to leave but Gretta secured a post to look after the dairy of a Scottish nobleman and, naturally, wanted me to live with her.

CHAPTER 18

START OF LIFE IN SCOTLAND

Circumstances over which I had little control had driven me to a sequestered spot in Scotland. More than half a century had passed over my head and a variety of -itises had appeared: the result of too much work and too little rest, so the Doctor said. Fibrositis and phlebitis, combined with thrombosis, to say nothing of rheumatoid arthritis were not cheerful bed-fellows. So I packed up my traps and came to Scotland to be with Gretta. Part of her job involved living in a bungalow in a charming nook, flanked by a pine wood and a Loch. The Laird's Castle, which can be seen in the distance, is a mere item on the landscape.

It was mid autumn [1930] when I arrived, as I had paid a visit to my Mother and called and cleaned and aired the cottage before going North. The Farm Manager, with true Scottish kindness, drove Gretta and his wife four miles to the Station to meet me. A few minutes sufficed to bring us to the Lodge at the entrance to the Castle grounds.

At that time of the year, Nature had done her utmost to provide beauty, and was engaged in painting the shrubs and the trees with the brightest yellows and oranges and russets of her palette. Beneath the parapet of the bridge which spanned the river, she had changed the willow herb into a mass of the deepest crimson. Beyond the crimson bank and through the pale blue mist, the wee house I was to share with Gretta loomed into view, looking the embodiment of peace. To reach it by car, we followed the winding road up a steep incline and, taking a sharp turn to the right, we reached home -- blessed name, if only a tiny place.

Gretta had prepared a most appetising supper, to show me what she could do in the way of cooking. This was thoroughly enjoyed. We retired to bed early, so that Gretta would be able to get up at six o'clock. After this early start, she had to take a ten minute walk along a fern-decked lane to the Home Farm Dairy, to separate the milk from a pedigree herd of Ayrshire cows before returning home to breakfast. I rose, after a good night's sleep, ready to inspect my new surroundings and enjoy the wonderful panorama laid out on all sides -- thankful indeed that circumstances had placed me in such a pleasant spot and under the same roof as my own dear child.

Gretta conducted me on a tour of inspection. The cottage dairy was part of what must have been at one time a larger house. Entrance was by a charming rustic porch and along a wide passage, at the left of which was a sitting room out of which a small bedroom opened. Further along the passage was the larder. To the right, a large scullery, the same size as the sitting room, bedroom and larder combined. Straight through and facing the front door, the dairy: a large, cool place with a thick slate shelf on brick pillars all around; three parts of the way up the wall, white tiles, with a border of narrow tiles with an ivy-leaf pattern on. In the centre of the ceiling was a large ventilation shaft, dome-shaped. The accoustics of the dairy was something which the builders of Churches might, with advantage, study. One's voice simply carried clear instead of sticking around one's mouth -- like hot mutton served on a cold plate! The outside door faced North and, that morning, a scene of enchantment met my view.

An autumn sunrise swept down the hillside in a cataract of glory and poured into the cold green of the meadows, flooding them with warmth and light. Gretta was delighted that the mood of the morn gave so genial a greeting. She said that, the first two days after her arrival, she was unable to see what was beyond the stone dyke surrounding the garden; everything was enveloped in a drear, grey mist. "Tyrannical and awful, I thought they were," she observed, "but this morning they're showing off and showing how nicely they can snuggle close to Mother Earth; the hard look is clear gone from their lined old faces and their sunlit summits are shamelessly kissing the sky, while their great frames revel in the promise of a new day. Capricious Judys, they can be, as you'll find out after you've been here awhile. But the Banks haven't got all the gold in the universe, for often a great flowing river of it comes rushing down between the hills, twinkling in and out among the fir trees.”

I could hear Gretta preparing for work as she chatted away, but I was lost in contemplation of the healing shaft of joyousness. I thought "Beauty for ashes, the call of joy for mourning, the garment of praise,/ for the spirit of heaviness." Who wouldn't dance to such a piping or sing to such a tune? Turning indoors to attend to the necessary washing up of breakfast crockery, I noted that the stream of light played around the churn, which was placed just right to catch it. "A lucky girl you are, Gretta, to be able to work in such an atmosphere. Sunshine and space, hot house plants inside and pine woods outside; think of girls in East End shops, standing all day slapping wooden pats around chunks of tub butter.”

"Mother, you're not practising what you preach, now. You used to tell us that comparisons are odious."

Our next-door neighbour, Mrs Fraser, came in during the morning to make my acquaintance. She had been very motherly and kind to Gretta, and I was glad to have the opportunity to thank her. She and her husband, who was Head Joiner, had lived on the Estate thirty four years. They were real Scots, from the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, and looked with cool contempt on the inhabitants of Wigtownshire, scathingly calling them “They Galloway Irish.”

Mr Fraser was known to all the folks around as "Dad". He was the most versatile man I have ever met. There seemed nothing he could not do in his own work, from elaborate wood carving to furniture upholstering or merely putting up a shelf. He was the son of a Free Kirk Minister and he himself was an Elder of the Free Kirk. When he was dressed for Church on the Sabbath, he would have passed very well for a respectable politician. He had quite a good library and made good use of it.

It sounded queer to me to be always addressed as "mistress”, and queerer still to be taken in hand and told what to do. Mrs Fraser was one of those kind hearted folk who do not mind how much trouble they take on other peoples' behalf, and simply have to arrange other's affairs. It was all done so naturally and with such kind intentions that any natural resentment one might feel simply shrivelled up.

We were greatly indebted to the Frasers for much which made the wheels of life run smoothly. Dad always brought us our daily paper at noon; it came in the bundle left at the Castle from a village several miles away. Mrs Fraser's house being right on the roadway, she encountered the Postie first. Postie, not being allowed to leave the mail van, simply whistled and she used to take our letters for us. They always came early, just after Gretta left for the dairy.

The baker, also, whistled and customers went out to him. Never having acquired the habit of running to a man's whistle, I bought flour and yeast from the grocer and made my own bread. After living in Scotland a year or so, I concluded that Scottish women spoil their men. They run about after them far too much, which is probably the reason why the men have such a good opinion of themselves. But I'm convinced they would not do half so well if it were not for the women behind them. It is part of a Scotswoman's religion to push her menfolk on to the best of her ability, and no sacrifice is too great for her to make to gain her end; the love she bestows is spelled "service.”

Gretta decided that, in case the weather broke, we must, that very afternoon, go round by the Tongue Burn. So, after washing up the dinner pots and pans, we set out. Along a lane towards the hills which had trapped the early morning sun, then a turn to the right along the lower slopes, through a gate into a pine wood which then, and on many later visits, always had the atmosphere of a venerable Cathedral. Whenever my feelings got ruffled, or life presented more baffling problems than usual, a walk along the Cathedral nave, as I mentally called it, always left me soothed and calmly able to solve the problem or adjust my mind to tolerate it.

Emerging from the wood, we came to a patch of undergrowth through which could be seen a narrow rivulet trilling and trickling down the hillside, to cascade over boulders into the Tongue Burn. We followed this along its course as it went tumbling over boulders, spraying in waterfalls, spreading itself smoothly in deep amber pools, as if it felt the need of breathing space, then pounding its way on under the rustic bridge on the Stranraer Road into the Loch.

The mile along the Sheuchan road was a riot of colour, of copper, gold and orange with, here and there, a patch of crimson dogwood which made the September admixture so impressive. On the left, was the Loch, with its fringe of willows and New Zealand flax. A wicket gate in the stone dyke led to the field in front of our house, which cut off the necessity of walking around the winding roadway but entailed a stiff climb which needed to be taken slowly, with frequent pauses to collect breath.

Many years later, I tried to recapture the beauty of the local countryside by writing an article for publication. Sadly, nobody would publish it, but I'm rewriting it here:

UPON LOOKING BACK

How lovely in its rural calm,

Its air to men diseased a balm,

Its sturdy oaks, its shady lanes

A calm retreat for weary brains,

Where one may oft times ponder o'er

The ways and means of Nature's store

Or, unmolested, sit and gaze

Where Nature sings Jehovah's praise.

Josiah Buckler

Why is it that some one thing, oftimes trivial enough in itself, sends one's mind hurtling back through the years, bringing forth incidents long forgotten, with a freshness and vividness which warrants one concluding that the "Communion of Saints”, may have many interpretations?

Having what most people get once in a way, a fit of the blues, I decided to have a day with Nature. So, one fine morning, I set out with my lunch, intent upon climbing Sheuchen Rocks. It was a jaunt long contemplated, which had been awaiting a sufficiency of energy and leisure.

Taking the journey slowly, giving myself time to admire the beauties of Nature scattered hereabout with a lavish hand, the summit was eventually reached. The panorama which met my gaze was wonderful. In the distance, one gets a glimpse of the Irish coast and the Isle of Man, while the nearer view contained Loch Ryan. At the base of Sheuchen Rocks were the White Loch and Black Loch, with the sun sparkling on their ripples. Acres of woods, interwoven with oat and turnip fields in which the gulls were very busy added variety and animation to the picture.

The weird wail of the curlew accentuated the feeling of solitude. The woodpecker's hammer could be heard, and gold finches and blue tits courageously came forward to feast upon the crumbs thrown down from my lunch. It would be difficult to find a more unspoiled stretch of countryside than the miles spread out before me.

In the midst of all this grandeur, my mind went back to days long gone past when, on Sunday evening, we were allowed to turn the pages of the family Bible, and our delight when we came to the page where Moses stood on Mount Sinai, with his hand shading his eyes as he gazed into the distance. My childish mind was only conscious of the brilliant light round about him, and the lovely colour of his robe. In memory, I could feel my Father's arm around my shoulder, explaining that Moses had gone at God's command to learn what were God's wishes for the children of Israel. My childish mind could not grasp the full significance of the wonderful privilege granted to Moses in being allowed to listen to divine order: straight, clear and direct.

Yet, while the eyes rest on the grape-blue peaks, drinking in something of their everlasting peace and quiet, one feels the desire to get in closer touch with Nature is a Heaven-sent instinct. Deep down within even the most worldly of us, there are chords which are seldom touched in every-day life, but which the sight of some lonely hill top, dark against a silvery sky, may suddenly awaken, flooding our being with poignant joy.

Leaving the birds to finish the crumbs, I leisurely descended by way of the pine wood whose dim quietness reminds me of the sacred atmosphere of a cathedral. In place of music supplied by a costly organ, birds and burn are making, with their splash and trills, a duet of a quality only to be heard where Nature remains unspoiled.

I followed the burn, which travelled on past farmsteads, looking spick and span in fresh coats of whitewash. A farmer could be seen directing his dog to round up a flock of sheep and drive them into a cleverly contrived pen. He then proceeded to exercise his talent as a chiropodist and, doubtless, the same beauty parlour would be requisitioned when their toilet was being made ready for the Highland Show.

Eventually, the burn reached its outlet in the White Loch. Keeping to the Lochside brought me to Castle Kennedy, the ruins of which are in the grounds of Lochinch. Upon arrival, I found a garden party and sale of work just commencing, this being the day when the grounds are thrown open to the public.

The Minister was just announcing "We will all sing the one hundredth Psalm," which the assembled company very heartily did. When, after offering a short and most appropriate prayer and extending a warm welcome on behalf of the Committee to the large number of people, he introduced the lady who was going to try and stimulate our interest in Foreign Missions. She was the wife of a famous Naval Commander, much travelled, and possessing tact, charm and sympathy. In a gracious and witty way, she called our attention to the fact that the nearest and most prominent thing before her was a bunch of carrots. She thought they looked rather suggestive: that a little inducement was necessary to induce her to speed up.

