El Cordobes - the Beatle Matador.

Time to take Stock.

Story contd.

My trip to America brought my life into focus. It was a new decade; I was forty, in the next few years the boys would be leaving home and they were the glue that was holding our marriage together. William and I discussed this and he – half jokingly - suggested we should buy two separate maisonettes which had little appeal to me. I really loved my home and it suited the whole family. We had put a table tennis in the cellar and the apple loft over the stable had been converted into a teen-agers room.

# 1 son asked if he could have his birthday party there, minus adults, and we said yes provided there was no alcohol. He said no alcohol - no party - so there was no party. The good thing was he didn’t intend to deceive us which I applaud him for. We both took parenting seriously and spent as much time with them as they would allow. We often went to places of interest on Saturdays and I remember one that had a fortune teller in a caravan. William persuaded me to give it a try.

She spent some time studying my hands and she said I was not happily married but I would be eventually and would marry someone from my past. What a load of old codswallop I thought. I couldn’t think of a single person I would want to be married to. On Sundays we did ‘the walk’ and William would take us further and further each time, and then there was always a panic wondering if we would get to the pub before closing time.

The boys although both blonde and blue eyed were very different and had different tastes and talents. They both went on ski-ing and camping trips. I used to give them mini lectures about the importance of hygiene and the dangers of drugs. At least some of it got through; when I went to pick up the younger son after a cub week- end the cub-master was quite worried as my son hadn’t eaten all week-end. When I saw the trestle tables displaying uncovered food I understood why. I had told him never to eat anything a fly had been on. (Look it up -we did it in Biology). Between us we somehow managed to turn out two decent young men I think.

We had a glorious two weeks in Spain and that was the last time the four of us went on holiday together. We had a hairy drive to Granada which was so lovely and as a great treat we had a first class lunch in some beautiful grounds. We went to a bullfight and amongst others saw the matador de nos jours -El Cordobes - but the younger boy was disgusted and walked out. I felt I owed it to Hemingway to see what all the fuss was about but I never went again. Both boys would go sailing with William, the younger one would go youth hostelling and the elder would go on various holidays with either of us, in Scotland and later in France with me, mainly so he could drive as a learner with us chaperoning.

One year William and I took the rare decision to go on holiday together but with one of my old nursing friends (as referee?) – Vanessa who he approved of. It was to be taking a boat on the canals. William was always at his best on a boat and Vanessa and I enjoyed each other’s company and knew the boating couldn’t be too arduous on a canal.

The shop was running smoothly and we had a great team. The boys were now at secondary school and doing well according to their different capabilities; I had made some good friends in the theatre club and got plenty of acting and directing opportunities. I still had the odd upsetting dream about Jamie but on the whole I was content. Maddie had started working for publishers which meant travelling in Europe twice a year so she was a frequent visitor. She went to a Reunion in Oxford and saw both Liam and Jamie. She said later Jamie had problems but didn’t elaborate and I didn’t press her.

Just before we were due to go on the canal holiday with Vanessa, William walked into my room in the middle of the night and said he didn’t feel well. I put the bed-side light on, took one look at him and knew he was having a heart attack. Trying not to let him see my panic I sat him down and told him to just hang on and I would get the doctor straight away. I flew down to the hall and she answered immediately. She had just been out to a house in the same street – also a suspected heart attack- so that until we got the results we clung to the hope that it was just some infection. The doctor arrived very quickly – she said she could tell from my voice how urgent it was.

She did various tests with me still clutching William’s hand and trying to reassure him. The ambulance arrived soon after and the doctor told me to get dressed and to follow the ambulance in my car. I rushed into the boy’s bedrooms and told them that Dad wasn’t very well and I was going with him to hospital but he was going to be fine and I’d be back soon. They had no recollection of this the next morning and were furious with me. I phoned Vanessa and asked her to cancel the canal holiday. We were all in a state of shock.

