derrickjknight

From Lattice To Web

I began this extremely hot cloudless day with a walk through Telegraph Woods. Alongside Telegraph Road, into which Beacon Road forms a T junction, lies this ancient elevated woodland. I believe the name comes from the fact that the fire beacons prepared as a warning against the Spanish armada (see 7th. July post) were superseded by the telegraph system. There is, however, alleged to be the remains of an armada beacon surrounded by Douglas firs just inside the woods. Even older remains are said to be those of an Iron Age hill fort. Using the steps set into parts of the very steep terrain one could believe it would have been difficult to penetrate.

Hearing a rhythmic rustling I looked up into an extremely tall beech tree in time to see, descending in stately fashion down the trunk, a curled up leaf looking like one of the caterpillars that did a trapeze act from the leaves of the lime trees that lined the Stanton Road of my childhood. These creatures only had feet at the beginning and end of their lengths and therefore formed a series of arches as they rolled down the trunks. Are there any entomologists out there who can identify them?

Given that woodland once extended to the very boundary of Elizabeth’s home and that today’s deer may have a collective historical memory it is perhaps not unusual that in some years her garden has been invaded by ungulates devouring her spring shoots. I was nevertheless surprised to see a fossilised stag embedded at the foot of a tree.

I walked through the woods to Hampshire County Cricket Club’s Ageas Bowl. At the back of the cricket ground lies what looks to be a very serious golf course. Some golfers were already out playing, or dragging their caddies into position. Others were gathering for the fray. Some riding in golfing cars, which must have a name I don’t know; others with bags of clubs slung over their shoulders, or carried on wheels. What they all had in common was an air of material comfort. From the central mound in the wood there is an amazing view through the trees onto the rolling landscape and beautifully tended greens.

I finished off a new edge to a bed this morning, then had a coffee with Elizabeth. We got talking about how far photography has come in the years since the second third of the nineteenth century. I often wonder what William Henry Fox Talbot in particular would think if he knew that photographs produced with the press of a button could, through the intermediary of a bit of wire and a box you plug into a wall, be immediately transmitted around the world and instantaneously printed. In 1835, when he obtained his tiny grey picture, just over an inch square, with his own little wooden camera obscura, of a latticed window at Lacock Abbey in Wiltshire, little could he have known what would be done with a thumbnail in today’s computer. Fox Talbot referred to his cameras as ‘mousetraps’, which is indeed what they look like. For many years to come, sending photographs to others had to be carried by ‘snail mail’ or personal delivery in gradually developing forms of transport. Now we have the world wide web.

My header photograph today comes from the municipal dump where Elizabeth and I took the garden refuse left over from the weekend’s bonfires. We decided on this over lunch, for which, fortuitously, I ate a Sainsbury’s latticed pork pie. Bonfires, now that we have long sunny days at last, have been upsetting the neighbours. Instead of burning our pruned material we bagged it up and took it to the recycling centre. It needed two trips and the first thing we saw as we re-entered the drive after the second was one we had left behind.

The sun was so strong that it appeared to be burning the colour out of Cotinus leaves.

For our evening meal Elizabeth and I drove out to The Phoenix in Twyford where we had good basic pub food in a cask ale establishment. I had faggots, chips and peas augmented by one of Elizabeth’s sausages, which still left her with two. My starter of stilton and broccoli soup was excellent. We both took a chance on Punter beer, which paid off. Noticing two Stanton Road lime trees, I was disappointed to find no caterpillars.

Roots

This was another beautiful, hot, summer’s day. Having spent a large part of yesterday reducing the span of a wandering Philadelphus, or Mock Orange, this morning I tackled its rambling roots. Armed with a large fork, an axe, and a back, I set to. It wasn’t until three and a half hours later that I was satisfied I had reclaimed this tiny patch of land. My back’s OK but my right wrist feels the strain of trying to pull up obstinate, well embedded arborial foundations. First I dug all round them, then had a tug. When they wouldn’t come, sometimes I had to dig a bit more, or, as a last resort, wield the axe. I had to remove a lovely old blue brick from the path through the pergola, so I could get at lateral growths underneath it. That was easily repositioned. I imagine John, from yesterday’s post, would have had everything out, and the area replanted, in no time. As it was, Jackie had to wait until I had staggered to a halt before she could put her wilting plants to bed.

It is Alan Warren’s fault that my wrist feels the strain at such times. This is because, for the last thirty five years or so the third finger of that hand has been prevented from bending by calcified material on the first joint. It was Alan who put it there. We were both playing rugby for the same side, The Old Whitgiftians. We both dived for the ball at the same time. Alan got the ball; I got a broken finger. Alan, dear soul, has completely forgotten about it. I remember every time I try to pick up a handful of change in a shop; or when someone assumes that unscrewing the top off a jar would be easy peasy for me. I have to bring the wrong fingers into play when performing basic tasks. Come to think of it, even handling a mouse is a bit awkward.