She reminded us of the noble way our forefathers fought for liberty to preach the Gospel and with what heroic pioneer spirit they had carried and proclaimed it, in days when travelling was both dangerous and difficult, to the uttermost parts of the earth. Her urge to us: to value more the tradition they had left so that we in our turn would be an inspiration to those who follow after. Instead of foreign missions being a dry detail of Church routine, as they so often are, they appeared a live and ever-present responsibility.

In thanking her, the Minister indulged in a dash of Scottish humour, saying that, far from the carrots being suggestive of donkeys, they were a practical indication that her value at a Church garden party was "fully eighteen carat.”

After purchasing a cooking apron and partaking of tea, which was served in a magnificent avenue of trees, with the Castle ruins in the background and the Loch in the foreground, I wandered slowly home, passing through the grounds of Lochinch which are one of the show places of Wigtownshire. The Castle was built to replace Castle Kennedy, which was burnt down in 1716. A strip of land about a mile in width divides the two Castles, bounded on one side by the East shore of the White Loch and on the other by the West shore of the Black Loch.

The steep banks rising from the two Lochs have been broken throughout their entire length into terraces and heights, like miniature forts with bastions and angles. A deep hollow with terraced banks has in its centre a large round pond where aquatic plants, including the lovely lily of the Nile thrive; one can imagine it in the twilight: a sporting place for fairies.

Beeches and limes and the magnificent Avanceria, New Zealand flax, and huge bushes of rhododendrons made a walk through the grounds a pleasant memory. One can hear, amidst the beauty, the Irish boat leaving Stranraer harbour, and sea planes on Loch Ryan. Which reminds me that Stranraer played a big part in pioneering. A son of a former Minister of Inch, Rev. Andrew Ross, was born in 1777 and became Rear Admiral Sir John Ross, the Arctic explorer. He could also be legitimately described as a pioneer of movies: he was clever with his brush and pencil and some of the picture he brought home, he arranged to run on rollers for showing to his guests.

There is a heronry at Castle Kennedy, said to be centuries old but, in spite of the solitude around the Lochs, the number of nests remains stationary. A little further on, one passes the ruins of the old Church of Inch. It is indeed a lonely spot, this graveyard to which the dead of the district were carried long years ago; its tombstones are sinking in all directions, some leaning almost to the ground. A modest bell, with an ancient wire attached, remains; it is to be tolled only when the head of the House of Stair departs. From the graveyard can be seen the Island from which the Kirk gets its name. Literary interest is attached to Janet, eldest daughter to the Lord Stair who died in 1695. Her sad love story is supposed to form the ground work of The Bride of Lammermoor.

Pausing to ask a question at a cottage, I found a quaint old lady having an altercation with a hawker of books. One, much advertised as explaining the Bible, raised her ire. She said "I dina' want to know onything aboot it, the buke explains itsel. Them as needs explanations must be daft loons. So dinna' waste ony more time tellin’ me I lack intelligence." The poor man turned away, looking very crestfallen, when the old lady said in a softened voice "Sit ye doon while I get ye a drink an' a wee bit scone to help ye on the road. I dinna' doot ye'll need ta be findin' some other body to buy ye bukes, but a body my age aye knows what they need wi'oot bein' tel't."

I left them and wended my way home up the steep hillside, the silence broken only by cries of the wild birds. Yet, if one possesses the hearing ear, one can catch whispers, grown almost inaudible now, that link this corner of Wigtownshire with the mysteries of the past.

The sunset is shedding its rays of benediction on my wee hoose nestling between the pine wood and the Loch. A welcome sight after a delightful day spent in garnering health and wisdom.

CHAPTER 19

AN ATTEMPT AT A DIARY [1930]

I shall try, in future, to write something every day, in the hope that I can give a complete picture of my Scottish experiences.

The Frasers' Scottish pronunciation and accent are going to be a source of puzzlement for me. I have already had two encounters with them and did not understand one word in ten but replied "Yes" or "No” as I imagined the case demanded, hoping they would not notice my ignorance of the subject under discussion.

My family will doubtless require jottings regarding their doings from time to time. They, the family, number six men but "boys” to me, scattered up and down the world. The oldest in New Zealand, the second in Leicestershire, the third, fifth and youngest on a Canadian ranch, and the fourth on the Staff of an Agricultural College. The lassie I am at present visiting is the sixth. My dear Husband is in the Better Land but still plays a big part in our decisions. Now, I will commence my diary recording.

Monday: A terrible thing happened today: a cat from next door was deliberately shot by a gamekeeper. He was six years old and went by the name of Louis -- short for Robert Louis Stevenson. It is reported that he was caught among the pheasants but Mistress Fraser says she knows it's a big lie "Ee wadna' dae such a thing." Anyway, he was as fond of country walks as his illustrious namesake and, pheasants and rabbits abounding, it's no wonder he fell a victim to guns.

Tuesday: Our correspondence this morning was exciting. Margaret Goodman and Winnie Morris, who are at a training college, want to bring their tent and camp on our lawn so, if her Ladyship permits, we shall have a good time. Gretta is quite excited and making all sorts of plans.

Wednesday: Canadian mail arrived. Had a short note from Alec to say he lost a long letter from Bryan and himself, somewhere between the shack and the post; so a scrappy note to explain matters was all that arrived.

Thursday: Had a message to say the workmen are coming to mend the kitchen range. I understand the same message has been arriving periodically for two years but they have not come so far.

Friday: Went into Stranraer, perched beside the boy who drives the milk lorry. It was very bumpy but, when one does not own a car and lives four and a half miles from town, one needs to be grateful for small mercies.

Saturday: Gretta was late arriving home for breakfast, owing to engine trouble, which delayed the start of the cream separator. It is a most glorious day. Water in the Loch is sparkling in the sunshine and two swans, which usually stay about a mile further up, have come to us. Aeroplanes are buzzing about and sea planes are busy on Loch Ryan.

Sunday: A United service today, at Castle Kennedy. We had a good sermon on "Thought." "Thought," said the Minister, "Breeds action; action breeds habit; habit breeds character and character breeds destiny." A funny thing happened during the service: three people came into the pew we sat in and one, a benevolent looking old gentleman, passed a sugared almond to Gretta. Not knowing what to do with it, she held it in her hand until it was in a sticky, melted state, then put it in her pocket. She arrived home in a state of wrathful indignation. She is of the opinion that her twenty one years and sedate appearance should have spared her such an ordeal. We climbed the hill after tea and were disappointed when we found it was not quite clear enough to see the Irish Coast.

Monday: The men have actually arrived to do Mistress Fraser's range so, probably, we shall have them here in a day or two. It is the monthly meeting of the Scottish Rural tonight. Gretta is going to sing. We have had a good day: done the weekly wash, ironed and aired.

Tuesday: The Saints be praised! the mason has arrived and our range is in the middle of the kitchen. Three men are tinkering at it. It's a blessing we have a cold fruit tart and cream. It's a sure thing there'll be no cooking today, except for the potatoes which are boiling away on Mistress Fraser's range.

This diary will have to be a weekly affair. I'm too tired to write it up each night. Several days have elapsed since the last entry.

Our range is finished and all the mess it entailed is cleared away and we are waiting for the painter to do the ceiling, etc..

Yesterday, we went to the Missionary Garden Party, held in the grounds of the ruins of a Castle. It was a jolly affair. The speeches were both interesting and witty; the tea was lovely and hot. I spoke to an old Scotsman who has, for many years, spent his time in helping to keep the Castle grounds tidy. He told me that, years ago when his children were all young, he only earned twelve shillings a week. I asked him however he managed to feed them. He replied: “Well, Mem, it's a wee bit wage but this is a gey big place an' ye're aye finding things.” Which probably explains a lot.

The painter sent word today that he would be out at the beginning of next week for sure. They seem to be very casual hereabouts -- regarding appointments, anyway. We'll live in hope, even if we die in despair.

A Clydesdale mare and her foal have been turned into the field in front of our house. She came to the fence and let me stroke her nose. I have named her “Owd Ancient" and her foal "Ragged Robin.” They are a friendly pair.

Have been busy today making toffee of various kinds for Alcie, who is presiding over a Home Produce stall in aid of Church funds. I feel sick of sweet, sticky things and would like a supper of sausage and mash. That's the drawback of living in the country: you can only have what can be produced on the premises, so it will have to be cream cheese and salad, apple tart and coffee.

Sunday: These last few days have been full of pettifogging irritations. Lord and Lady Stornaway have returned from Canada full of new ideas. Her Ladyship nearly drives Gretta crazy with her futile and feeble suggestions regarding cooling the cream. “She lacks grip of the subject!" If there's no water, as is at present the case, there's only one sensible alternative: get ice and see that the cream does not travel to London in a stinking fish van. These theorists make me wild; it's such a waste of energy contending with them.

I believe the wet, steamy day has got on my nerves. There is a thick blanket of mist blotting out the hillside. Yesterday was lovely; was able to sit out in the garden and was very amused to hear John Hutton chattering away to Mistress Fraser. John is six and imagines he's a man. Mistress Fraser asked if he was not going home to dinner. He considered for a moment and then asked "Have you got a pudden for your dinner?"

"Yes."

"Then I'd like to stay here if ye wadna' mind. We only have eggs and tea on Saturday and I like rice pudden better nor any pudden.”

So John stopped. After dinner, he was looking at a picture book; then Mistress Fraser came to me, looking very wrathful. “What the Dickens do they folk mean, teaching that bairn high English? He's calling a ‘wee hoose’ a ‘little house’." But it's impossible to reproduce her scornful tone. She said “I soon tellt him Scotland wor his native land and he should speak Scottish.” It tickles me to death to hear my beloved England scornfully treated. So long as Mistress Fraser remains the helpful neighbour I've so far found her, she is quite welcome to think the Scots language beautiful. I shall not argue the point.

Monday: That painter is a perfect humbug! He promised faithfully that he would be here this morning. Now, he sends his bucket with whitewash etc. out with the milk lorry and a message "He might be out on Tuesday; if not, for sure on Wednesday." And we have made all arrangements to go to the Highland Show on Wednesday. This type of shilly-shallying is producing a cross grain in my temperament, so it will have to cease! Today, we shall wash. That painter will be told to go back home when he arrives.

Tuesday: Whitewash bucket, etc sent out to town at seven am, with the milk lorry. At 8.50 am, the painter arrives on his bicycle. I was in the larder, deciding what we would have for dinner, when in walked a man through the dairy, came into the hall with a jaunty air, and looked at me as though I were a curiosity. “Well, who are you?" I asked.

"Tavish. Come to whiten the ceiling."

"You belong to the army of people who are under the delusion that people who live in cottages are bound to submit to any kind of humbug from tradesmen. My good man, you are mistaken. I stayed at home for fourteen years to look after my family; shows and all other pleasures had to go by. I'm not going to stay home to oblige a man who cannot keep his word. The ceiling can go dirty a little longer. It's a mere detail compared with permitting a man repeatedly to break his word with impunity.”

Afterwards, had a good day. Ironed, aired and put everything forward for us tomorrow. We are not going to take sandwiches but be recklessly extravagant: buy our lunch and tea, as though we were people of substance.

Thursday: Feel Mondayish today. We had a glorious day yesterday. It threatened rain in the early morning but as weather, like everything else, always favours the brave and the ugly, we set out. The lorry boy drove us all the way to the Station, so we commenced our day without getting unduly tired. It was a slow train and we picked up a variety of people. A terrible man got in at Gleninch, but the Guard fetched him out. Then, four ladies came in: farmers' wives and daughters, and they were out for a good time. I never heard anyone chatter as fast before; they beat Welsh women to a frazzle. They were a most intelligent and entertaining quartette. At Dumfries, we had coffee and rolls; our first breakfast was partaken of at six am and we were really hungry.

At the showground, we tried to see everything connected with dairying and this occupied the whole morning. After lunch, we looked around the Rural Industries tent -- spent a most instructive hour. We then went to the Grandstand to watch the cattle parade and the horse jumping. Gretta was very taken up with the wee Shetland ponies; they were darlings. We then had tea.

