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Chapter Two
Wedmore, 1939/40

I CAN'T remember how we got to the Manor House that night, though I sometimes feel we all climbed into a pony and trap. Be that as it may, I do remember the wrought iron gates, the gravel drive lined with chestnut trees outlined by moonlight, the hoot of an owl, then walking to the left of the house and through a five-bar farm gate, seeing a row of farm buildings dark against the sky, hearing muffled noises of animals in stalls and byres, the cluck of hens disturbed by our footsteps, then entering the house through a rear door.

The door gave onto a long passage paved with flagstones, and I remember thinking that, as Mum made such a fuss about scrubbing and whitening our doorstep at home, goodness knows what she'd have to say about all these flagstones; she'd be 'mogrified' if she had this lot to scrub every morning!

Cook had left out a little supper for Mrs Pitcairn without knowing she'd be arriving home with three extra mouths, so we sat round the table while she prepared extra food. I was so tired by then I could scarcely summon the energy to eat, but the cocoa was welcome. She began asking Ken lots of questions about which part of London we came from, what relatives did we have at home, how long had we been travelling, all that kind of stuff. Finally, she sighed and said, 'Oh well, it's been a very long and eventful day for you all. I'm sure you must be ready for your beds.'

Beds? How many beds was she talking about?

'Come along, I'll show you upstairs and show you where to put your things. I think we can skip bathing tonight. It can wait till morning on this occasion.'

Bathing? I didn't much like the sound of that. Grandfather Treloar had warned me what happened to skinny little boys who got tangled up in baths. We never had baths at home, thank goodness. A weekly dunk in the scullery sink was all I was used to.

She followed us as we dragged our weary selves up the stairs while telling us it was a very old house and that the Pitcairns had been squires of the manor since the eighteenth-century. Portraits of several glared down as we climbed. Was it my imagination, or was there really a menacing scorn in the eyes that followed me up the stairs? I could almost hear them, 'Who's this scruffy little urchin? What in blazes is he doing here?' But not only portraits. The walls were hung with all manner of things; crossed swords, shields, daggers, spears, pistols, stags heads… oh, all kinds of stuff. I stared in wonder. Fancy just sticking them on a wall and leaving them there? Just think of the fun you could have with them! I couldn't wait to get my hands on them. But then, as we turned the corner at the half landing, I caught sight of man in medieval armour standing at the top of the stairs, and shrank back in terror, wanting to run away as fast as my legs would take me. Well, after years of being warned about the bogey man who was coming to get me, I truly thought he'd arrived. But the explanation was quite simple to someone used to such things. 'It's all right, Stanley,' said Mrs Pitcairn, reassuringly. 'No need to worry. It's not a real man. Just an old suit of armour left over from the wars. Nothing to be afraid of. There's no one inside.' Well it was all right for her to talk, but it still looked pretty scary to me.

We followed Mrs P to a door on the far right-hand side of a long corridor. 'There,' she said, opening it and ushering us inside, 'this should do nicely.'

I have to say that bedroom took some taking in. And I couldn't. Not all at once. As Mum would say, it was all a bit much really. It was easily as big as the classroom at Essex Road School. Let me just say it accommodated a giant four-poster bed, another, smaller, four-poster, as well as a divan bed behind the door; two large wardrobes, a dressing table, plus numerous chests, and all with acres to spare.

As the eldest, Ken was given the large four-poster, Sid the smaller one, and I was quite content with the divan, being used to sleeping with Sid in a bed half its size.

'What about the rest of your things?' she asked. 'Will someone be bringing them tomorrow?'

'Ain't got no uvver fings,' said Ken, who could be a little terse at times.

'I see,' she said, looking dismayed. 'Then perhaps we'd better see just what you do have.'

With growing dismay, she opened Ken and Sid's suitcases in turn.

'But there are no pyjamas!'

'Ain't got none,' said Ken.

'And no toothbrushes! Where are your toothbrushes?'

'Don't 'ave any,' said Ken.

'Then how do you clean your teeth?'

'Mix a bit of salt and soot together and rub it on with a finger if we 'ave to. That does alright.'

