A Family Outing And A Disappearing Act

Continuing our post-Christmas sort out, I came across a Fortnum and Mason picnic hamper from a previous Wolf and Luci Christmas present. This now contains various items of photographic interest, including some early negatives and slides.

I scanned four black and white negatives from a family trip to Richmond Park in 1962. Three of these have been published before, but scanned from rather faded prints because I had not found the negatives. Despite the fact that a considerable amount of retouching was required, I have now been able to offer more clarity. The wallet in which they were contained was labelled, telling me that I had taken these shots with my old Box Brownie camera. The format of these  images is square.

Mum, Joseph, Maureen, Auntie Jean & Vivien, Uncle Derrick, 1962

Given that I found them in a hamper, it is fortuitous that the first picture is of a picnic (complete with hamper) taken in Richmond Park. My two year old brother Joseph is here stuffing a titbit into his younger cousin Maureen’s willing mouth. Continuing clockwise around the image we have my Auntie Jean, Vivien, unfortunately chomping, Mum, and Uncle Derrick. My sister Elizabeth is largely obscured by my first wife.

Joseph and Maureen 1962 001Joseph and Maureen 1962 2

Joe gave Maureen a piggy back,

Dad and Joseph 1962

and had something to say to Dad.

I have learned through overlaps with my blogging friend Geoff Le Pard, how small a world we inhabit. Geoff grew up not far from where we now live in Hampshire, and he now lives near my childhood home in London. We have often jogged each other’s memories. In a recent post of his, he wrote of the gardening he did in his teens for Mr and Mrs Gosling who lived in a house, which he thought was called ‘Silver Thatch’ on the corner of Vaggs Lane and Silver Street, and wondered whether one day I might photograph the house.

Jackie drove me there today to investigate. Unfortunately we couldn’t find such a house.

April CottageApril Cottage and Spar garage

The only thatch on that particular spot, now featuring a mini roundabout, is actually behind the petrol station and Spar shop on the corner of Silver Street and Everton Road. It is called ‘April Cottage’. Jackie parked in Everton Road whilst I took the above two photos

VaggsLane/Silver Street corner

then walked across to photograph the Vaggs Lane corner as it is today.

I am afraid the Goslings’ house has probably disappeared. Just as Jackie had done when I walked back over to where I had left her. The Modus was nowhere to be seen. Had she done a runner?

As I stood there scratching my head she sped down Vaggs Lane from the other end, round the roundabout, and into the garage forecourt. I entered the vehicle. ‘Where were you? Didn’t you see me parked beside you?’ she asked me most calmly, and with not the slightest inkling of a screech.

Well, no. Why would I? I was concentrating on what I was doing.

My driver had considerately followed me over to the opposite corner, not seen me cross back to Everton Road and had torn up Vaggs Lane in search of me. So, what was she doing? Perhaps whoever spirited away ‘Silver Thatch’, had been having a laugh.

Gammon Steaks meal

This evening we enjoyed the second of our Hello Fresh meals. This was excellent Honey Mustard Gammon Steaks with Parsley Sauce, with which I drank equally good Solliard bordeaux 2014 given to me by Shelley and Ron; and Jackie drank Hoegaarden.

Murder In The Lounge

During odd moments in the last few days, I have finished writing clues for Mordred’s next Independent cryptic crossword submission.  This morning, after a final bit of tweaking, I sent it off to Mike Hutchinson, that newspaper’s most accurate and humorous editor.  Any further adjustment he may require will only improve it.

This morning Jackie drove us to Wolf and Luci’s caravan at Hurley in Berkshire.  Passing Warren Road, mentioned on 23rd. August, with Jackie’s help I realised that my memory had let me down.  ‘Shern’ children’s home was not in Warren Road.  That was where the baby nursery was.  It was closed during my time in Kingston.  ‘Shern’ was actually in New Malden.

As we drove through Richmond Park I was reminded of the beauty of this ancient wooded parkland.  There was quite a clear light filtering through clouds and sharpening one’s vision of the mature oaks.  Cars were hampered by the myriad of cyclists on the road.  Joggers abounded on the footpaths.  Further on, Kew, despite low-flying aircraft, remains a picturesque village.  Properties there are expensive, and much sought after.  London, this vast metropolis, is in reality a series of conjoined villages, each with its own history and characteristics.

As someone who had a fairly antiquated idea of caravans, I am always impressed with the accommodation available in our friends’ second home in Hurleyford caravan park.  They have two bedrooms, a fully fitted kitchen, and an ample shower room.  The prefabricated building is what is called a static, in that it is a permanent fixture.  All the plots have their own gardens, and the sites overlook fields or the river Thames.  Owners can be resident for only eleven months of the year; they are contractually obliged to provide a permanent address for the other month.  It is an idyllic spot which was discovered almost twenty years ago by Wolf’s late, lifelong, friend Robert when he was out walking one day.

Rosebuds 8.12

We spent the day eating delicious salads and fruit crumble prepared by Luci, with red, white, and rose wines and fruit juices; talking; escaping the thunderstorm; and managing, between showers, a short walk. The rectangular walk took us round the field that is immediately behind the caravan, and along the Thames bank.

Apparently their cat, Aggie, is prone to wander.  One day she came home without her collar.  A day or two after Wolf and Luci had returned to their house in Clapham, they received a telephone call from a woman who had found it in a nearby hedge.  This reminded me of a collar I had once found.  My flat in Sutherland Place, W2, was plagued by neighbours’ cats.  They seemed to think it was their territory.  Boldly they walked in through the windows as if they owned the place, or simply sat on the windowsill observing me.  These came from at least three sources.  They were all fancy creatures.  In W2 you don’t see many decently respectable moggies.  Only indecently disrespectful pedigree animals who come in uninvited and scratch up your upholstery.  I happened gently to mention this in passing to the owner of two of these feline intruders.  She provided me with a squirt gun.  In my younger days, I rather fancied myself as Clint Eastwood, but no way would I ever have beaten him to the draw.  By the time I had reached my weapon, the cats were long gone.  I took to chucking whatever I had in my hand at the time at any intruders, once scoring a direct hit with a loose-leaf file.  Despite having to pick up all the loosened sheets, I found this rather satisfying.

One morning at about 5 a.m., for some reason which I cannot now remember, I went into the sitting room of my flat.  The room was empty but for a coating of long white fur all over the carpet and all the furniture.  It looked like a chicken run after a fox has been at it.  In the fireplace was one solitary cat collar with a bit of black fur attached to it.  Sure enough, it bore next door’s address.  I returned the collar to its owner, the black cat.  What of the white fur?  Well, there was one most exotic creature.  It had a very long, completely white, coat.  I had never seen it in my flat, but it often sat on the sill.  I always imagined it didn’t want to ruin its hairdo by squeezing under the window.  I think it was called a Norwegian.  I never saw it again.  ‘Murder in the lounge’, said Luci, upon being told this story.

After leaving our friends early this evening my chauffeuse drove us to The Firs in West End.