Afterwards, Gretta went to buy a Shetland jumper, and I to watch the rug-making demonstration. Five women were all making rugs at the same time: two were working on canvas; one weaving a frame; and two were making up old material on a frame. It was wonderful what smart and useful rugs could be made from what many people would put in the rag bag. Whilst I was watching at the rug tent, Mr and Mrs Young came along. They had missed the train and motored through and, although the Baby Austin would not accommodate all four of us for the long journey home, Mr Young drove us to the station.

We had a most interesting journey home. The carriage filled up with farmers, some of a humble type and some evidently holding a good position socially. Some got out at Castle Douglas. One was crossing to Ireland; he was evidently of some importance in the agricultural world, judging from his conversation with the Castle Douglas contingent. He had missed the boat train owing to a committee meeting presided over by the Duke of Buccleugh, where he had been voted to represent Ireland to the Earl of Stair, Wigtownshire. Something to do with a scheme to relieve agricultural depression. Unemployment and depression seem to be like rheumatism: safe topics in whatever company one finds oneself. We saw the representative of a Midlands cake firm. He said the greatest puzzle of the show was to decide if one were talking to a Lord, a farmer, a herdsman or a shepherd: they all wore Harris tweed suits, plus fours, and walked as though they owned the universe.

We arrived at our Station at 10.13 pm. Our taxi was waiting and we soon covered the three miles to home, supper and a comfortable bed.

Praise God from whom all blessing flow: had a wire from Ted today, to say he'd passed his final BSc exam.. Considering that, a few years ago, he was in the grip of poliomyelitis and no one thought he would walk again, it is really wonderful.

August 10: Gretta strained the muscles in her side, lifting a heavy cream pail. It was too wet to go to Church. If the Church was really alive to its responsibilities, it would hold a service in the Joiner's Shop. There are about sixty people in this hamlet and it's too far for the elderly and the small children to go two miles over wet fields. Surely, there is someone who could conduct a simple service and lead us to sing old fashioned hymns.

In Scotland, this time of remembering the Lord and sitting at his table is always an occasion. Elders, clad in their best black suits, carry with reverent hands the "Elements," as the bread and wine are called, to members sitting in the pews which, for the time being, are covered with white linen cloths. There is a solemn hush and awe in the Church; only the Minister's voice is heard, as he repeats the wonderful words of the Saviour: "This do in remembrance of me.”

Life is not for quiescent milk sops; it is for earnest men and women who can sacrifice and be anxious to see their work through, let the cost be what it may. Worthless worry is the worry about [things?] that do not affect life in any real way. In every business, somebody must do the worrying; somebody must be justifiably anxious. “As hopefully try to make bread without yeast as to raise a business mass in absence of the ferment of somebody's anxiety. Behind all other qualities, finishing all, thrilling them and fertilising them is the burden of solicitude which chafes somebody's soul.” It was a dark day in the day's doings; strange how shadow and sunshine are ever blended! Education polishes the quaintness out of most folk today.

August 12: The daily papers have, for days past, been reminding all and sundry that grouse shooting begins today. Today's paper has a glowing account of the luxury sleeping trains which are bringing the monied and leisured classes North to indulge in that healthy recreation. This evening, I was at the scullery sink, scraping carrots to enrich our supper when, suddenly, a “tramp, tramp" was heard and there emerged into view three men and two dogs; rather startling, considering there is no right of way around our house. Taking a short cut to the Castle, after slaughtering the aforesaid grouse, I suppose. One was a fine figure of a man but the others looked as though a few square meals and a good night's rest would do them good.

Why is it that, in some moods, one's mind goes harking back to the dim and distant past? Today, I was feeling disgruntled as I used to when a small child, and perverse enough to run off. When my clothes were being fashioned one time, we had a Nurse who hailed from Nottingham and, today, I heard her say quite plainly: “Now, keep quiet and don't be mardy; if you don't, I shall tell your Mawther." Poor old Mary! she was a good sort.

In pre-Reformation days, trial marriages took place in Scot1and. A place as notorious in those times as Gretna Green is today, was a spot at the junction of waters near here known as the Black and White Esk. At the Annual Fair, it was customary for the unmarried of both sexes to meet and choose a companion with whom to live until that day next year. If the partners remained pleased with each other at the expiration of that time, they remained together for life. If not, they were free to separate and provide themselves with another partner.

Priests from the surrounding districts were sent out to look after all hand-fasted persons, and hasten the nuptial benediction on those who were willing to receive it. Such was the power of custom that the apprenticeship of matrimony brought no reproach to the separated lady, provided her character was good; she was entitled to an equal match, as though nothing had happened.

But this method was not all jam and honey. Some desperate feuds ensued, owing to men having the temerity to send back their hand-fasted partners. One notable case is recorded: a member of the clan of Macdonald of Sleat returned a MacLeod of Dunregan. MacLeod, resenting such indignity, turned and laid waste the territories of the Macdonalds, who retaliated and a feud with all its attendant horrors took place in consequence.

The Reformers deemed hand-fasting a social irregularity and strove by every means to suppress it. In 1562, the Aberdeen Kirk Session decreed that the practice must cease. Therefore, from that date, the time honoured practice of living together for a year and a day ceased to exist. Yet, in 1930, we see advocated a return to a practice which the Dark Ages banished as being unworkable, and frequently the cause of bitter hatred and bloodshed. But, since a little leaven raises the whole lump, we will hope the happy and contented marriages which take place each year will demonstrate that two people joined together in holy and permanent matrimony can achieve in the establishing of homes radiating helpful and contented co-operation. So long will the desires of the thoughtless minority be kept at bay. The very thought of such an uninviting and insane prospect as life together for a year and a day, with the upheaval of a probably unmutual parting, would be revolting to a refined nature. And, since every Englishman's home is his Castle, and English women are makers of homes, let us be contented to abide by the marriage service dictum: "Whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder."

This is a rare place for snobs. The Head Keeper has a son, at the moment, a Bank Clerk. He informed his colleagues that his father was a Minister -- ashamed to admit that he was a Keeper. One man was transferred to a town where a girl from this Estate is working and she came into contact with this man. After finding out where she hailed from, he asked what kind of a preacher this young Dobbs's Father was. And so the tale came back again.

She is a humorous lass, and did not give the game away when home for the week-end. But she told her people that Dobbs had recently been ordained to the Ministry. She said, describing Dobbs's imagined procedure in Kirk on the Sabbath: “We will now sing the forty second Psalm be gum.” The said Dobbs is reputed to end every sentence with “be gum.”

John Dobbs is not allowed to play with the children next door, yet they are all herdsmen and work together.

The girl who washes milk pails has been heard to remark that, if everybody on the farm has to call the Dairymaid “Miss,” she doesn't see why she should be called “Mary Ann.” Life's a queer mix-up on a Nobleman's Estate.

Wednesday: Better weather today, consequently guns are going off in all directions. Doubtless at lunchtime, there will be agreeing on the unparalleled excellence of grouse sandwiches, washed down by clear, icy water from some mountain burn. Partaken of on a heath-clad slope, to the accompaniment of a gurgling stream as it curls round boulders and under shaggy bracken-fringed banks, while the eyes rest on the grape-blue peaks rising beyond the sweep of dark moorland, drinking in some of their everlasting peace and quiet; few experiences can be more worthwhile. Surely, there is nothing finer in the world than this desire to get in closer touch with Nature, for deep down within even the most worldly of us there are chords which are seldom touched by everyday life, but which the sight of some lovely hill top, dark against a silvery sky, may suddenly awaken and flood our being with poignant joy.

They doubtless also accumulate stories about Aberdeen parsimony, Scotch whisky and Kirk worthies, to amuse their neighbours when they travel back ever the Border.

Thursday: This has been a good day for most things. I was invited to go to Stranraer, so I paid a visit to the Carnegie Library and got three instructive books. Since tea, I have baked a batch of shortbread to send to Alan. There is a gymkhana on in town this evening and all the adults from the hamlet have gone.

The youngsters from the family living down the road, numbering eleven in all, are at the moment holding a gymkhana in front of our house. They are doing it in fine style. For want of the proper equipment, they have two old bicycle wheels. The boys have a red jersey just reaching the waist, a leather motor helmet, and a pair of goggles. The girls have very gay boudoir caps, Woolworth's spectacles, and various bright bits of ribbon. Lena, the youngest of the party, aged five, is a born organiser. She acted as starter, called "One, two, three" and dropped an old slipper in quite professional style. Louise Swan is most carefully holding a bunch of roses, presumably the prize. It is really inspiring to see how much fun a group of children whose parents cannot afford to spend much on toys can get out of life.

It appears to me that children in small communities spend their days in a circumscribed area: just the limited space between home and school. Yet that area is never confining, never limited by locks and mills and outraged by barriers of ugly masonry. So, with their unhampered imaginations, the small fry did things in style. The fact that I was sitting by the window, watching, was no bar to the thoroughness in which they carried out their programme. Life, for them, was a very neighbourly thing and a daring adventure. There was nothing vague about their dealings with their own personalities.

We had a small child round selling brushes today; he evidently knew all the tricks of the trade. He called at the dairy door, where Gretta happened to be making up the table pats of butter for the Castle; she had about three hundred and eighty to do today, because there are so many visitors here for the grouse shooting. He looked longing1y at them all spread out on the marble and asked if "Madame could give him a cup of tea?" She could not, at that time in the morning but she gave him a can with about a pint of milk in it, and fetched him some cake. He promptly put it down and called another small boy to join him in the feast.

After finishing, he brought the can back and asked in a most ingratiating tone "Could Madame sell him just a taste of cream?" Meanwhile ostentatiously jingling coins. She had to tell him that she had none. He then said "Could Madame sell him a wee bite of butter to take to his Mother?" Gretta was grieved to say it was not her butter, but Lady Stornaway's, and it all had to go to the Castle. So he courteously thanked her for the milk and ginger cake and, with a broad grin on his grimy face, went off, whistling as shrill as a blackbird.

Friday: Received a post card to say that Margaret and Hilda were starting from Warwickshire at a quarter to eight this morning, in Hilda's car, and will arrive Saturday about teatime. Gretta has been beside herself with joy, holding a penny piece between her shoulder blades to prove that she is still capable of doing a little gym, and trying to induce her aged parent to behave like a two-year­old. Still, this exuberance is catching: I feel this evening as juvenile as when I had a half share in seventeen hundred marbles. It was thrilling; my brother and I used to count them every Sunday afternoon. We kept them up in the hay loft and, as we dared not play with marbles on the Sabbath for fear of parental wrath or, to be more correct, I should say “grief.” But we thought it was no sin to count them over and reckon up how many we had won since the previous Sunday. Playing marbles and catching tadpoles were our most thrilling occupations, and all our spare time was spent in gaining proficiency in such rural arts.

The weather has been stormy. The wind fair makes me ache, to hear it howling around the house. A large number of gulls are in the field, which denotes a storm. There is to be a garden party in the Castle grounds on Sunday, in aid of the nursing funds. Mistress Fraser is righteously indignant. She says "If belted Earls and Kirk Elders cannot set a good example and keep the Sabbath day holy, it isna' any wonder the world’s going the wrong way.” Dad responded that when one is in Rome, it's no good quarrelling with the Pope. "Hoots, " replied his wife, "The Pope hasna' all the wisdom in the universe. The folks who obey the Bible know the most, whether they be Lords, Ladies or Popes." I do like to see her eyes dance and her whole person go taut when the old order of things are disparaged. Her attitude towards life is like the salt in the soup: it adds flavour.

Saturday August 23: Anticipation is often more satisfactory than realisation. Our camping guests arrived on Saturday last and we quite concluded that we should be invited to accompany them on motoring excursions to the beauty spots of Galloway. But no thank you! Hilda Dawes put up her car in the garage she is using free of all costs and is quite determined not to fetch it out until her turn to Warwickshire. On Wednesday, Gretta had to go into town so the three of them walked two miles to the bus and paid bus fare for the remaining three miles, while the car remained in the garage.

