Prelude.
The old bus rattled and bumped, twisting and turning its way along the winding country roads. I was on my doubtful way to Rose Cottage. But forgive me reader, before the story begins, I shall relate the background. Not, perhaps because you desire it, but because, as I am now drawing near the end, I want to put on record my own view of my country as it was then, and apprise you briefly of my personal condition.
A Segment of History.
It was England in 1947. The war that had ended in 1945 had left the nation bankrupt and the greatest empire the world had ever known moving toward dissolution. Twice in the twentieth century the country had gone to war and lost not only its wealth, but also that most precious of national assets, some its finest and most intelligent young people.
The joy that victory brought and the visions of the "Brave new world" had quickly faded, and it was as if a grey dust settled over the country. The people exhausted and still strictly rationed in most essential items of food and clothing, with cities in ruins and a desperate shortage of building materials, we had just passed through the bitterest winter in decades. Coal shortages and inadequate clothing meant wretchedness for many.
It seemed that the spring would never come, the snow extending right into May. Across the Atlantic the "Chromium plated Christmas" had been celebrated. On our side of that heaving body of water we were hard put to find a little extra for the season, and children's toys were few and poorly made.
My personal history at that time was almost as drear as the nation's. I was in the fourth year of my plumbing apprenticeship, and had suffered the foul weather on open building sites as we tried to repair the bomb damage.
But life was worse than that.
If you are among those who say, "You can't die of a broken heart," do not, whatever you do, say that to an eighteen-year old who has just lost his first girlfriend. I was in despair. My parents worried as this pale wraith failed to eat or sleep with the enthusiasm proper to an eighteen-year-old.
But enough of this tribulation.
The Invitation.
In the midst of all this woe, both national and personal, there arrived an invitation to spend what has since become known as, "A long weekend," with my Aunt Nina at Rose Cottage. This meant from Friday until Monday. And now I must try your patience once more with a preliminary description of Nina.
Nina was the youngest daughter of my paternal grandparent's brood of seven children. My father was the eldest, and Nina had arrived late on the scene and was only ten years older than me. I still have old photographs of Nina playing with me when I was three and she thirteen.
During the Second World War she had joined the "Women's Land Army," and been posted to a farm. At the end of the war, she had stayed on at the farm. With the farm job went Rose Cottage for which she paid a nominal rent.
That part of the county is, or was, very beautiful, and has been made famous by the work of the English artist, John Constable. Rose Cottage is set above the valley of a River, but for all it's beauty, I had doubts about accepting this invitation from my "Spinster Aunt", as I then considered her.
Never the less, persuaded by my parents who were no doubt pleased at the thought of not seeing my miserable countenance for a few days, I replied, accepting the invitation.
The Journey.
Today the journey from the London suburb where I lived to Rose cottage would be of no account. In 1947 people like me did not own motor cars, and few even owned motor bikes. My transport was to be by bus. This meant three different buses and about four hours travelling, for what would now be about an hour and a half at most.
I persuaded my boss to let me off early (not easy), went home, threw some things into a canvas holdall, and began the journey.
The spring had come at last and the hours of sunlight had started to make life tolerable. As the bus started to leave the suburbs behind, my woes started to drop behind as well.
After the bitter winter the countryside looked wonderful. Crops had started to peep out of the soil and wildflowers seemed scattered everywhere. I was undergoing that strange transformation that seems to overcome many city and suburb dwellers when they go out into the countryside. It is sort of cleansing or refreshment that washes over you, makes you feel new again.
And so back to the country bus.
Arrival.
Country buses in those days had no particular stopping places. They simply dropped you off at the most convenient spot for you along their route. My bus pulled up at the junction of three lanes, the driver said, "It be just up there," I got out and the bus departed.
I started up the lane the driver had indicated, but my aunt must have heard the bus arrive and was walking down the lane to meet me. We greeted each other with pecks on the cheek and made our way to Rose Cottage about a hundred yards up the lane.
I had never visited Rose Cottage before, but was to learn that it was about 400 years old, and one of its features was a ceiling decorated with plaster fleur-de-lis. This decoration was part of the original cottage, and thought to be very valuable.
The cottage is two storied and I was introduced to my bedroom upstairs. This meant a climb up, not so much a set of stairs, as a ladder extending from the floor and disappearing through a hole in the ceiling. My bed was a gigantic affair of iron and brass, and if someone had said, "Queen Elizabeth the First slept here," I might well have believed them.
My aunt's bedroom was next to mine and was in any case the only other room upstairs.
Downstairs consisted of one main room and what was called "The Scullery." In the scullery, one did all ones cooking and washing, including bathing. The bath was a large galvanised iron affair that was hung up on a hook outside the back door until required. When about to be used it was filled with hot water from a wood fired copper. As my aunt and I were frequent bathers, that damned copper was always on the go. The toilet was an interesting and smelly affair in a sort of shed at the bottom of the garden.
There was no electricity or gas, so lighting was by means of kerosene lamp, candles or nightlight. The latter was a sort of stubby candle that was generally used in the bedroom and burnt all night, so if you wanted to get up and move around you were not completely in the dark.