Rambling roots is, of course what this blog is all about. Roots are important to us all. Alex Hayley wrote a seminal novel about them. I would not have met Pauline Lines had it not been for Sam’s mother-in-law Gay O’Neill’s desire, from Australia, to trace hers. Pauline turned out to be a cousin living in Cheam, to whom I was introduced at Sam and Holly’s wedding. In fact, Gay’s Facebook identity is Geneholic O’Neill. My brother Chris has a similar keen interest in genealogy, and is tracing the family membership back through several generations. My mother is the custodian of our living memory bank. It was she who could identify the huge portrait I have of Elizabeth Franks, my maternal great grandmother. I may not be around long enough to give out similar information to the next generations, but maybe this project of mine will help.

What I am focussing on is my own life, current and past; and others who have been part of it. This is why I write about what I see and experience today, coupled with sometimes rambling memories which come to me. Memories aren’t usually summoned in order, but appear as and when they feel like it. They are like a random photograph album without captions. They are what the recipient makes of them, and no two people’s recollections of the same event are likely to be the same. Sometimes it is their memories that are divergent; sometimes they just experience the event differently. Elizabeth, twelve years the younger, and I have often noticed how we had different experiences of upbringing in the same family. It is serendipitous that I should be living in Morden in a period of life when I have both the time and the ability to go rambling. Morden wasn’t a large part of my childhood, but it is near enough to Wimbledon and Raynes Park to give me easy access to those places that were. Mum tells her stories in her own way. They are informative, but when she and I recount the same event, our versions may differ in immaterial or significant detail. So is it with my recollections. They are mine, not necessarily the gospel according to anyone else. I, of course, think they are infallible.

This evening Jackie returned to Morden and I stayed on at The Firs as I am off to Sigoules on Wednesday. We went off for an Eastern Nights meal, only to find that they are not open on Mondays. The Purbani in Hedge End provided an acceptable alternative. We had been there before and liked the food but thought the place was desperately in need of a facelift. We particularly remembered the carpet which had appeared so worn and greasy in parts as to have been lino. As we entered Jackie said: ‘You never know, they may have a new carpet.’ They had. And all new linen. And the meal was just as good.

Mudlarking

On this, the first hot summer’s day we have enjoyed this year, we gardened all day. I had an unfortunate hiatus of about two hours during which I vainly tried to get my printer to produce the right colours in a print I was attempting to make of the picture of Harriet featuring in yesterday’s post. I needed to get back to digging to work out my frustration. If I know the equipment is at fault, I can cope with it. If I am the problem I can live with it. If I don’t know which it is it does my head in.

Jackie focussed on planting, and Elizabeth and I on clearing an overgrown area and re-discovering a lost bed. One result of this year’s weeding and pruning has been exposing paths through the cruciform pergola. We are now hoping to position features visible through these walkways from different parts of the garden. The bench containing plants ready for their final homes, somewhat blighted by the washing cradle in the background, gives some idea.

One of Geoff’s garden sculptures, now clearly visible, generously provides a feeture at the opposite end of this section. The unobtrusive boundary fence mentioned yesterday is about to be stamped on.

Especially on a day like this, showers for the workers are necessary, as is frequent washing of hands in order to partake of drinks and snacks. This involves visits to the bathroom, which contains a glass cabinet which Elizabeth uses to show her collection of old glass artifacts.

Not shown in the header picture is the Victorian ceramic cold cream pot, complete with lid. It is mainly this which, every time I see this display takes me back to the days of The Mudlarks. No, not the pop vocal group of the 50s and 60s. Us. The early 1980s were our mudlarking years. Strictly speaking I think mudlarking is confined to activity on the Thames. Scavengers would, in Victorian times, and probably long before, search at low tide for anything valuable that may have been dropped in the river. Waterside taverns provided rich pickings. When Matthew and Becky were small I would take them off to a site near the river at Kingston. This wasn’t actually on the riverside. It was a patch of land, owned by the Council, which was about to be built on. It covered the site of a Victorian midden, or rubbish dump. We, and some other enthusiasts were given permission to dig here for lost treasure. The only proviso was that we must fill in our hole when we had ransacked it. Except for John, we all found the returning of the soil pretty tough after having dug it all out.