On the whole, the weather has been abominable: good for neither harvest nor camping. Wet! wet!! wet!!! Doubtless salmon fishermen will be pleased, thank goodness! It's a new moon tomorrow and we can live in hope, even if we die in despair.

I think the meanness of Hilda Dawes has made my feelings as inclement as the weather. The only consolation is that like begets like. Someone said of her Father, thirty years ago, that he would bite a halfpenny through the middle and spoil a tooth in the doing of it.

One of the turkeys has been ill all the week. Mistress Fraser has it in the greenhouse, giving it what she calls “violet rays." Her greenhouse has been dubbed Bognor Regis, where George V goes to recuperate, since it has been promoted to the dignity of a health resort for turkeys. Gretta suggested we should have it here, since visitors are expected next door but Mistress Fraser said, most emphatically, “No! if it's going to die , it may as well die happy.” Its diet is poached eggs and brandy. Doubtless, whilst City Aldermen' s diet is forthcoming, it will decide not to recover enough to return to groats and oatmeal.

Hilda is very perturbed tonight: she is afraid that the wet day will bring all the black slugs to the surface and her tent will be invaded. Let her sleep in her car!

There is a lovely rainbow tonight.

Great excitement hereabout; a new Princess has been born to the Duchess of York. Mistress Fraser ran along to our house to announce the news. She excitedly called out "The Duchess aye has a lass. Both daein' fine."

Sunday: Today has been rather disappointing: heavy rain during the forenoon, which prevented anyone going to Church. But, this evening has compensated for the sun is shining gloriously. The girls went for a walk along the lochside and I went to my favourite seat up the hillside, where one can meditate upon "the ways and means of Nature's store” unmolested, and sit and gaze where Nature sings Jehovah's praise.

If I could clothe my ideas in flowing words, I might attempt to scribe the beauty and splendour outspread in all directions. Nature has a curious effect upon me: internally, I bubble up and want to ask the whole wide world to come along and admire, but never can find the words to suitably clothe my desire, so I just have to shut up like a flower at sunset.

Supper has been a proper country affair. We were presented with half a dozen plump sea trout, with glistening, rippling pink and brown spots. It seems sacriledge to consume such gorgeous colouring but, since fortune has placed such luxuries in our way, we will appreciate it, even as the old Monks doubtless did when, in quiet contemplation, they sat and angled in the quiet burn our trout came from and, afterwards, examined anatomically and consumed them, probably washed down with wine. We shall be content to drink a cup of excellent coffee with cream from our own dairy to make it definitely different from the stuff one buys from a railway refreshment room.

Three Clydesdale mares are waiting by the fence to hold their usual evening altercation and, incidentally, to remind me that my short change of scene has changed my opinion regarding the glories of a too shut-in existence, and be grateful that my evening stroll can be taken minus a hat, gloves or coat, which is surely a blessed privilege and calculated to make it easy to get away from ties and objects which make for peaceful thoughts. So, with a Shepherd's viewpoint and a keen appetite, I returned home at peace with owners of motor cars who put them in a garage and do not use them. Hoping that the next visitor I have who is a car owner will be, also, a car user, and generous withal. It is decidedly good for one's character to be compelled to be courteous to people one despises.

The calendar today reminded me that my baby will be eighteen tomorrow. Looking back, I feel the resolutions made with his advent have come to naught but, just as varicose veins entail an automatic economy in shoe leather, so advancing age makes for wisdom. It's quite the hottest day of the season and my garnered store of wisdom urged me to prepare tomorrow's lunch so that the meal will be eaten in not too trying heat conditions.

That's the worst of living in a kitchen/dining room: the room gets steamingly hot. However, I've cooked liver and bacon over a low fire and made a tapioca jelly flavoured with lemon and strawberry preserve. Shall make a custard in the morning, so there will only be potatoes to boil, and reheat the liver. Shall be able to take a walk through the pine wood and imagine I’m a lady of leisure. These last few nights have been made hideous with owls and thunder storms alternating. Mrs Fraser has a nobby method of dealing with the former: her bedroom window is a skylight and, to prevent the owls having complete suzerainty of the roof, a hefty poker is placed through the skylight, with a rope leading to Mrs Fraser's bed; she gives a vigorous pull when the owl approaches too near. The owl thinks it's a comedy and Mrs Fraser a tiresome business.

The turkey which had been sent to Bognor was ungrateful enough to die, in spite of attentions often denied to a human being.

The latest local news is: Mrs Hinton had the loan of Mrs Gee's spectacles. Because she could not see through them, the two ladies are now not on speaking terms; Mrs Gee contends that her glasses are all right. The Rowtons always come to borrow Mistress Fraser's Father's spectacles when their Grandfather wants to enrich his mind by reading. The fashion at Colinton is to save everything, as it is sure to be required some day. Very accommodating eyesight, the people hereabouts possess.

The Factor's Father passed away yesterday. A real nice old gentleman, aged eighty four he was. There is grief in his family and the Kirk will look queer without him in his pew; he never missed, hail, rain or shine.

The Head Keeper shocked the Castle on Sunday. It seems his Lordship went shooting on Saturday and kept the Keepers out until 10 pm. The lorry was waiting from seven until 10.30 pm for the game, to take it to the Station. Of course, it could not go, so Dobbs went off to the Castle in a tearing rage and gave his Lordship a good flatching for keeping his men out so late. The lorry man cursed the Underkeeper for expecting him to hang around until such a time. It looks to me as though Lords can say scathing things to Labour Leaders but, when it comes to their own servants, they take a wigging like a small schoolboy who has been caught stealing jam.

The weather is the limit: WET! Last Thursday, we were just on the edge of a cloudburst and, my sainted Aunt, it was no joke. Scotsmen need to be big and brawny to contend with the elements. At the same time, they would be gey lost without the Scotswomen, for the women carry them about and treat them like bairns; which would surely make a tragedy of a marriage between a Scotsman and an English woman: she would not spend her energy holding candles for a man to gain honours. She would expect to be acquiring them for herself.

Twenty calves have been drowned in Luce Bay and, today, the equinoctial gales are blowing full force and the gulls are screeching away like lost souls in a whirlwind.

His Lordship has just called at the Dairy, driven by the Hon. and two young friends from Eton. They amused themselves by seeing how far they could dangle their legs through the car window. And, believe me, a working class mother would have been shocked at the state of their shoe soles. But then, his Lordship wears a hat with no band; and it looks as if it has been going strong since the beginning of this century.

Soft rain is weeping over the ravages of the great storm. The groceries have just arrived and they have forgotten to send the bacon so we shall be compelled to breakfast frugally tomorrow.

Wednesday: No one can deny it; we do see life at Colinton! Something's gone burst in the pipes outside the Dairy door; in fact, they are seldom right. The gentleman with the pick and shovel comes and moves sand and gravel, with melancholy introspection, until the source of trouble is laid bare. Then, with great pomp, the gentleman with the blowpipe comes along and diagnoses a leak and gives a tap here and there. Seems like an act of wanton destruction: making a hole for the joy and appreciation of filling it up again immediately. It is a part of the constant and perpetual manoeuvres and is a great source of joy to the juvenile population from the cottage down the road. For it, they leave the more serious pursuits, such as riding an old boneshaker, standing on the pedals -- it is too high in the seat for them to sit upon -- at breakneck speed up and down the steep braes; or running the Ayrshire cows around; or any other mischief which their fertile brains can plan. The terrible stink might be eau de cologne, the appreciative way they stand and sniff.

This evening, another terrific storm. The sky looks like a huge slab of streaky bacon, gone black with disgust because the rural population is too poor to buy it.

The morning's post brought an avalanche of letters. One from a friend in Southampton, to say she had broken her knee cap – which makes me believe even more in telepathy. I had not heard from her for some time yet, last week, I almost heard her speak and her letter today explained why she had not written, though she had thought a good deal about me.

Another letter from my Uncle. I do not often hear from him, he is so busy with his collection. Other men may be prosperous but, if you describe them thus, you are not describing the whole man: they have their off moments when they are their wives' husbands, their children's fathers. This special uncle is a bachelor who, had he not been a collector, might have married. But his speciality is bank notes and he says that “wives take a mint of money to keep them going in all the modern fall-lalls.” So he rides his hobby to the extent of not getting his hair cut, so that his collection may have as few hindrances as possible. His collecting began in my early years, first with marbles and alley taws; he fingered the coloured globes, with brilliant twisted interiors, as he reverently put them apart from the rank and file of marbles; and with gloats of pleasure as the numbers each season increased. So the foundation of his collection was made. It developed from marbles to poultry, from poultry to pigs. Now, it's chiefly in investments.

The other was from Aunt Sarah, who lives in an atmosphere of leather and has interests in shoe factories. A very ancient Great Aunt recently died and Aunt Sarah was perturbed as to the contents of her will. She thought she had had undue pressure from another branch of the family, who benefited almost to the exclusion of our branch. So Aunt Sarah had written to Aunt Ann, who was executrix. Aunt Ann sent a characteristic letter back, which was sent for my perusal. Aunt Ann is a lady with a mad passion for people’s souls. When she has succeeded in establishing parking rights in that tender, elastic bit of one's personality, she feels privileged to deal out, with a sickeningly superior air, vitriolic sarcasm to more unfortunate branches of the family. All done with a degree of self-righteousness and under the delusion that she is thereby bringing the Kingdom of Heaven a little nearer to earth. And impressing all the less fortunate people with her own importance. She is amazed that the world has not noticed her pedestal.

The halls of the great have their troubles. Wee Robin, the youngest member of the Laird's family, returned to school last week. An urgent message for her Ladyship to go at once came yesterday and a telephone message arrived today to say he had infantile paralysis. Poor laddie! he'll need patience -- also, the folk who look after him.

Mistress Fraser has just rushed along, breathless with excitement: “A peddlar is selling coats. Will I buy one?” She might just as well ask if I'll buy the Castle, considering I've only had three coats in 22 years and that my measurements are anything but stock ones. Choosing a coat, in any case, is a weighty and serious affair, not to be carried out on a doorstep. It must dishearten a peddler when he cannot persuade people to be fashionable. He had really nice coats, only six pounds ten shillings and I guess he sells plenty to people who earn a labourer's wage; they pay on the hire system and are never out of debt. Mistress Fraser was persuaded to buy a black satin eiderdown with crimson and black border and a most striking group of roses and forget-me-nots in the centre. I expect she will think it too smart to sleep under and put it over the bottom bed rail. The purchase has lightened her egg savings.

Sunday: Have just written to tell Alcie it is quite convenient for her and Alan to come on Friday next; also, of course, baby Peggy. It is as good as a tonic to feel that soon our roof will cover some jolly young people. For have you not noticed how people, as they grow older, have a marked tendency to squander their energies? We fuss about the weather which, after all, is only of vital import to farmers; and the midges are our curse when we take a walk. If we were small children, we should go and sit under an alder bush and defy them. Instead, we hug them as topics and concern ourselves until we set up a devitalising and destructive process of erosion.

To think back to the days of extreme youth and its ideals: when the long years stretched away before us and our minds were too crowded with other interests to be taken up with such mundane things as the weather, our neighbour's new curtains, or Mrs Ritchie's new fur coat, or that Mrs So-and-so had acquired a new car. Or, if we did notice it, we did not have it like the Sunday joint for discussion at each meal until it was scraped to the bone.

Recall the days when our thoughts were active; when we engaged in heated debate upon religion, philosophy, love, marriage, character, careers -- all the really important things that should tower high above the sluggish irritations of maids and meals. We no longer discuss such things. We accept life, instead of dissecting it, diagnosing it and questioning it.