MICHAEL BALCON -GRANDFATHER

JILL BALCON - MOTHER

DANIEL DAY LEWIS - DOUBLE OSCAR WINNER

Dan the Man

Aside

Years ago I was captivated by a Titania (Midsummernight’s Dream) with the most amazing facial bone structure. Decades later I saw the same face but this time it was a young man in a strange film- ‘My beautiful Launderette’. The young man was Daniel Day Lewis and I discovered that the girl was his mother Jill Balcon, who in turn was the daughter of Michael Balcon, who owned and ran the Ealing Studios in their hey day. Daniel’s father was Cecil Day Lewis – poet laureate, and Daniel’s wife is the daughter of the late Arthur Miller – distinguished Playwright.

You’d have to be pretty special to live up to a family of that ilk and Dan is – pretty special. So one would expect nothing less than the bravura performance he gives as Daniel Plainview in ‘There will be blood’ and today I hear he has received his well deserved Oscar. Yes - this was the film we chose to see on our disappointing Saturday. My first choice was ‘La vie en Rose’ but it was the wrong day. I still wish we had seen it; I didn’t really enjoy ‘There will be blood.’ It wasn’t just the violence – ‘No country for old men’ was even more so and I rated that highly.

Daniel plays a vicious monster dominating every frame and most of the characters are liars, cheats and hypocrites. MTL thought he sounded like Sean Connery but to me it was pure (if you’ll pardon the expression) John Huston. Close your eye and listen – if you are old enough to remember. The film moves along at a reasonable pace although there was one long close up on the beach when I found myself trying to distinguish between the character’s nose hair and his moustache. There is some beautiful orchestral music along with a weird angry bees buzzing sound which made me think of the yelping music Hitchcock used ‘Psycho’ so maybe it will catch on.

One thing puzzles me. When I was a teenager I read ‘Oil ‘by Upton Sinclair and all I remember of it was when I read the babies were thrown, by the Reds, into the scalding water. I even mentioned it in a blog a year or so ago. Did I imagine it or am I muddling it with something else. Certainly there was nothing like it in the film. Thankfully. Well done Daniel!

Alas and alack…

Aside

We were up bright and early on Saturday and MTL popped out to get a paper when the phone rang. It was the birthday boy with the news that our grand-son had got the tummy bug that is plaguing their area and he wanted me to decide whether it was worth risking MTL and me getting it. We decided that I would discuss it with MTL and then phone him back. I rarely take health risks – certainly not where my husband is concerned – he takes enough himself – but it was my son’s birthday and I was so looking forward to a Sunday walk. I phoned my other DIL but as soon as I spoke to her I realised it just was not worth the risk. They themselves suffered it and she was certain we shouldn’t go. So we didn’t. We decided to cheer ourselves up – have an early lunch and go to the flicks, of which more later.

It’s odd when you have an unexpected free day. It seemed a good opportunity to do something I have been mulling over for ages. It’s a pipe dream to make a book of ‘Past Imperfect’. I am under no illusions of how difficult it would be to interest a publisher in the present literary climate, but at least I can start to clear the decks. At present all the posts are jumbled up together although everything is double- backed and burnt to CDs. After today’s efforts, I have listed all the posts in order and separated them from all the asides. My next step is to get it all on one document which should be well on the way to a first draft. I’m amazed to find the word count is over 89,000. Apart from more editing (I do edit all the time), cutting and shaping are needed.

Zinnia where are you when I need you? Off in foreign parts getting up to goodness knows what. I am in unfamiliar territory now so any advice will be appreciated. The trouble with disappointment – it engenders comfort eating. It must stop and I pledge to lose 7lbs by the summer (Indian or normal- who knows?)

Quick Trip

Aside

Off for a couple of days for my younger son's birthday. Back soon. Keep the faith!

Vermont Farm


Moonlight -Oriana

Marble Pavements

Story contd

On the long drive up to Vermont Maddie told me a little of its history. In 1609 Samuel de Champlain sailed into the lake which was then named after him, and discovered Verde Mont – Green Mountain in 1609. First it was in French hands – then British until in 1777 it gained Independence. It is well named as the hills are predominantly green – unlike our own mountainous areas such as North Wales and the Lake District. The house was red, so it would stand out in the snow and was very comfortable with all mod cons and in a picturesque setting. Rather like Portugal, the hunters expect to wander freely, and had been astonished to be confronted one Sunday morning by Maddie’s husband, in his silk dressing gown, looking for all the world like a disgruntled Noel Coward.