John was a small, wiry, immensely strong Jack Russell of a man who would grab a shovel, get stuck in, and disappear down his hole sending up showers of earth like a terrier down a foxhole. John’s bag would be full of finds while I was still thinking about it. His hole would be filled in before mine had been dug. For a time this was wonderfully exciting family entertainment. We found lots of stone beer bottles and hot water bottles, marked with the names of brewers and manufacturers long since part of history. Most prized by the children were the lozenge-shaped lemonade containers with marbles in their necks. The fizz would force these glass balls to seal the bottles. We did not find many complete ones because Mat and Becky’s Victorian predecessors had already had the marbles. And, of course, we found little ceramic pots like the one in the photograph. Medicine bottles, and Mexican Hair Restorer were often blue. We saw how the shapes of Bovril and ink bottles had changed over the years. I am looking at a James Keiller & Sons Dundee Marmalade pot from that era as I type, and Matthew and Becky still have some of those early spoils.

Only on one occasion did we go mudlarking in the true sense of the word. If you dig a hole on the side of the Thames it is even more imperative to fill it in. Sometimes people avoid this process and allow the action of the tide to do it for them. Then you get a quagmire. As we found out. We went hunting below a waterside pub. All we managed to find was a few ox’s jawbones and teeth, and heaps of oyster shells. No gold coins, nor even silver ones. When we decided the tide would soon be coming in we made for the safety of the embankment. Jessica, pregnant with Louisa, went striding off in her billowing Monsoon skirt and green wellies. And disappeared. She was in a quagmire. With great difficulty, I fished her out. I suppose you could say that was our only successful find that day.

Jackie decided at one point this afternoon to take a break, sit on a garden chair, and survey the scene. She was joined by this little chap who flew down and sat on her knee. Thereafter he was quite fearless in his foremanship.

Rather late in the evening we sat down to a meal of chicken in barbecue sauce, cooked in the oven. Why anyone would ever want to cook outside, over a grill most difficult to keep alight and smelling unpleasant when they could use kitchen equipment, I will never know. Elizabeth and I drank Gran Familia Las Primas 2011, and Jackie had the Coop’s French Lager. Whilst eating Jackie’s fluffy and tasty bread and butter pudding, we reminisced about Dad’s bread pudding . The only dish Dad ever produced was a real command performance. We never knew what he would put in it. Probably neither did he. Elizabeth and I decided that the year it was inedible was when he applied a liberal sprinkling of Galloway’s Cough Syrup. Elizabeth is convinced that one year Mum prevented him from adding boot polish. This surely has to be apocryphal. But just in case it isn’t I’m not asking Mum.

Quiet Days

We woke up this morning in The Firs to very pleasant weather, bright, cloudy, and with intermittent sunshine. I took myself off to West End Road, part of the A27, and walked down this still generously tree-lined thoroughfare until I came to Haskins Garden Centre in Swaythling Road. Just beyond this establishment I crossed the road, took a likely-looking side track and came to the River Itchen, along the bank of which I walked for a while. Immediately behind the building in this idyllic looking scene soars the M27. The roar of the traffic on this motorway drowns the sound one would usually expect to hear from the rushing water. Having wandered around here for a while and noticed the mix of probably Stuart period and modern buildings blending together, I followed another track a little further along, and discovered a sixteenth century farmhouse. The marvellous garden, with its screen of tees surrounding the house could not keep out the noise. This struck me as rather bad luck. After all the house had been there a lot longer than the motor car.

Taking a public footpath leading off Swaythling Road turned out to be an unsound idea. It was gloomy and squidgy. Soon after availing myself of the towelling stepping stones laid down by some resourceful person, I took advantage of a public recreation ground leading to the comparative safety of the main road. The A27 is much quieter than the motorway, but still pretty full of traffic.

When I arrived back at The Firs there were a number of people engaged in silent contemplation in the garden. Jackie was quietly trimming the lawn edges, and small numbers of strangers were wandering around drinking in the flower beds and the pond; sitting silently, eyes open or otherwise; or, in the case of one young woman, Harriet, painting in acrylics. It was a peaceful scene which has been all too infrequent this stormy summer. I did, of course, know the visitors would be present by the time I returned.

Another Jackie and Geoff live in The Tardis. This is a small bungalow built at the bottom of the garden that once all belonged to The Firs. Geoff sold The Firs to Elizabeth and Rob, and built the bungalow in the part of the garden that he retained. The couples came to a very satisfactory mutual arrangement that they would have access to each other’s gardens; thus offering Elizabeth, now alone, access to Jackie and Geoff’s well, and the others an extension of their space when necessary. The very low boundary fence is unobtrusive and has two gaps for access.