The result may be more comfortable but it is horribly stultifying, anaesthetising. Because our opinion on the things that really matter are no more definitely settled now than they ever were, a little questioning on the subject of religion will quickly bring this to the surface. We have merely lulled ourselves into believing that they are fixed and definite and we strongly object to having any possible source of illumination thrown upon them. Thus do we become intellectually stagnant. We are more interested in people’s expensive gramophones than we are in their souls. "But," can I hear you say in a bated whisper? "We do not talk of these things." But it is only by talking and discussion that we get any forrarder.

It is a sad commentary that, instead of expanding our minds and conversation as we grow older, we tend to shut up and think. It puts me in mind of a new version of the saying "Rolling stones gather no moss;" we could add "but they gain polish.” After all, it's the burnished goods which catch the sun's rays. What we old people need is stimulus; a not inconsiderable push from the young folk to drive us out of our shell and, when we are out, to keep us out.

I saw an old lady out yesterday. She is the mother of a Herdsman's wife, who lives nearby and had been housekeeping for her daughter whilst she, the daughter, went on holiday. The old lady was taking her departure on the pillion of her son-in-law's motor bike – just like a flapper -- with a hefty basket in front of her.

I have much to record today. There have been such a lot of things since my last entry, and I am in a curious of eagerness, and yet reluctance. Eagerness to write down the sunny bits which Alan and Alcie's visit has made; and baby Peggy, with her prattle and demands to join in all the fun. The catastrophe that, however hard you try, you can never adequately describe the sunsets, so cloudless and beautiful. One can only try and capture the afterglow and peace which abide, to be recalled when the sun sinks behind the hills and calms one's spirit like a lullaby.

Alan brought Alcie and Peggy and stayed from Thursday until Friday night; he returned to Leicestershire, leaving them to share our solitude. Peggy is two years old next month, and a perfect chatter box. She is very taken up with the bed I have arranged for her, between my bed and Gretta's. In the morning, as soon as she awakes, she trots all her knowledge out regarding her little world. It commences, usually, by her noting that Gretta's bed is empty. She promptly says "Gretta gone to dairy. Daddy gone home to Grandpa and Gramma and Doodles and Jock and Kitty and Mensa. Mummy tired sleeping in Fraser kind." – meaning kind Mrs Fraser’s spare bed.

CHAPTER 20

THE CANADIAN ADVENTURE [1931-34?]

Of all times of the year, the autumn is the one in which to take up a course of something. So the autumn of life suggests that, if one is to face the coming new spring without a feeling of shame and an inability to grasp what the newness signifies, both regarding Nature and fashions and the outlook of the younger generation, one must get out of a rut in some way, shape or form. To still the rebellion as to the weather, the distance away from the conditions of life as one desires them, and the lengthening evenings and long hours perforce spent alone -- in my case, in a prairie shack in Southern Saskatchewan. A whole combination of circumstances point to the necessity of change in work, thought and outlook and, as the outlook is not at present very exhilerating, it will have to be backlook which engages my attention. It will not be an easy task, as the only spot I can call my own from a working standpoint is a packing case with a cover of rexine and a knitting basket in a corner of the general living room. It is all right for the job of family mending but, for writing, I shall need to sit with my legs at a most undignified angle.

Then, there will be the frequent interruptions of callers. There always seems to be someone out scouting for strayed horses, and the fashion on the Prairies is for such to stay for a crack and a meal. Which, while it is a pleasant, neighbourly way of proceeding through the winter, leaves little leisure for the housewife to indulge in her own private enterprises.

However, sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof and I hope, out of the welter of household chores, the baking, churning, washing and hundred and one things, to mentally go back and try to remember the commas, semi-colons and full stops needed to render the episodes in the life of a commonplace country woman to be sensible reading.

In the early part of 1931, I had a hunch that I must go to Canada to see my three boys who had, with great optimism, acquired land on the Saskatchewan Prairies. There did not seem much sense in an old lady gallivanting off across the Atlantic but, come to think of it, there is quite a lot Mothers do which they would find great difficulty in giving a good reason for so doing.

So, after various interviews with Immigration Officials, doctors and so forth, who shook me by the hand and smilingly told me they were sure I should like Canada, I arrived with my baggage at Prince’s Dock, Liverpool, to board the CPR boat, “Duchess of Bedford.” Before leaving the dock, I mentally dropped overboard into the Mersey whatever of insularity or superiority complex there might be unconsciously lurking about me. Therefore, being free to arrive in Canada with an open mind and keeping the copybook maxim well to the fore that “Comparisons are odious.” Determining not to make them until I had summered and wintered.

The crossing was uneventful. We had just passed the pepper-pot rock, Ailsa Craig, when a terrific internal upheaval sent me to my bunk, where I stayed, thankful to keep quiet and more thankful still to feel that I was not taking the journey with a family of small children. Although it was late in July, we ran very near to icebergs when passing through the Straits of Belle Isle. We stood still for three hours and went dead slow for another twelve hours. But I had got beyond caring for anything. Sea-sickness would be, I should think, the best cure ever found for completely eliminating any undue amount of haughty independence. The cabin steward and stewardess were as kind and helpful as possible. I do not know the steward’s name but mentally called him “The Curate.” He had a habit, about seven o’clock, of walking along the corridor intoning “Ladies and gentlemen and all good people, it’s seven of the clock and a very nice morning. Some Passengers are sick, some home-sick and some love-sick but breakfast is awaiting everybody.”

A passenger in the next cabin to me was returning to the Rockies, this having been her fifth trip to the old country. She said it was the worst trip she had made, which was consoling. It makes one hopeful that the return journey will be better.

However, all things come to an end in time. On the fifth day, I felt better and asked if I could have bread and cheese and an apple for lunch, and this was cheerfully brought to me. After lunch, the Chief dining room steward came along to ask if I were getting all I wanted. I replied “Yes. I don’t want anything that smells cooked and the thought of gravy brings my toes into my mouth.”

“Very well expressed, Madame, but you must try to eat a good meal. I’ll send something along at dinner time.”

Dinner time came and, sure enough, he had kept his word. Reposing in the centre of a plate, was a dainty slice off the breast of a chicken, flanked by a crisp lettuce leaf and half a tomato, ice-cold thinly cut bread and butter and a bottle of dry ginger ale -- which last I had to pay for but it was worth it. I have never before or since enjoyed a meal more.

Next morning, I managed to get on deck, feeling as though I had been through a mangle. The following day found us sailing up the St Lawrence, with gay little townships visible along the coast. An elderly couple from Glasgow were thrilled at the sight. The man, a retired tram conductor, was clutching the old lady’s arm, exclaiming “Och! did ye e’er see onythin’ so much like the trip frae Leith to Stirling as yon?” waving his arm towards the shore. “Aye,” she replied, “It’s a gey bit more comforting than they disinfected corridors doon below.”

Dear old lady! she had suffered a bad, prolonged headache as the result of her desire to see a married daughter who lived in the Rockies. Their route for the first two days of the journey was the same as mine, then they broke their journey to visit friends. During the journey, she grew very confidential, telling me all about the small economies she had practised for years to make this journey possible. “Ye ken,” she said, “Men think they’re gey wonders when they save a ha’penny a week on tobacco and spend tuppence on a paper tae see the latest sports news. Nay! Nay! we’d ne’er ha’ come this jaunt if ma’ man had handled the siller.”

Reaching Quebec, third class passengers had to embark and proceed by train to Montreal. We were all assembled in the dining room, waiting for the boat to berth, when the Glasgow gentleman put up his right hand, looking as solemn as a devout Church Divine about to pronounce a benediction, and struck up in a firm clear voice “Should ould acquaintance be forgot” He was a born Master of Ceremonies.

At last, we were through with the Customs, who have assured themselves that we really are the people we claim to be, and seated in the train for the short journey to Montreal. Of all the squalid sights to greet me, the first few miles out of Quebec would take some beating. The train track ran through depressing country with shabby, squalid shacks and houses set at all kinds of haphazard angles along its course. After a few miles of such scenery, I could better visualise what the house of Mrs Wigg’s cabbage patch was like.

A nice homely woman met the immigrants at Quebec and travelled with them to Montreal; helping any who needed help, young mothers with children, advising girls who were travelling alone, seeing them in their proper train after changing at Montreal. About a dozen of us who had several hours to wait went with her to the YWCA Hostel to get a meal. After the meal was finished, we were all expected to carry our crockery to the kitchen to be washed up.

At 10.15 pm, we were settled in the train for what proved to be a nightmare of a journey. The train appeared to have been recently varnished, the weather was stiflingly hot and windows could not be opened on account of the terrible dust storms which had been blowing since the preceding April. There is one splendid feature about Canadian trains: at one end of each coach, is a tap from which can be procured a plentiful supply of iced water.

In the early afternoon of the first day in the train, after stopping at one of the little stations, a tall, well-built man got in. He had been drinking something much stronger than Adam’s wine. He was evidently well known to the Conductor, who piloted him to a seat, at the same time looking at him with a whimsical smile all over his broad features, as much as to say “Now the fun will begin!” He (the passenger) had been in the army during the war and that day, 25 July, had brought some engagement to his mind. He commenced a heated discussion with two ladies sitting nearby; or, rather, the heat was on one side. They, poor things, looked very distressed but his tone implied that all and sundry were in opposition to him.

The Conductor came and said something in an undertone and he stood up and addressed the car as though he were a General issuing orders to his the troops. He was so impressive, I hastily scribbled his words on the back of an envelope. “Lest we forget this day in history, a million years from now. Don’t mind me, I haven’t a seat in the world and some folk even grudge me a drink of gin. Ahh! it’s my birthday today and my wife would insist on me coming into town to shelebrate. Now, shentlemen, who brought in the war? Let you and me settle the matter here, now and forever finish the whole thing. Lead on McDuff and death will follow. A million apologies if I’ve hurt anyone’s feelings. I will now go and have a smoke.”

Off he went, with the Conductor cupping his elbow in his hand and steadying him through the doorway. “Och,” said the Scots lady, “Did ye ever see a finer figure of a man than yon, but it’s aye a sair matter when drink drives the wits oot.”

The Scotsman had his fiddle with him, which he treated as tenderly as though it were a baby. He was in great request when it was discovered that he was willing to play. So the musical section foregathered in the Smoking Compartment, from which issued, from time to time, music to suit all tastes.

His wife was quite apologetic about him: “Ye ken, he’s ne’er happy only when he’s twiddlin’ awa’ amang a lot o’ cronies.” When I look back on that journey, I cannot help laughing. In the Ladies’ Wash Room, were three wash bowls and a small arrangement with a bowl basement and, up the centre, a tube from which, when a button was pressed, issued a stream of water. I have since found out that it was a drinking fountain but we both decided that it was a tooth cleaning apparatus and we used it as such; it was a splendid arrangement. The following day, my fellow passengers said goodbye and I proceeded alone.

Moose Jaw was my first change. I reached there at 5 am, almost choked with dust. The red quarry tiled floor at the Station seemed like home to me, after gazing at arid landscape for several days. A pot of tea, toast and grapefruit made quite a difference to my outlook. Proceeding at 1.55 for the last lap of the journey, I eventually arrived at the Prairie township, all of which was visible from the end of the platform, an estimated eight miles away from where I was to spend three interesting years.

An old friend whose parents lived in Northamptonshire had motored my son in to meet me. The Station Agent sympathised with me upon the dusty journey and the terrible depression I had barged into. “Oh well,” I told him, “I shall now be able to travel hopefully towards better things, since you assure me they are possible.”

In all the eight miles to the farm, not one blade of green grass did we see. Only small strips of land in hundreds of miles had any wheat. This spelt disaster, coming after indifferent crops the two previous years. Of course, Government experts wrote long spiels in the paper, advising various methods of dealing with the difficulties. But men in laboratories cannot realise to the full, not being beset by the cruelties of Nature. The next two years saw, all over Southern Saskatchewan, homesteads standing empty, prairie grass growing up to their doors, their hopeful builders beaten by one or other of those two demons: drought and drifting soil.

