roller – derrickjknight

A Knight’s Tale (41: My Awful Night)

Vivien and I were married at St Lawrence’s Church, Sidcup on 8th June 1963.

We began our married life in my parents’ house at 18 Bernard Gardens, Wimbledon.

This was where she proudly brought Michael home and we lived for a few more months until we bought 49 Ashcombe Road, Wimbledon 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 that had failed.

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 told myself.

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.

Not Much Call For It In 2020

On another gloomy and cold morning we ventured out into the forest trusting that the nearer we arrived at midday the brighter the light may become. If anything there was more darkness at noon.

We stopped at Setley Ridge Garden Centre which Jackie, masked up, entered and bought some Christmas presents while I focussed on the displays outside, in the doorways, and through the window.

Afterwards Jackie tucked the Modus onto a verge in Church Lane while I

photographed the fast moving bubbling, rippling, stream with its arboreal reflections.

The old quarry lake at Pilley was once more full enough to provide a still canvas for artistic reflections.

No-one had plucked mistletoe from a fallen tree. I guess there is not much call for it in 2020.

A trio of donkeys spilled over the road at Jordans Lane.

Jackie photographed a driver’s eye view.

Our starter for this evening’s dinner was Jackie’s chicken, bacon, and vegetable stoup. The main course was her succulent shepherd’s pie topped with crisp croquette potatoes; served with firm Brussels sprouts, carrots, cauliflower and broccoli; and meaty gravy. Dessert was apple and gooseberry crumble and custard. The Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Merlot.

Friday The Thirteenth

CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE. REPEAT IF REQUIRED

Why would I go out to photograph a churchyard on such a dull day as was this one?

All will become clear later in the post.

Here are some of the gravestones in the churchyard of St Mary the Virgin, Bransgore;

many ivy clad, like this one bearing an anchor chain,

or this already sporting its Christmas holly.

A few are upright,

some less so,

and others had given up the battle with gravity.

The stump of a fallen tree was in good company.

This roller hid round the back of the church.

As in most of our churches today, the front door was locked.

Fortunately for me, Jenny was working in the small office accessed by an open side door.

This very friendly person showed me into the church, currently set out for the various community activities offered, that can be found on https://bransgore.org.

She put on the lights so that I could photograph the stained glass, much of the original of which has been lost.

In particular, climbing on a chair to do so, Jenny was keen to show me the preserved panel from July 3rd, 1822, bearing the etched date in the bottom left hand corner. To the left of the bottom of the orange cross the name of R. Carter, glazier, Priory Glassworks can be discerned when the image is enlarged.

Wikipedia tells us that ‘the church of Saint Mary the Virgin was erected in 1822 as a chapel of ease.^[10]^[11] The church is of brick with stone dressings,^[11] with a tower and originally a spire.^[12] However, the spire was removed in 1967. The early 16th-century font, which is said to have come from Christchurch, is octagonal, with a monogram J D, perhaps for “John Draper,” the last Prior of Christchurch Priory.^[11] The ecclesiastical parish of Bransgore was formed in 1875 from parts of Christchurch and Sopley.^[11]^[13] Henry William Wilberforce, son of William Wilberforce (known for his campaign against slavery), was once the vicar of Saint Mary’s church.’

When we visited MacPenny’s Garden Centre two days ago we were given this brochure:

We would always welcome an opportunity to try out a new curry restaurant. When the proprietor had the courage to open the venture on Friday 13th, this proved irresistible. Jenny explained that the church had the facilities and was there to help local activities.

The evening in the church hall was most convivial, and the food served by the Bartlett family quite superb. Jack was a splendid sommelier who assisted his sister Sophie with the waiting tasks.

From the moment of entry our nostrils were enticed by the authentic aromas emanating from the kitchen on full view of diners. Everything was cooked to order.

Dave’ s cooking was a marvel. We began with superb crisp popadoms with a variety of chutneys. The prawn puris that followed were as good as any we have ever tasted.

Majid, the manager of the Akash in Edgware Road that I regularly frequented for more than 35 years, would remove from the table any onion bhajis that his eyes told him were not up to scratch. He, and I, would have given Dave’s full marks, for their perfect crisp texture and exquisite taste.

My main course was prawn jalfrezi, and Jackie’s prawn bhuna. Both were succulent, and superbly flavoured. We shared delicate pilau rice and soft chapatis. Encouraged to bring our own bottles, we brought an Argentinian white wine that I can’t remember. Jack kept it in the fridge for us and kept our glasses replenished. That’s probably why I can’t remember what it was.

Happy Hunting

CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE. THOSE IN GROUPS ACCESS GALLERIES THAT CAN BE VIEWED FULL SIZE.

Those who have read posts from April 2014 onwards will know that we moved into a house that had suffered from much bodged D.I.Y. We are only putting this right at a very slow pace.

Here is our badly painted crooked mantelpiece made from a bit of wood trimmed with beading. Note the gaps behind the tiles stuck onto the walls, and that between the shelf and the wall.

We can’t stand it any more, so we travelled to Ace Reclamation in West Parley to investigate surrounds created from reclaimed timber. We are now to submit a measured drawing to have one made for us.

Our morning was spent in heavy rain. Here is the entrance to the architectural salvage outlet. The staff member waving in the distance is acknowledging the postwoman who has just delivered the mail to

Ace Reclaim letter box through wet windscreen

an old postbox which serves as Ace Reclamation’s letterbox. This is what that looked like through our car windscreen.

Readers can already imagine that I wasn’t about to make a complete inventory in the rain, however I did what I could. This yard is a wonderful repository of artefacts and materials. There are garden ornaments and furniture galore, some of which, on past visits, has found its way to Downton. Figures in stone and bronze, a giant cockerel, carriage lamps, urns, tiles, timber, rust, telephone boxes, a suit of armour, a mangle, a garden roller, gargoyles, can all be found therein. You could enjoy happy hunting in reality, or, if you’d prefer to stay dry, virtually, through searching through these photographs.

The wooded areas on either side of the long, unmade, road, the potholes in which give a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘off the beaten track’, are waterlogged.

The ditches are filling up fast,

and flooding a paddock,

in which stood three damp horses, two of which were a sandy colour I have not seen before.

Mind you, the gorse glowed a grateful golden yellow.

On our way home we visited Friar’s Cliff Café for brunch. There was just one other customer couple who had braved the blustery seafront to reach the comfort always available there.

This was the sea through the rain-splashed window.

Anyone who has seen a photograph of a Friar’s Cliff Café breakfast will not be surprised to learn that a selection of small Asian snacks, such as samosas and spring rolls, more than satisfied us for our evening meal with which jackie drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Cahors.