大象传媒

As told by Donald Wharf

We arrived, eventually, after dark at a village called Great Rollright. All the arrangements to do with the journey had somehow come right in the end - that was despite all the lengthy delays on the trains, especially at Oxford. After the railways, the last part was easy. A motor coach, hired for the purpose, took all the 'Rollright evacuees' to the village in reasonable comfort. There, we were taken, a group at a time, to our billets - we were the last.

'The Shrubbery' stood by itself in a corner formed by a bend in the road. Even though part of its frontage was hidden by two or three very large trees, I was impressed, as my mother was too, mainly because of its size. Someone had started to open the door: an elderly, jolly faced woman - not quite as old as my grandmother was, though she sported a wispy moustache! That made me stare, then I glanced at my mother who gave me a kick on the heel. Manners were very important to her so I tried not to look any more.

The Billeting Officer helped us inside, then made all the introductions: we were the 'guests', though evacuees, of Mr and Mrs Taplin - quite unpretentious and forthright people who welcomed us right from the start. Food was laid out on a huge wooden table in front of a blazing hot fire. Set, as it was, in an old fashioned range, I couldn't help thinking of Bourton. Then, as I gazed at my new surroundings, gradually taking them in, one of the topics of conversation finally entered my brain. We would, apparently, live self-contained in two private rooms of our own - better, I thought, than having to share which my mother and I were expecting.

Later that evening we followed the Taplins out from the warmth of their kitchen, through to the scullery, past an iron pump and into a dark narrow passage. Right at the end was a brass handled door - "Your living room", one of them said.

What struck me first, as I entered the room, was a strange, unfamiliar smell. Nothing, however, was clearly defined in the dark except for the window - then, very suddenly, all was revealed as the Taplins, at last, lit an oil lamp. Two sides of bacon and several huge hams hung on butchers hooks fixed to a wall. "Will they be staying there?" queried my mother. The answer, I gathered, was "Yes". 'Salting' and 'curing' a fully grown pig by hanging the bits on a wall, was, Mrs Taplin explained at some length, quite normal to Oxfordshire people..... As for the question of moving them all - she hadn't another spare room. No more was said as we stared at the hams until Mrs Taplin remarked, "Sheets could be used to cover them up, though they wouldn't get rid of the smell!" That, being better than nothing at all was accepted at once by my mother. - Maybe her somewhat insensitive nose was a blessing on this one occasion!

As I'd expected, an old kitchen range with a coal fire provided the heating, plus all our cooking requirements, of course, which seemed just a bit optimistic. Next to it, there was a stone coloured sink with a plug, but no running water: buckets, apparently, had to be filled at the pump on the scullery wall, then carried back down the long narrow passage - not what my mother was used to!

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