One of my sons had married and lived in a five-roomed house on a farm adjoining the one on which I was to stay. It was decided that I should visit them until my baggage arrived and so be broken in by degrees to the limitations of a two-roomed shack. During the first two weeks, I was able to size up the social amenities in the neighbourhood pretty accurately.

For several evenings each week, there would be an invasion of about a dozen folk of all sorts, sizes, outlook and religious opinion. Which, properly sorted out, consisted of those who believed in dances and bridge parties and those who shunned such things as they would shun the devil. These latter found satisfaction only in Pentecostal prayer meetings which, after sampling, I decided turned quite mad people into narrow fanatics, bent chiefly upon seeing who could shout the loudest and gallop into the presence of Almighty God with the greatest measure of gurgling incoherence. After the paroxysm was over, they would be quite normal again.

That being the only type of religious service held in the neighbourhood was, to me, a drawback. I felt as though I were an onlooker at a football match instead of a listener to the still, sacred voice which comes soft and healing, soothing and calming, strengthening and drawing one nearer to the heights and eternal verities away from the muddling distractions of every day. So that one may face another stretch of life with confidence and hope. One very ardent member talked to me for two solid hours. She was quite concerned that I was all wrong because I had not the gift of getting excited and talking in tongues. Which language sounded to me like a variation of the words “Sukey sue Sue Sukey Sue Sue.” The ribald members of the community dubbed them the “Holy Rollers.”

We were having supper one evening when one of our visitors said “Johnny McLean got stuck in a grip with his truck yesterday; I happened to be passing with my team and hauled him out.” “Oh,” replied another, “He told me the Lord had pulled him out.”

When my son first arrived in Canada, he was driving one of the Pentecostal members in his buggy. Suddenly, this man said “Praise the lord!” Not quite knowing what he meant, my son said “I beg your pardon?” and he replied “Praise the Lord!” That is the kind of thing one is up against. They praise the Lord for every disaster, instead of asking for a few more grains of common sense to enable them to keep out of it.

Pastures are dry and short, cattle and horses gaunt from short rations. Shortage of feed must continue through the coming winter because the ground has been too dry for germination of seed sown.

When I moved to the shack, after my baggage arrived, the first night I spent there took my mind back many years. Once, when visiting Cornwall, I saw the Cornish Litany poker-worked in wood: “From ghoulies and ghosties and creeping black beasties and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord deliver us.” I read it, wondering what weird circumstances had made such a queer petition necessary. Now I know!

Cornish moors and Canadian Prairies are far apart as regards distance, but the uncanny sounds going on in vast spaces do give one the creeps. The spaces seem to be a happy hunting ground for distant and blood curdling noises, such as howling coyotes. Nearer home, a horse took it into its head that the shack could make a superb rubbing post and, believe me, it rubbed! A pig gave an occasional grunt under the window and its rooting activities earlier in the day had made it possible for the neighbouring cats to get into the cellar; they, with their caterwauling, made the night hideous. I lay dithering in my bed, longing for the return of daylight and menfolk.

The Cornish litany will, when I’m left alone, be a heartfelt petition. Doubtless, hundreds of Canadian women have had similar experiences. One, at such times, longs for a nice, neat, well-fenced garden to shut out intruders. But such tidyness does not grow like a mushroom; it comes bit by bit, according to crop-yield and the hearty co-operation of the man and the woman.

Truly, a woman needs to put her nerves in her pocket and forget all about them when she lives in an unfenced Prairie shack.

Hitherto, when I have been in a disgruntled mood, I always had a good go at polishing furniture. Now, it seems as though I shall have to learn carpentering and make some which can be polished. Have something to polish, I must; it is one of the best safety valves for women I know of. If every lonely woman would get a piece of wood with a good grain, oak or mahogany would be suitable, and get her husband or son to make it into a tray, so she could see its beauty when she glanced at the sideboard, she would find it as good as a tonic. It is a totally different thing to a factory produced article.

There is a tradition that farming is a manner of living; that tradition has been a good deal overworked. Of late years in Sask., it has been a method of employing overtime to produce a bugbear called a “surplus” -- or, rather, it is put down as a “surplus” in Government statistics. In Southern Sask., that same surplus has not been tangible enough to capture in sufficient quantities to pay interest and taxes, let alone live in decent comfort. Long spiels regarding the matter appear in the papers, couched in language which needs the skill of a lawyer to disentangle. The poor folk who have to face the problem of either going without or accepting Government relief know all about the matter, without the aid of explanations

To have to exist under such conditions is depressing unless there is some light to illumine the dark days. The fine art of a man’s mind needs a glimpse of dollars to enable him to lift himself by the boot straps of his imagination above the hardships and drudgery of the present moment; to enable him to forget that half a decade has been spent chasing a will-o’-the-wisp which ought to be tangible enough to shovel into a wagon and carry to the elevator, instead of something which might come next year. And the farm Mothers, whose isolated, lonely lives are lived far from any social centre; how they long for the opportunities enjoyed by the women of the world at large! For, however well a Mother does her work, she is rarely praised within her own gate. It is only when her body is the central interest at her funeral that a tribute to her virtues is paid. Her world has taken her glory and goodness for granted in the same way it does the sunshine. Thinking that it will now not need to burn so much coal, instead of falling on its knees and thanking God for it. But, after all, it depends upon the woman’s own mind how far the uncomfortable conditions will detract from the compensation they might adequately acquire, given normal conditions in the quiet devoted life she lives. She may need such a spell of contentment to drown the disillusionment she is bound to experience, even if her grit will not allow her to admit it.

The gardens are awful. One sows seed repeatedly, hoping in the end that the seedlings will get strong enough to withstand the mighty coughs of the Northern Storm Gods before they are blown to the four corners of the earth.

Anyone with a taste for gambling may have it satisfied to the full by farming in Sask.. They’ll get all the thrill and black depression as their luck goes up or down, if they only stick it out for long enough. Among the natural advantages of Sask., there lurk dozens of devastating demons whose visitations come toppling one after the other with persistent brutality. I sampled them all!

With her usual craftiness, Nature made possible, in 1933, a moderate crop which, if prices had been anything like normal, would have given satisfaction. It was a year of slight progress, just by way of whetting one’s appetite to tackle a little more. The year 1934 opened with great promise. Seed went into the ground in splendid order but, before it had a chance to make headway, a good portion of the United States eluded the Customs Officials and came over the borders to us in the form of fine dust; for five days, the atmosphere was so dark and dense that we had to light the lamp at 3.30 pm. It was as though the soil had caught the complaint of the age: a flighty restlessness which refuses to stay put. The poor horses were nearly choked with it and, on the top of what might have proved a temporary setback, harsh drying winds persisted and no rain fell, in spite of frequent electric storms and symptoms of a deluge. It just threatened and retreated. On July 6, to make us realise more vividly what the plagues of Egypt were really like, a sharp frost cut down all the potatoes. That seemed to be the last straw. For a garden is so comforting and reassuring. It is one of the stable things of life and when all the blood purifying vegetables are beset by winds, grasshoppers in clouds, and gophers who seem to thrive on the poison put down, rather than diminish thereby, is trying to one’s faith.

At this juncture, a cheap excursion was advertised from the East to the West coast, so I hurriedly made up my mind to go and see my sister in Vancouver Island; also, my youngest son who was working in a lumber mill near Duncan. So, on Sunday afternoon of July 1, a neighbour motored me thirty miles to catch a train for Moose Jaw, from which point I could take an excursion ticket.

One splendid point about travel in Canada: it is impossible to get lost. The excursion was sent off in five sections. I was to travel in the fourth, which would be one and a half hours before it could be got away. It tickled me to death, almost, to see the efforts of two policemen and the Station Master, trying to prevent me getting in the wrong section. They strongly advised me to get off the train track and go into the waiting room until they came for me. “My goodness,” I told them, “I’m real tired of retirement; here’s a crowd and I want to see as much of it as possible.” I must record, though, that Moose Jaw Station has a trio of handsome and courteous policemen who are determined that grey-haired women shall not go astray if they can possibly prevent it.

Eventually, we were away on the first stage of a wonderful trip through the Rockies. I encountered many people who were not returning; they were thoroughly determined to get a bit of land in a climate where they could have a garden. “And oh! to see an apple tree in bloom again is the longing of my life,” said one of my fellow travellers. “We had some good years when we first came out from Somerset,” she continued, “which enabled us to taste the honey of success but, these last five years, we’ve tasted the gall of reverses. The land we worked and paid for has now got such a big loan on it we can never hope to get clear. The only thing which keeps me sane is that we may be able to bridge the gap from the Somerset days with fruit trees and a chicken farm.”

It seems natural, as old age approaches, to think backwards instead of forward. We had several happy conversations. I was able to give her news of her native village as, each week, I get a letter from Gretta, who is on the analytical staff of a large condensary there.

To travel on the day coach in a Canadian train is to see life as it is lived by the crowd. The great and important people do not travel: they merely move from place to place. They know nothing of the trials of the respectable poor. The folk who, seeing the charge for a sleeping berth -- fifteen dollars for two nights — see it not as two nights’ repose but as so many sacks of flour and earmark it for that purpose; they sleep the best they can during the journey. One of the passengers, a man of about twenty five years of age, was most helpful: he lifted the backs off two seats and laid them lengthways across the two seats; it was then possible to stretch out. The first night, the Conductor wanted to see my ticket twice. The second night, I put my shoes on the seat beside me, with my ticket sticking out, so was not disturbed to show it.

CHAPTER 21

A MIXED CHAPTER

ADVICE ON FOOD AND GENERAL HEALTH. TO THE ELDERLY ON KEEPING WELL IN WINTER. WRITTEN IN 1931

Do not live in an armchair; that shortens life. You should take full advantage of any fine days: even when it’s cold, you will feel revitalised by a sharp walk. Cold in itself is not harmful but warm, adequate clothing must be worn. Older people need heavier underclothing. But, if you are facing a cold blast, it is better to wear an extra-thick overcoat instead of thick underclothes and to ensure that extremities, especially feet and hands, are warm.

The elderly do not need extra meat. It may even be better to cut it out, but eat extra fish, fat and carbohydrates. Ideal diet should include wholemeal cereals, root and green vegetables, fresh fruit especially oranges, eggs, cheese, honey and butter. Drink two glasses of milk each day. Be sure you keep warm when you retire, and use a comfortable bed. Cultivate a cheerful disposition, because depression lowers the vitality and conduces to illness.

DIETETIC CHANGES

Food used to be something we were not allowed to grumble about if we did not like it; if we did like it, we were not allowed to gobble it up too fast. Babies’ bibs were sometimes embroidered with such precepts as “Eat what is set before you,” “Don’t be greedy,” or “Don’t be dainty.” If you ever rebelled and said what you really thought about nice rice pudding, thick bread and butter, etc, you were sternly reminded of the poor child who had neither of these delights. Rice pudding stood for Christian behaviour and bread was the staff of life.

All that is now changed. Food is now diet and bread the staff of death. Poison lurks in the pudding and the child who raids the sugar basin merely shows his sense of dietetic values. In the old days, sufferers from glands, chilblains etc were told to winter abroad; now, they are put on a diet. By the time our grandchildren are arranging meals, no doubt rice pudding will be fashionable again, and beef tea and jelly laid on for invalids.

IF ONLY THEY’D APPLAUD

The title of this article sums up the well considered thoughts of a practical woman who, for two years in Cornwall, Bournmouth, Leicestershire and Scotland, has been trying to discover the more important factors responsible for the general slackness and inattention to domestic work in this country. This indifference to the work which constitutes woman’s true sphere in life is, perhaps, more noticeable in the culinary department than anywhere else. Comparatively speaking, the culinary skill of the English woman is so low that, as far as preparation of food is concerned, she is regarded as the idiot of the world.