Quiet Days are an example of occasions when Elizabeth shares her garden. The lawn lying at the front becomes a car park and visitors come through from the other garden. As I understand it the object is to allow people to ‘just be’ in mutual solitude, whether through meditation, thoughtful reflection, or an artistic activity. There is clearly a call for this opportunity for spiritual nurture, and the events seem to be well attended. It was apparent today that the beauty of the garden is much appreciated.

Jackie and I spent the afternoon weeding, planting and edging the borders. There is a creature in the large wisteria trunk keeping an eye on things. By early evening, having had no rain, we felt confident enough to light a bonfire. Elizabeth and I continued with this, and with pruning to supply it, while Jackie cooked our evening meal. This was a tasty and spicy concoction involving onions, pork, pepper and paprika. Jackie drank a Becks and Elizabeth and I shared a bottle of Marques de Montino 2007 reserve rioja.

37 Rougemont Avenue

On this much calmer day, with a significant diversion, I made a tour of Morden Park. The white cloud in evidence today was perhaps fulfilling the promise we have that the jet stream mentioned two days ago has finally exhausted itself. Grey cloud, heavy rain, and the disappearance of the patches of blue later belied this. A postman was cycling along one of the postpersons’ regular routes through to Hillcross Avenue. I walked up the footpath to the London Road side of the park and along to the registry office where a wedding was in progress. Shirtsleeves and skimpy dresses were on display among the guests. I stopped and told them about the goose-pimpled bride I had seen in the pouring rain happily enduring the photographer’s attention on 29th. June (see post). They clearly felt they were fortunate. At this point I left the park, crossed London Road and continued on to Rougemont Avenue, where, at number 37, my parents had enjoyed their last London home.

As I stood outside the house, a very attractive and elegant young woman opened the front door, locked it, and came down the steps making for her car. I told her what I was doing there and said what a shame it was that she was on her way out because I had hoped to photograph the back garden. She told me she had only moved in a week ago and that the previous owners had landscaped the garden beautifully. I mentioned that my parents had, in retirement in the 1980s, created the terracing, having mixed their own concrete. That was it. I got a result. She smilingly invited me inside, unlocked the door and took me through to the back of the house. The first thing I noticed was that there was no formica on the banisters. I ran my hand along the carved struts and told her about Dad’s obsession.

When he retired Dad got seriously into DIY. He was also seriously into the laminated surfacing which he was convinced would make everything easier to clean. And I do mean everything. Anything made of wood was carefully covered in beige and brown formica. Even those struts were sheathed in two-tone carefully applied laminate. As the new owner unlocked the back door I pointed to the picture window to the side and told her of my quip during one of our Sunday lunches. Gazing through the window I had said: ‘Dad, it’s a pity you can’t get transparent formica.’ Puzzled, he asked me why. ‘Well, then you could cover the windows’, I replied. Guffaws all round, including, of course, from Dad.

We stood in the garden and I took this photograph for Mum. As we left the house and the young woman finally got to her car, the last thing she said to me was: ‘Tell your Mum I will look after her memories’. Elizabeth will make sure she reads this.

The Sunday lunches were a feature of our elder children’s lives. On most of these days we would turn up, unannounced, for a veritable feast. Oval plates, which the proprietors of The Martin Cafe (14th. May post) would have envied, were piled with roast meat, usually lamb, Yorkshire pudding, and all the trimmings; always followed by apple pie and custard, with, if you had room for it, jam tart made with the surplus pastry. Matthew still calls white pepper Grandma pepper. Although now I don’t know how we managed it, there was a plentiful salad tea before we went home fully satisfied, not to say stuffed.

(In January 2014, I discovered a photograph taken in December 1985 at the famous meal table. Mum and Louisa are having a discussion about an apparently questionable item hidden from view. I sit on the other side of our daughter. Uncle Norman is opposite, and we see the backs of Joseph and his girlfriend, who obscures Sam from view. Dad’s initial formica efforts can be seen. Jessica must have taken the picture.)

Returning to the park I continued my circumperambulation, passing the car park where my parents left their car before taking their own walks in this ancient landscape. One day Mum had gone walking on her own. Dad must have been at work. When she returned for the car, it was gone. She walked home, thinking that Dad had perhaps come and collected it. He hadn’t. Some young men were caught engaged in a burglary. The car was to be their getaway vehicle. Their misfortune was my parents’ good luck.

In the early evening Jackie and I drove to The Firs, stopping for a meal at The Farmer’s Home, a pub in Durley. Until we arrived in deepest Hampshire the evening was clear and bright. The nearer we got to our destination the darker the sky became. Eventually we met more heavy rain. The meal was very good, but, as you have already been treated to Mum’s Sunday lunch I will not describe it.

When we left the pub mist was rising from all the fields around.