'I see, ' she said, sounding very perplexed. 'I think perhaps we can find a better alternative tomorrow.'

After wishing us goodnight and sweet dreams, she left us to it and we crawled into bed in our shirts as usual. The following night, we found pyjamas and toiletries neatly laid out on our beds. From then on we bathed every night, cleaned our teeth, and slept in 'proper apparel'.

The first morning will stay with me for ever.

The last few days had been sunny and warm for late September. When I awoke the sun was streaming through two large windows, one at each end of the room. There was a pungent smell in the air and I could hear strange noises coming from outside. Ken and Sid were still sleeping, so I slipped out and went to the nearest window to find out what all the commotion was about.
I found myself looking down upon a crowded farmyard at the rear of the house; the farmyard of all farmyards, the farmyard of a young boy's dreams, and simply teeming with life. I stood mesmerised, taking in every detail as a dozen new sounds and images assailed me. I'd never seen live chickens before, much less pigs, ducks and geese. The only animal I could identify with was the horse standing with its huge head protruding from one of the stables, as a lot of commercial traffic in London still relied upon them. I'd seen plenty of brewers' drays, coal wagons, milk floats and small carts being drawn by horses of all shapes and sizes in Manor Park and East Ham. This one, with its head hanging out, was one of the big ones, like the ones the brewers used. Also I'd seen sheep and cows in the fields on the way down, but that wasn't close uP Now everything was close up! I couldn't wait to get down amongst it all.

Then Mrs P arrived.

'Good morning boys!' she said, cheerfully. 'I hope you all slept well. It's time to wake up and look sharp, I'm afraid. My word, we've such a busy day ahead.'

But I was still full of the farmyard, so she listened patiently while I told her all about her farm: '…and when can I see them? And can I stroke the chickens? And will I be able to ride the horse…?'

'Of course, Stanley,' she said, smiling. 'Of course. But before we can think about that, we must have our bath, mustn't we?'

And while those treacherous taps inexorably filled her giant bath, so I felt a growing unease, remembering word for word the story that Grandfather Treloar had so recently taken pains to teach me, as it was a cautionary tale which every boy should know.

'Grandfather says I mustn't 'ave barfs,' I whispered.

She crouched down and looked into my eyes, smiling. 'Oh, and why ever is that, Stanley?'

'You know, 'cos of them angels.'

'Oh? And what angels are these? What was it your Grandfather said about the angels?'

'He told me all about them in that story.'

'And what story is this?'

'You know…'

'No. Tell me.'

So I told her: 'A muvver was barfing 'er baby one night, the youngest of ten, and a poor lickle mite. The muvver turned rahnd fer the soap orf the rack… And when she looked back… the baby was gorn! And in anguish she cried: "Oh where is my baby?" and the angels replied: "Your baby's gorn dahn the plughole! Your baby's gorn dahn the plug! The poor lickle fing was so skinny an' fin, he ough'a bin barfed in a jug! Your baby's gorn dahn the plughole; he won't need a barf anymore, 'cos 'es up 'ere wiv us, the angels; not lorst, just … gorn before."

I couldn't understand why her smile should grew wider and wider while I related such a horrendous tale. When I finished, she clasped me to her bosom and hugged me tight. 'Oh, you darling boy!' she cried, 'That's such a lovely story. But, you know, that's all it is -- just a story. It doesn't really happen, you know. And look… see the plughole. I think it's far too small for a big boy like you. Don't you?'

Looking back, I often wonder if that moment was a turning point in her life; that perhaps it was the first time the dear lady had felt happy since her husband drowned in a boating accident the year before. I only know that from that moment I could do no wrong.

It was time for breakfast.

I would think the house was built in the early Nineteenth-century, and what was originally a saloon or drawing room was then being used as a living room cum dining room. Having all the classic features and dimensions of the period, to my eyes it was utterly beautiful.