The difficulties which have to be surmounted in the preparation of a simple meal are many and varied, and spring from a variety of causes. Few people realise that as much intelligence is required to make a pudding as is needed to measure ribbon or tap a typewriter.

It is often asserted, not without reason, that we have the finest vegetables, best dairy produce and meat in both hemispheres; we invented steam power, built railways, colonised the world, won wars and bred Miltons, Nelsons and Florence Nightingales. All this and much more may be perfectly true but, if a fraction of the publicity and applause that is showered on these achievements were accorded to domestic science, cooking would take its rightful place in life.

If good cooking and domestic science generally were given their proper place as a dignified occupation, there would be no lack of intelligent girls coming forward to refute the oft repeated statement that English housewives cannot cook chickens, sprouts or potatoes. If the crowd would bestow a tithe of the applause on the women who cook (especially when they strive their utmost to give satisfaction) that it gives without stint to other achievers, we in the culinary world would develop more efficiency and enthusiasm, and we would be less dissatisfied.

WOMAN’S PHILOSOPHY

“Aye, this has been a bad year for losses: first me husband, then me pig. But the Lord has been mindful of me in the matter of greens. I’ve a lovely bed o’ cabbage.”

Women have a nasty way of making comparisons. They were so much easier to manage before they learned to read and write. My hens attended to the hatching of their own eggs; they enjoyed family cares. Incubation had not put the idea of a career into their heads. Country delights, without the smell of paraffin, was their idea of bliss.

MARRIAGE (1930)

Early marriage is advisable. The young are very quick to make up after a quarrel, but should be left alone much more. Relatives mean well but interfere too much. Marriage is a delicate plant which needs to be watched and tended – not exposed to the rude winds of criticism. If ever man and woman need to be left alone, it is immediately after the ceremony, when they have just passed the most solemn moments of their lives. And yet that is when they are surrounded by so many people wanting to kiss or shake hands, and thrust them into a glare of publicity.

Equality between the sexes is virtually impossible. Man depends upon logic and woman on “feelings” so both must give way at times. It takes a clever woman to influence a man, so she must be patient and believe in herself, if she has married a difficult man and wants to turn him into a good one. Essentials are tolerance and kindness on the part of the woman, and sympathy and understanding from the man.

Marriage is the obvious career for a woman. She will need cleverness to run a home properly. The kitchen is the hub of the house, and the interests of the family radiate from it like the spokes of a wheel. It should be surrounded by a tyre of appreciation from each member of the household towards the overlooker of the family welfare. Aeroplanes may be suitable for linking up countries but soup plates, well furnished with suitable nourishment, are necessary for supplying the link with daily duties.

Man is an observer, a consumer, and frequently a grumbler but he has the right to expect efficiency from those who look after his home. But, just because his own cook may occasionally scorch his bacon, he must not herd all women together and call them sloppy and slovenly. He, also, must play his part in making home management effective. Has he not observed that women are like flowers, in that they do a lot of growing and development, contriving and sweating underground or in the kitchen before definite results are achieved? When it comes to blooming or serving, sunshine is a real necessity and, if they are to bloom to full capacity, he must push forth that extra interest which can never be paid for in hard cash. Try a little praise! It’s a wonderful transformer in helping a woman to do her best.

Our Grandmothers were of the opinion that, before a girl was fitted for marriage, she must know how to bake bread, brew beer, salt and cure a pig, raise a pork pie, wash and iron a shirt -- which, in those days, had stiff starched front and cuffs — and know what kind of home made wines and simples were good for ailments.

Give women applause and appreciation and they will bend their energies to their task. This brings much satisfaction, regardless of burnt bacon, crooked loaves and man’s disgruntled opinion.

A DEBATEABLE POINT: SHOULD IT BE ONE CHILD OR TWO?

In the good old days of our grandmothers, such a subject could never have been discussed, but the exigencies of modern times calls for a full, free and frank discussion of this important question.

Women today, immersed in excitement and experimenting with husbands, creeds, careers, sport, permanent waves and flowing skirts, calmly sit down and calculate how many children they can afford. Often, the nature of the multitudinous interests of the parent is allowed to exercise undue influence on this most important decision but, in most cases, it is safe to assert that finance is the deciding factor. Nevertheless, in spite of the cost of living and apparent difficulties of education, one is tempted to ask, “Is an only child justifiable?”

If we wish to make a psychological study of our child; if we wish to fuss over him in our zeal for his welfare; if, in excess of loving solicitude, we desire to supply him with everything to make life run smoothly without any definite effort on his part, until he becomes a confirmed neurotic, making incessant demands on his friends to add their quota to his smug complacency. If that is our ideal, then an only child is certainly justifiable.

On the other hand, if we wish to see sturdy independence, willing give and take, wholesome competition and the well disciplined spirit which necessity demands from members of a large family reared on a moderate income, by all means let it be a trio.

R.L. Stevenson says: “It is not what life gives to us, but what it makes us, which is the ultimate test.” A few tumbles in nursery days and a certain amount of planning, ingenuity and self denial, to gain for himself what his parents cannot afford will never adversely affect any normal child. They will, indeed, tend to produce the faculty of intelligent application of the brain to the varying problems of life, which is so often one of the main characteristics of men who have risen to positions of great responsibility. Wholesome food and an encouraging atmosphere free from petty repressions are of more importance than a superabundance of money.

Let no one say that size of family is a factor militating against the success of any individual member of that family. The pages of history, littered with examples of outstanding leaders of men who have come from large families possessing only small means would afford ample material to refute such a statement.

MARRIAGE ADJUSTMENTS

The first step is taken, usually in the same spirit one makes a will or opens a bank account. Either one has something to share or to increase. That being so, an overdose of affection, slopping over in all directions, is out of place. One urgently needs to find a safe resting place where it (the affection) will be duly appreciated and, properly invested, bring in a well earned dividend.

So, wedding bells ring and we go off on honeymoon as a preliminary canter in the double harness race. A wise driver sees to it that his horse goes slowly the first few miles, until he finds his pace; afterwards, he can go ahead.

Similarly, in the marriage journey, as in everything else, it is well to remember that it is much easier to dispute than to agree, and a little extra pull on the one side brings the chariot to a standstill or pulls it out of the beaten track.

The young people of today are frightened to take advice from people who have lived long enough to have absorbed wisdom. They quote, in extenuation, the pundits of the folly of the day, who talk flapdoodle regarding the holy estate of matrimony, and even deny a Mother’s ability to guide her children until she has taken them to some spinster who is bubbling over with psychology and various other ‘ologies, for advice which will neither help to cook a good meal nor give us anything to adequately replace a cool after-dinner duel between two well trained minds.

Therefore, when Angelina hears Edwin tearing around because he cannot find his collar stud, instead of standing still in her bedroom whilst he finishes his prancing and curvetting, off she goes, post haste, to study the nearest cult in dealing with husbands. Probably, written by someone who knows no more about husbands than toads know about parliamentary measures.

Consequently, when he returns ready to adjust the matrimonial harness and get on with his job, he finds Angelina pouting and taking a keen delight in ignoring hard facts, instead of putting a nice soft cushion behind his head, and so inducing him to become a little less lumpy and, therefore, more comfortable.

Matrimony is like an easy chair: it needs judicious padding to suit the individual, and a winter and summer spent together before any serious auditing takes place. Then Edwin can add up what concessions he has made, and Angelina count up how many submissions to Hubby’s tantrums she has endured. And, funnily enough, ninety nine times out of a hundred she will -- if she be left alone -- indignantly say “Bless the man! it’s just his way of letting off steam.” And Edwin will say “This old nonsense about trial marriages is a lot of bunkum; it’s as uncomfortable as the new style of dresses. After all, it does not require much science to know that two and two make four, so we’ll give over hiding our seriousness in verbal futilities and hitch the traces to the old chaise with a new shape of wheel.

(Congratulations to anybody who can understand this last bit!)

CHAPTER 22

HERBS

On 21 April 1989 the Consumers’ Association published a warning about herbal remedies: many herbs, it seems, may have long-term adverse effects. Subsequently, angry herbalists denied the dangers but it seems that, despite Mary Heath’s enthusiasm, herbal remedies should be used with caution.

HISTORY AND USES OF HERBS

The study of herbs is a most neglected, but utterly fascinating, subject.

In Ecclesiastes, we read “The Lord created medicine out of the Earth; he also made the grass to grow for cattle, and herbs for the service of man.”

Exodus: “Manna, like coriander seeds, white and the taste of it like wafers with honey.”

Isiah: “The fitches are beaten out with a staff and the cummin with a rod.”

John: “They cut up mallows by the bushes, and the juniper roots for their meat.”

Song of Solomon: “Thy plants are an orchard of pomegranites, with pleasant fruits: camphine with spiken and saffron, calamones and cinnamon with all trees of frankinsense and myrrh, and aloes, with all the chief spices. They are to be cherished and God to be glorified in them because they are His good gifts, and created to do man helpful service. What greater delight is there than to behold the earth apparelled with plants as with a robe of embroidered works set with orient pearls and garnished with great diversities of rare and costly jewels.”

An Arabian Prophet: “Balm makes the heart merry and joyful.”

Anon. (1606): “To comfort the brain, smell to camomile, eat sage, wash measurably, sleep reasonably, delight to hear melody and singing.”

Shakespeare: “Come, Cousin Silence, we will eat a pippin of last year’s grafting, with a dish of caraways, and then to bed.”

Anon.: “She was the sweet marjoram of the salad or, rather, the herb of grace.”

Addamson: “I am always pleased with that particular time of the year which is proper for the picking of dill and cucumber.”

Kipling: “Excellent herbs had our fathers of old/ excellent herbs to ease our pain./ Alexandra and marigold/ Eyebright and orris.”

14th Century MS: “He who sees fennel and gathers it not is not a man, but a devil.”

Longfellow: “Above the lovely plants it towers/ the fennel with its yellow flowers/ and in an earlier age than ours/ was gifted with the wondrous powers/ lost vision to restore.”

Old Proverb: “If they would drink nettle in March and eat mugwort in May, so many fine maidens would not go to clay.”

Goldsmith on calomint: “Aromatic plants bestow/ no spring fragrance while they grow/ but crushed, or trodden to the ground/ diffuse their balmy sweets around.”

Psalms on hyssop: “Perge me with hyssup and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.”

Shakespeare: “Lady Capulet ordered quince in pastry for the marriage feast of Romeo and Juliet.”

Wa1ter de la Mare: “Speak not, whisper not/ here bloweth thyme and bergamot./ Softly on the sunset hour/ secret herbs their spices shower.”

Holy Writ: “The herbs of the fields shall be for the healing of the nations.”

So many countries today are in a perfect fever of apprehension about what is going to happen next. The women of Great Britain are not without their own fears. In every community, there are the timid ones who need strengthening to meet the new type of adversity which comes with war, especially to elderly women and those whose incomes remain stationary. To combat such conditions, one must curtail one’s desires and cultivate courage. The antidote to fears and melancholy is in herbs. One need not always take them as medicine: to cultivate and smell them is soothing to the nerves.

In olden days, sprigs of thyme were given to knights by their Ladys, to keep up their courage when going into battle. Borage is another courage herb, and it contains potassium and calcium, which strengthen the adrenal glands -- the organ that is most pronounced in courageous people. Vipers’ bugloss is a courage flower. Balm, sweet marjoram, carnations, woodruff and sweet Cecily are all scatterers of melancholy. An old Warwickshire saying is: “How can a man die if he has sage at the bottom of his garden?”

All these simple things can be grown in a small plot of ground and, whilst potatoes are necessary to feed the body, something for the soul is equally so. Therefore, let us go back to the simple things. Since the Lord hath created medicines out of the Earth, he that is wise will not abhor them.