Conversations

Mrs. Reynard is looking most uncomfortable lately. Perched on her pile of sticks this morning, she was gnawing away at her rear end, which is now on one side completely devoid of fur. The patch the magpie was pecking on 26th. May (see post) is now rather raw.

On my normal route to Colliers Wood to catch the tube for lunch with Norman, in Morden Hall Park, I met Benjamin and his mother. This eloquent and cheerful little chap was on a dinosaur hunt. He was taking his task very seriously and wanted to know if I’d seen one, especially ‘a big one’. He declined to produce his hunting roar for the photograph. Perhaps because I am not a dinosaur, although some people may quibble with that. Well, Benjy, I didn’t see a dinosaur, but I did find a very big slug. His picture is at the top of this page.

One of the most amusing regular announcements on the Underground was given out at Green Park. A long list of severe or minor delays is intoned. This is always followed by: ‘There is a good service on all other lines.’ ‘Which are they?’, I ask myself.

Seated reading on a bench near the mainly Somali area of Harlesden, I picked up one cent of an euro, thinking it might come in handy in the Sigoules supermarket. I hoped it wasn’t a Greek one. It was fortunate that I wasn’t on my feet, for these days I wouldn’t bend down for anything less than a tenner. I remembered once diving for a ten-bob note at a bus stop in Worple Road in case Chris got there first. For anyone too young to remember, that’s 50p in today’s money. But, then, you could do a great deal more with it.

A middle-aged woman came and talked to me. She began by saying I looked so peaceful that if she had a camera she would photograph me. I hoped she wouldn’t notice the one hanging round my neck. She went on to eulogise about the beauty of the thousand year old church that lay behind me. She spoke of recent renovations, and I realised that the graveyard is looking much better kept these days. It is a sad reflection of our times that the building was not open for my inspection. She was on her way to visit her father, now suffering from dementia, in a care home. On her regular visits she does a lot of the feeding and caring herself. This woman was not complaining and initially spoke appreciatively of her father’s carers. She did, however, say it would be nice if they thanked her, because they were paying the full ‘feeding rate’. According to her this former Southern Cross establishment has been taken over by a Methodist organisation. It has a new manager who is trying to improve things. From the sound of it she has her work cut out. Once this daughter learned that I had been in Social Work she told me about some of the attitudes and systems she found problematic, asking me what I thought. For example, did I think it unreasonable that he was not allowed to ‘poo’ until 11 a.m? I most certainly did. Apparently the staff would rather he ‘pooed in his pad’, which they could clean up afterwards, than disrupt other morning routines. She felt that his personal dignity was suffering. My beard didn’t put her off expressing her conviction that it was normal to want to shave every day. Presumably there are days when her father can and cannot shave.

Norman served up a dish of delicious Catalan chicken accompanied by a fine rioja, and followed by apple strudel. Perhaps not entirely by coincidence we discussed the writing of Iris Murdoch. I have not read her philosophy, but have most of her novels, except the last. This was so badly reviewed by critics who could not make any sense of it that I decided to give it a miss. Some time later we learned that she was suffering from the same condition as my conversationalist’s father. For anyone working with dementia the biopic ‘Iris’, starring Jim Broadbent as the long-suffering and somewhat bewildered husband, and Judi Dench as Iris, is essential viewing. No-one living with the condition would need, or probably wish, to watch this fine portrayal of the slow realisation that all is not well and the gradual decline into frustrated helplessness.

This evening Jacqueline came over for meal, and, given that she had recommended the Watch Me to us, we just had to take her there. The food was as good and reasonably priced as always. As I don’t normally eat another meal after a Norman lunch, this was stretching it a bit for me.

Directions

On another wet morning I set off to visit Amerland Road in Wandsworth. I chose the route up to Wimbledon Common, along Parkside, and down West Hill. Apparently it is the jet stream which normally strikes north of Scotland that is responsible for our stormy summer. Having learned this I reflected that it is hardly surprising that there is a deal of depression in those countries even nearer the pole.

In Mostyn Road a mother was guiding her small daughter on a scooter across the road. Hearing an approaching taxi, she led the child back to the safety of the pavement. The cab came to a halt to allow them to cross.

A painting job in Fairlawn Road in Wimbledon, begun yesterday, was nearing completion. Whether the weather eventually put a stop to this I am not sure.

Rounding Tibbet’s Corner, Parkside had been part of a three lap twenty mile road race I had run in the late eighties. This involved three plods up Copse Hill. I had fallen in with another runner and we continued in tandem for most of the race. On the third climb up the hill my companion started to flag and doubted that he would be able to finish. I went on ahead, completed the run, backtracked, and encouraged him to reach the end.