A wide mahogany door opened into a large, bright, rectangular room. On the left was a large sideboard; on the facing wall a long French window, leading to a small terrace. A very long, highly polished, mahogany table occupied the centre, with six or eight chairs along each side, plus carvers at either end. At a pinch, it might have seated twenty. Behind the door was the fireplace; tall and very ornate, with a white marble surround and large sofas either side. I remember the shelf being too high for me, but nevertheless thought the whole thing very fine. In front, between the sofas, and wearing a ferocious snarl, lay a huge polar bear rug. It didn't frighten me, however, for even I could see it couldn't possibly be alive; it was too flat in the middle.

Outside, a grassy slope ran down from the terrace for about fifty yards or so, then levelled out to a smooth, flat lawn with a large round hump in the middle; the smoothest, most flattest lawn I'd ever seen. And green! So very, very green! (Why I emphasize this in dramatic detail will soon become clear).

The table was already prepared when we entered, and Mrs Pitcairn had obviously given prior instructions on seating arrangements. It seemed we boys were to occupy one end of the table, while Mrs P would sit in regal isolation at the far end. She had a fine sense of humour, did Mrs P. I still think it was a charming gesture to give me the honour of sitting at the head of the lower table, facing her. Ken sat to my right and Sid on my left.

Full silver service at every meal was the house rule. The amount of knives, forks and spoons, tureens, dishes and plates that seemed necessary before one could embark upon the coming meal, including white napkins rolled inside silver bracelets (or so it seemed to me), to say nothing of no less than three silver cruets, was utterly bewildering, and we were at a complete loss. Understanding our dilemma, Mrs P simply smiled. Then, during the meal, she patiently advised which implement would be the most appropriate to use at any given time, and she continued to do this at every meal thereafter until, after a month or so, our manners and table acumen must have been beyond reproach -- when she was around.

At some point Mrs P asked me how I felt about the war, and to this day I've no idea where my answer came from. For it was pure fabrication, a creative effusion rising from an over-virile imagination, added to an urgent desire to impress. Though not a single bomb had fallen on London by the time we left, I answered: 'Cor, the bombs are getting so bad, Mum can't even go up the top to change the beer bottles!'

Ever mindful, Ken's immediate response was to give me a swift painful kick beneath table, to which I replied, 'Oi! Stop kicking me, you, Kenny!' whereupon Mrs P collapsed laughing.

Throughout the meal I'd been glancing outside through the French doors, and was itching to take a run down the grassy hill onto that lovely green lawn at the bottom. With the meal over, I asked if I might, and the wish was granted. In sublime ignorance of the catastrophe awaiting me, off I ran, running down the slope at breakneck speed, dying to get to the big round hump in the middle and become king of the castle. What did I know of treachery, or the self-deceiving eye? How could I know that lovely, flat, green lawn was no lawn at all, but a lake covered with duckweed?

As I raced onto the flat area, to my sudden horror I found myself floundering in mud up to my knees, with legs, trousers, hands and blouse covered in green slime! Dutiful son that I was, my first thought was for Mum's new white ankle socks -- which I must keep clean at all times. 'Me socks!' I cried. 'Me socks!' My heart sank as I realised I was now in trouble with her on two counts; first the hanky, and now the socks. How could she ever love me again? Ridden with guilt, I burst into floods of tears.

Everyone had rushed from the house by then, screeching with laughter, while I stood ignominiously, sobbing with shame and remorse. Mrs P scooped me up in her arms and carried me inside, with me continuing to sob while she did her best to console me -- as far as her giggling would allow.

As a result of this incident, Mrs P decided it was high time the lake was cleaned up, a task which was to provide a nice piece of pocket money for Ken and Sid. For another of that lady's lovable qualities, being a tomboy herself, was her ability to know precisely what little boys would enjoy most, one of which is anything to do with mucking about in, or on, soap-free natural water. Within a few days she'd helped them to construct a raft and, after supplying them with a couple of old buckets, off they went scooping up the weed at sixpence a bucket. There were at it for the best part of a week, and having a whale of a time doing it too. Before long the lake was alive with ducks, moorhens and coots again. Ruefully, I reflected how, if only they'd been there for me to see a few days earlier, I met not have found that 'lawn' quite so enticing…

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