HERBAL REMEDIES

Homeopathy confirms traditions about herbs and their actions in the human body -- even though some of the claims sound incredible:

Blue forget-me-not acts on the lower lung.

The common daisy, on muscular fibres of the heart.

Red Virginia creeper on the elbow joint.

Wild strawberry on the mesenteric glands.

Yellow mullein on the inferior branch of the fifth cranial nerve.

Oats on the brain.

Borage gives courage.

Carnations are under the influence of Jovial Jupiter; a soup made from them is an old remedy for depression.

Balm is especially helpful to the spleen.

Marigold is a great healing herb, and contributes to healthy tissues.

Catmint is good for highly strung, nervous children who have nightmares.

Raspberry vinegar is valuable medicine for sore throats; it has astringent and stimulating properties.

Juice of radish is good for corns, if applied on several successive days. Also an old women’s recipe for keeping a young figure.

Sweet Cecily, besides being good in salads, is a wonderful tonic.

Aniseed is a comforting herb; the Romans used it in the digestive cake which they ate at the end of their feasts.

Onions contain phosphorus and sulphur, and Dean Swift says: “This is every cook’s opinion/ No savoury dish without an onion / but, lest your kisses should be spoiled/ your onions should be fully boiled.”

Cayenne pepper, we associate with the seasoning of pork pies, soups, etc., but its greatest use is in reducing dilated blood vessels and helping sluggish circulation.

Cinnamon suggests apple pie but strong cinnamon tea, taken at the commencement of an attack of mumps, will reduce its violence and prevent complications. Also recommended as cancer treatment.

Caraway seeds, besides flavouring cakes, are an excellent remedy, applied as a poultice, for boils in the ear.

Juniper is another spice herb; it is stimulating to the kidneys but great care is needed in prescribing them for that purpose. The tree is much revered by the Catholic Church, because it is said that the infant Christ and the Virgin Mary hid behind one when fleeing from Herod into Egypt. Also, Elijah was protected from persecution by it.

Nutmegs, today, are used for mild flavouring. They were, long ago, important enough for Chatelaines always to wear silver graters, along with household keys and spectacles, to make nutmeg tea, which was drunk at night, to induce sleep. Travellers say that the aroma of trees on Nutmeg Island, in the Indian Ocean, is so powerful that birds of paradise become intoxicated by the scent. Do NOT use for apopleptic folk.

Mace is allied to nutmeg, being the thin membrane of the shell which holds the nutmeg.

Pepper is a stimulant and a carminative, which aids digestion and helps gastric juices to function. Our grandmothers used to drink possets of peppercorns boiled in whey.

Frankinsense is of great antiquity. Pictures discovered in Upper Egypt illustrate the practical workings of the industry 17 centuries before the wise men of the East presented it, with the other precious spices, to the infant Christ. We also read that the Lord said to Moses “Take unto thee the sweet spices, with pure frankinsense and gall; of each, there shall be alike height.” Myrrh is always associated with frankinsense. In early Egyptian literature, it was combined with it in the making of incense for spongy and unhealthy gums; for this, it has no equal.

Quince is the golden apple of the Hesperides; the apple which Eve used to tempt Adam; and the apple which Paris awarded to Venus on Mount Olympia. All are identified with the fruit of the quince tree. The Romans regarded it as sacred and they made it the bridal dish at the wedding feast, before the consummation of the marriage.

Rue is useful for epilepsy, and improves the sight.

Juices of speedwell may be made into a syrup with honey, for asthma and catarrh. Continued use will overcome sterility.

Sunflower tinctures have cured malaria, when quinine and arsenic have failed.

Toadflax is good as ointment in piles and skin disease.

Tincture of saffron for excessive menstruation; take 4 to 5 drops three times daily. Also, good for impaired vision.

Taken as snuff, wood sage cures polypi.

Shepherds’ purse for inward bruises.

Silverweed fomentation for freckles.

Stitchwort useful in chronic diseases: cancer, ricketts and scrofula.

Tansy seeds good for worms and, externally, for eruptive diseases of the skin. Also, for gout.

Tincture of puffball powder good for itching skin.

Fresh juice of parsnip for scrofulous type of skin lesion.

Periwinkle flowers, made into a syrup, good for chronic constipation.

Pimpernel removes obstructions in liver and spleen.

Hyssop, used externally for muscular rheumatism, is also useful in shakiness caused by excessive smoking.

Decoction of rock rose useful for itching and, as a gargle, for sore throats. Also, for shingles.

St John’s wort good for spinal injuries, both internal and external. And, for lockjaw, take 5 to 8 drops of tincture, in water three times daily.

Citron still used by Jews at the feast of the tabernacle for scent.

Milkwort, 1 drachm powdered heads, taken 4 times daily, cures hysterical fits.

Use oil of valerian as liniment for paralysed limbs.

Walnuts, steeped in oil, good rheumatic embrocation. Powdered leaves, soaked in December, cure old, chronic sores.

Greater celandine for cancerous growths: 5 to 10 drops fresh juice 2 or 3 times daily; or use as a lotion.

Woodruff as a gargle for quinsy.

Fumitory is a sovreign remedy for malarious fever, and negresses on W Coast of Africa have cured cases where conventional treatment has failed.

Garlic useful in consumption and asthma; boil it with cloves, sugar and. vinegar. Good for rheumatic pains. Powder slivers of it and apply to chronic leg ulcers. Also, mends broken china (!)

Hemlock poultices for gouty joints. Fresh juice, evaporated to a thick syrup which is made up with lanoline, will relieve severe itching. Also, use as a poultice for cancerous sores.

Horehound in milk kills flies.

Comfrey said to be good for curing and preventing foot and mouth disease in cattle.

Burdock good for itching skins. Leaves good for gouty swellings. boil in vinegar and mix with sulphur and lard. Use as ointment.

Elacampane for sciatica.

POT POURRI

The later summer flowers are by no means unworthy of preserving in pot pourri. Late roses are some of the sweetest, while pink carnations, sweet peas, cherry pie, jasmine and phlox blooms can all contribute to this delightful composition of sweet scents. Rose, petals, of course, form the base and, when plucked for this purpose, should have the stamens end hearts attached, for therein lies the perfume. There are wildings, too, which can be added: meadowsweet, clovers, honey suckle, hops and the fragrant bindweed flower. Of sweet herbs, there are lads’ love, lemon scented verbena, oak leaf geranium, rosemary, sweet briar, thyme, bergamot and lavender.

The flowers and petals all go into a large, deep crock, to be pickled with some bay salt and two handfuls of coarse kitchen salt; proportions are half pound bay salt to two pounds petals. Mix and leave to pickle for a week.

Then, spread on a tray to dry somewhat, but do not put into the sun or the essence will evaporate. Blend in an ounce or two of fresh lavender flowers and as many fragrant herbs and leaves as you like. Next, add your spices, which will comprise a half ounce each of bruised cloves, broken cinnamon stick, crushed mace and shaved orris root. An ounce of allspice may go in, too, if a very spicy odour be desired. Dried violet leaves, also, are a nice addition.

When thoroughly mixed, the pot pourri goes into glass or earthern jars, made air-tight, and stored to mature for a month. Then sprinkle with floral essential oil, such as geranium, violet, bergamot, musk or lavender. It can now be put into saches of taffeta silk, pretty jars with perforated tops, or little bowls; some may be put aside for Christmas gifts. Placed among linen, lingerie and fur, or set in the spare bedroom, a little-used sitting or drawing room, pot pourri is delightful.

All that is needed to freshen it up from time to time is a slight sifting, followed by an addition of lavender flowers, a few herbs, and a sprinkling of essence. The initial pickling process renders it impervious to damp, so that it never goes mouldy or fusty, as the sun-dried petals do.

ONIONS FOR HEALTH

There is an old idea that they cause flatulence, and should not be given to children or nursing mothers. Yet the people who withold them are the type who allow children to eat sweets, rich cakes, etc., and soft foods that need no mastication; these yield far too much starch. These children tend to be greedy and develop enlarged stomachs and constipation. Retention of gas results and, when onions are eaten, they expel the wind and the onions are blamed.

All healthy people can digest, and benefit from, onions; they should be considered as a vital necessity. Onions act as a disinfectant and cleansing tonic to the intestinal tract and, as they contain oil and valuable salts, they maintain a healthy blood stream and promote the peristaltic waves in the gut. They also cure scurvy, and Queen Elizabeth’s soft, clear skin was said to be due to eating a raw onion every day. Onions will ward off colds, and a basin of good onion soup at night will relieve the discomfort of a heavy cold. Make it with milk and butter and thicken it with fine meal or wheaten flour.

They are delicious grated in salads, added to mashed potatoes, make nourishing sandwiches with cheese and grated beet, and go admirably braised with baked fish. According to Herodotus, when the pyramids were being built, onions were so popular that onions to the value of nine tons of gold were bought for the workmen.

ENDS

APPENDIX

HANDY INDEX OF TREATMENT

ADRENAL GLANDS: Borage.

ASTHMA: Speedwell. Garlic.

BOILS: Caraway.

BRAIN: Oats.

BRUISES (INWARD): Shepherds’ purse.

CANCER: Cinnamon. Stitchwort. Greater celandine.

CANCER SORES: Hemlock.

CATARRH: Speedwell.

CIRCULATION: Cayenne pepper.

CONSTIPATION: Periwinkle.

CORNS: Radish.

COURAGE (LACK OF): Thyme.

CRANIAL NERVES: Yellow mullein.

DEPRESSION: Balm. Carnation soup.

DIGESTION: Aniseed. Pepper.

ELBOW JOINTS: Red Virginia creeper.

EPILEPSY: Rue.

EYES (INFLAMED): Rue. Saffron, Eyebright.

FLIES (TO KILL): Horehound in milk.

FOOT AND MOUTH DISEASE (CATTLE): Comfrey.

FRECKLES: Silverweed.

GOUT: Tansy. Hemlock. Burdock root.

GUMS: Myrrh.

HAY FEVER: Eyebright.

HEALTHY TISSUES: Marigold.

HEART (MUSCULAR FIBRES OF): Daisy.

HYSTERICAL FITS: Milkwort.

ITCHING (SCROFULUS): Parsnip juice. Puff balls. Rock rose. Burdock root.

KIDNEYS: Juniper.

LIVER: Pimpernel.

LOCKJAW: St John’s wort.

LUNG: Blue forget-me-not. Onion soup.

MALARIA: Sunflower. Fumitory.

MENSTRUATION (EXCESS): Saffron.

MESENTERIC GLANDS: Wild strawberry.

MUMPS: Cinnamon.

NERVOUSNESS (IN CHILDREN): Catmint.

PARALYSED LIMBS: Valerian.

PILES: Toad flax.

POLYPI: Wood sage.

POULTICE: Caraway.

QUINSY: Woodruff (gargle).

RHEUMATISM (MUSCULAR): Hyssop. Garlic in oil. Wallflowers.

RICKETTS: Stitchwort.

SALADS: Sweet Cecily.

SCIATICA: Elacampane.

SIGHT (INFLAMED EYE): Rue. Saffron. Eyebright.

SKIN DISEASE: Toad flax. Tansy. Hemlock.

SLEEPLESSNESS: Nutmeg. Mace.

SORE THROAT: Raspberry vinegar.

SORES (CHRONIC): Walnut leaves.

SPICES: Myrrh. Frankinsense. Bergamot. Citron.

SPINAL INJURIES: St John’s wort.

SPLEEN: Balm. Pimpernel.

STERILITY: Speedwell.

STIMULANT: Pepper.

TISSUES (HEALTHY): Marigold.

TONIC: Sweet Cecily.

TUBERCULOSIS: Garlic.

ULCERS (LEG): Garlic.

WORMS: Tansy seeds.

YOUTHFUL FIGURE: Radish.

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