One of the many traffic signs warning of congestion during the forthcoming Olympics is on Parkside. And I thought we had succeeded in our bid because of improved transport facilites. Arriving at Tibbet’s corner I was uncertain which of the major roads off the roundabout was West Hill, and asked the way at a portable burger bar. The two men serving and their two customers had conflicting ideas as to which one it was, and even whether I needed to use the underpass. I gambled on one and soon found myself trotting down Putney Hill, which I knew to be wrong. Realising I should probably be taking a right turn which should take me through to West Hill, I asked a woman with a dog who confirmed this. Walking down the correct hill I thought of Phyllis Holman Richards who had set up her Adoption Society in that street after discovering a young woman giving birth in a phone box. I never knew Phyllis, for my time as a consultant to her Society came after her death. However, others fondly remembered her. Since the establishment, with its short term mother and baby home, was almost opposite Amerland Road, I wondered whether the delivery had taken place in the predecessor of the kiosk in the header picture.

Yesterday’s post describes my grief at the loss of Vivien. Eventually this subsided somewhat, and my brother Chris and his great friend Mike Ozga took me in hand and out with them to various venues. We rode around in a little mini. I don’t remember whose it was. As we were all six feet two or three we caused great amusement when we unfolded ourselves from this tiny, yet surprisingly roomy, vehicle. One evening they drove me ‘creeping like snail unwillingly to’ Helen’s twenty first birthday party. Never, at the best of times, a party animal, I stood in the Amerland Road flat not knowing where to put myself. There were a couple of girls in a corner and I thought I might put myself there. One of them said to her companion: ‘You’re in luck, he’s coming over.’ Unfortunately I only had eyes for the disinterested party. Jackie.

Although she was, in spirit, rather like Shakespeare’s schoolboy, she was definitely female. Claiming to be eighteen, Jackie, I learned later, was awaiting that birthday before taking up her post as a housemother in Shirley Oaks. This was one of the old style self-contained residential villages that existed in those days for children in local authority care. Visiting her there, I got to know the young people and their stories. How did they get there? Who was responsible? What could be done to prevent it? These were the questions which exercised me and gave me my direction. I soon left my insurance desk and began working as an Assistant Child Care Officer in Tolworth Tower in the Royal Borough of Kingston Upon Thames. That was December, 1966.

Since today’s perambulation had been quite a trek, I returned to Links Avenue by 93 bus from Putney Hill. Having been a bit uncertain of the way to Putney Hill from Amerland Road, I asked a young woman how to get there. She knew neither the hill nor the bus route. However, standing in the pouring rain, she insisted on connecting to the internet on her mobile device and consulting it. Asking me for my postcode she finally came up with a route. I was to take the 270 bus from stop D in Armoury Way. This would decant me at Tooting Broadway tube station whence I could travel by underground to Morden. If you are bored with this detail, imagine how I felt. Well, she had been so kind I could hardly set off in the opposite direction. I therefore followed her advice until out of sight, then took a diversion which led me to a postwoman. She soon put me right, but said it was quite a long way. When I told her where I had come from, she laughed.

Tonight we had salad, courtesy of the man at Hillier’s Garden Centre mentioned two days ago; boiled eggs; tinned corned beef and tuna from the larder. I finished the Roc des Chevaliers, and Jackie, being out of Hoegaarden, had a Peroni.

One Life Cut Short; Another Changed Forever

A much more pleasant day today was cloudy with occasional glimpses of sun. I decided to visit 18 Bernard Gardens and 79 Ashcombe Road in Wimbledon.

On Maycross Avenue someone had spilled a bag of gems, and in

Woodside, SW19, a child had lost a little bear. In Mostyn Road I met a man exercising a ten year old white German Shepherd dog. Passing Building Blocks nursery in Dundonald Road I heard the taunting chant: ‘Nah nah ne nah nah’, and thought of the infant on the receiving end. Walking up Hartfield Crescent I passed the childhood home of Tom McGuinness, mentioned on 10th. July, who warrants a post of his own sometime.

My days in marine insurance featured in The Drain (6th July).

This was where I met Vivien who I married in 1963.

We began our married life in my parents’ house at 18 Bernard Gardens. This was where she proudly brought Michael home and we lived for a few more months until

we bought 79 Ashcombe Road for £2,500 (no noughts missing). In Ashcombe Road we did our own decorating and I transformed a rubble heap into a reasonable back garden mostly laid to lawn for our little boy to play in.

As a recent toddler he helped me push a roller over the turfs we had laid. This was not to be our home for long. In September 1965 I went out one evening window shopping for a present for Vivien’s 23rd. birthday which was to be in a couple of weeks time. Forty five minutes later I returned home to find her dead on the floor of the sitting room. In less than an hour I had become a single parent.

Years later I was queueing for soap in Floris in Jermyn Street when the young man ahead of me was offered products from Duchy Originals. ‘I don’t want any of that stuff. It goes to charities like unmarried mothers doesn’t it?’, was his response. I leaned forward and said: ‘I’ve been a single parent as it happens.’ ‘I’m bringing mine up on my own’, said the shop assistant. He was gone.

Now I must return to my awful night. Deep in shock I collected Michael from his bed, where, thankfully he had been sleeping; gathered him up in his blankets; and carried him up the road to Bernard Gardens. My mother took us in and eventually put us both to bed. In my case that was not to lead to sleep for another three days, when I had stopped crying. Dad came home a little after our arrival. I can still hear his teardrop hitting my bedding. I will be forever grateful to the gentleman; doctor, official of some sort, I have no idea, I was past taking it in; who visited me the next morning to tell me that death had been instant and Vivien would have known nothing of it. My wife had died in an epileptic fit. I had always known that she could possibly have an accident, but never dreamt that the condition could produce a fatal collapse. To this day I don’t know whether he said it was her heart or her lungs.

Returning from the funeral I was to find a Health Visitor on the doorstep. She had not visited before but was making a check up call following Michael’s birth. He was now fourteen months old. She fled and never came again.

Michael and I were to stay at Bernard Gardens for the next three years. Until he was three Mum cared for him alongside my brother Joseph, just three years older. When Michael was considered old enough he attended a day nursery, where he met his lifelong friend Edward Blakely, and he and I moved to a studio flat at the top of the house which had just been vacated by the Egan family. I could be sole carer with the advantage of family below who babysat when I went out. I was able to continue working, collect him from nursery at the end of the day, and, I thought, cook us a meal. On the evening I began my new routine, never having cooked before, I decided we’d have spaghetti bolognese. I cooked up some mince in a saucepan. No herbs, no spices, no onions, no carrots, no tomatoes, just mince. Hopefully I used some sort of cooking oil, but I wouldn’t be sure. I boiled the spaghetti until it was soggy and served up. I don’t remember whether either of us ate any of it, but I do remember thinking, after I’d tucked Michael up in bed and turned to face the washing up at 9.30 p.m.: ‘Blow this, he gets a meal at the nursery, I’m going to the caff at midday’.

I had, by now, realised I could never stay in an office job. All I needed was a direction. How I found that direction is a further story.

This evening we had another excellent meal in the China Garden where we went with Becky, Flo and Ian.

Walking In The Rain

Well, I thought this would be an original title for the summer of 2012. Yesterday’s sunshine proved to be an aberration. This morning we were back to normal, pouring rain. As I needed to go into Morden to present yesterday’s wine stained raiment to the dry cleaners and to pay in some cheques I continued on to Morden Hall Park. Only the cleaners could possibly be called dry. At Bill’s birthday party (15th. July post) the younger ladies were claiming that, although their long term recollections may be impressive, the older gentlemen’s short term memories were shot. Perhaps that is why I start my blogging as soon as I get back from my walks.

For a few days now, I have been intrigued by a set of tankers bearing the name ‘A Better Service’ stationed outside the park. Since their pumps were snaking into the streams of Morden Hall and I didn’t think any more water was needed, I asked what the team were doing. Apparently the various connecting rivulets get rather stagnant unless they are oxygenated. The pumps were therefore circulating the water. Note the umbrellas.

A jogger smilingly agreed when I observed that it was ‘perfect weather for it’. I remembered how refreshing it was to be cooled and hydrated by falling rain when running marathons. Rather more surprisingly, a team of volunteers armed with cutters and saws, engaged in clearing the banks, struggling with the sodden foliage, were of the same opinion.

A coot noisily warned me off its chicks and a heron stalked the streams. A tiring golden retriever persisted in chasing a small black poodle around in circles. This rather upset a watching toddler, who needn’t have worried because the larger dog was never going to catch his prey. It did, however, present a moving obstacle on the rather congested path.

At a gate leading from the rose garden to one of the sodden waterside footpaths I stood aside for an intrepid troop of retirees sporting various assorted rainwear, and umbrellas lowered to form offensive or defensive weapons. The gentleman bringing up the rear asked his female companion: ‘Have you been retired long?’ ‘Five years, but I’ve never been married,’ was her reply. I suppose everything has to start somewhere, and no longer does a woman have to wait for the man to make the first move.

It has been a good year for slugs and fungi.

A forlorn fuchsia reminded us that Fred ‘Tosh’ Madden had not been forgotten.

A couple of abandoned supermarket baskets were nestling in the undergrowth, and someone had discarded a sandal. My saturated pair screeched on the communal wooden staircase back at Links Avenue.

This evening’s gourmet meal consisted of Derrick’s succulent gammon and pork sausages casserole, followed by strawberries, helped down by Roc de Chevaliers Bordeaux 2010. The Cumberland sausages came from Sainsbury’s, as did the wine. Lidl provided the gammon, onions, and mushrooms for the casserole; and the crisp, crunchy carrots which accompanied it. Other vegetables included Sainsburys’ weird shaped Anya potatoes, the sprouting buds on which had to be removed before serving; and cauliflower (a bit passe) from Wimbledon Village’s Bayley and Sage. Garlic paste to add flavour to the sauce was bought in one of the halal shops in Morden. The bay leaf was from Tesco and the thyme from goodness knows where.

We have a fridge stocked up with salad ingredients virtually given away by a poor man who was selling his produce in the waterlogged Hillier’s Garden Centre car park on Saturday. He said he had been doing really well until eleven o’clock when the rains came. Now he had to give multiples of everything otherwise he’d have to take it home. This latter statement didn’t come from him. I just know that’s how it goes. I’ve often thought that a very hard way to make a living. However, he remained most cheerful, and also sold us, at a fraction of their true value, the piquant strawberries we ate this evening. They were bathed in Sainsburys’ ‘LIGHT’ evaporated milk. If I knew how to print those last four words upside down I would do so. This is because the tin from which it was delicately served was punctured at the bottom and I had to put my ear to my placemat to be certain what I was pouring.

Portrait Of A Lady

Taking advantage of the better weather and making an early start, we finished the planned planting and the new bed by the pergola. The morning was fine, but as we set off for Helen and Bill’s barbecue in Ringwood, raindrops began to fall. In fact they didn’t amount to much although they did force the party indoors. The gathering was a small one including the hosts; their sons David and John and their partners Jen and Stephanie; Jackie’s other sister, Shelly, her husband Ron, and their daughter Jane. We were fed substantial ‘pickings’ and drinks all afternoon and had a great deal of fun swapping stories. All this was rather poignant for me because I had known Jackie’s sisters and Bill when we were so much younger. We had spent most of a lifetime apart and yet in many ways I felt it had been no time at all.

Bill was fascinating in talking about his wartime evacuation as a six year old. This was in the days before Local Authority Social Services Departments or the Child Care Departments which preceded them. Vetting was minimal if it took place at all, and some of Bill’s stories reflected that. I was reminded of a time in 1967 when, as an Assistant Child Care Officer, I had advertised for foster carers for a set of twins. One of the applicants, a no doubt good-hearted elderly woman, had written: ‘If you put labels on them with their names on them I will meet them at the station’. This, no doubt, had come from her knowledge of the evacuation process from 1940. It was exactly Bill’s experience.

At one point I managed to spill a glass of red wine all over my beige linen suit. As I mopped it up and Helen ‘confiscated’ my glass because I had ‘been a naughty boy’, I told the group of another occasion on which I had had to mop up alcohol. Some thirty odd years ago in a pub by Wandsworth Bridge I had been sitting at the garden picnic style table/bench with some friends. This was in the days when you could smoke in public places in England. On that hot summer evening there were several drinks on the table, as well as two very large, very full, heavy, industrial style ashtrays. As I sat on one side of the bench, two of the others opposite me got up at once. This upset the table which toppled in my direction, tipping me backwards onto, fortunately, the grass. There was I, on my back, legs trapped between the seat and the table, covered in sodden dog-ends and other people’s beer. The one drink that had not been spilt was the upright pint of Guinness which I still clutched in my right hand. On that occasion I had been wearing a track suit, so no harm was done. I have yet to see what the dry cleaners will make of today’s disaster.

I am grateful to Helen and Bill for their having preserved an extremely precious drawing. In 1966, when Jackie was 17 and I was 23, I made a pencil portrait of her which I gave to her mother. Unbeknown to me Veronica Rivett kept that drawing all her life. When sorting out the house after my former mother-in-law’s death, Helen offered to take care of this for Jackie. When Jackie and I got together again she asked for the picture for the home we share in Morden. Unfortunately it could not be found. By Jackie’s birthday last year we were reluctantly giving up hope. On that day she received an e-mail from Helen attaching a scan of the portrait which had obviously been unearthed. Bill delivered it to Elizabeth’s a week or so afterwards.

Our evening’s drive back to Morden was in pleasant, sunny weather, although clouds did seem to be gathering. We had no need of more food when we returned.