We had been invited to have dinner with Betty – an older friend of Maddie’s who ran a superior guest house with her husband. It had a lovely country house atmosphere and one of the long term guests looked very like George Sanders with a moustache. It was uncanny – for the rest of our holiday everywhere we went, George would be lurking in the back ground. In the garden photographing a gopher, he would be on the other side of the brook; walking the marble pavements in Manchester he was on the other side of the street and on a lovely hot day when we were picnicking by a lake in our bikinis, we spotted him on the hillside - with a rifle. We were a bit giggly having had some wine and speculated what we should do if he came closer and wanted to have his way with us. The best we could come up with was to say we had the clap.

It was a bit spooky because he never greeted us, but later when Maddie told Betty she said he regaled them each evening with what we had been getting up to, so it was quite harmless, and maybe he was looking out for us. Betty had had a privileged childhood and I was excited to meet her brother who had been at Princeton with Scott Fitzgerald – a hero of mine. All he would say was that Scott was ‘overly sentimental.’ Betty took me to a quilt party where we all sat around chatting and sewing a fantastic patchwork quilt. It was a pleasant way of getting to know these ladies and I really appreciated their warmth and humour. I was allowed to do a few stitches and they joshed me about the size, which was twice the size of theirs. I expect they undid them afterwards but years later, after MTL and I were married, I made my own – all hand sewn - and on the bed behind me as I type.

Vermont had been a peaceful break but I was looking forward to spending my last few days in New York. We were invited to dinner with Liam (Jamie’s brother) and his family. They had a large house in Westchester and had deer roaming in the grounds. Liam had four children – three girls and a boy. He told me that Jamie had three children – two boys and a girl. He, Liam had named his only son after Jamie and told me – with some annoyance - that Jamie had named his dog after Liam. As I had gone to settle in the South, Jamie had settled in the north.

On my last day we had met Barbara at the Russian Tea Rooms and I was aghast at the size of the tip expected, even worse than Paris. I always like to do as the Romans do but sometimes one needs help in knowing what is correct. My great, last night treat was a visit to the Lincoln Centre to see - DADA! Margot Fontyn and Rudolf Nuryev dance ‘Romeo and Juliet.’

‘Oh Maddie I can’t see for that damned chandelier!’

The overture started and slowly the chandeliers rose up to the ceiling and I could see everything. At this time Margot was 51 and Rudolf was 32 – he looked about 20 and she 16. They soared and plummeted like two love birds round the balcony steps. At the interval I sat utterly entranced, unable to speak, when the woman sitting in front said to her neighbour in a strong Brooklyn accent,

‘Is that how it was Sadie – in the Bronx?’

‘Nah! We didn’t have a balcony.’ Sadie replied, and I was grateful to them for bringing me back down to earth- with a laugh.

Margot’s husband Tito Arias was a former Panamanian ambassador and as we stretched our legs we saw him being pushed around in his wheel chair. He had been shot and crippled six years earlier and Margot went on dancing as long as possible to pay for his care. She looked after him devotedly until his death, and by the time of her death from cancer in 1991 she was virtually penniless.

It was time to go home and I was looking forward to seeing the family and telling them all about my adventures. I took a large paperback- ‘Helter Skelter' to read on the plane, but most of the time I was dreaming of all the fun and excitement I had had and really feeling rejuvenated – a new woman in fact - and able to cope with whatever life threw at me.

Margot Fonteyn aand Rudolf Nureyev

Story continued tomorrow:- Marble Pavements.

News Flash

If you are interested in contributing to a book being written for charity go to

Zinnia Cyclamen ( click on side bar) and follow the link to Peach where you will find the following and all details.

‘We would like you to submit (to us at bloggersforcharity@yahoo.co.uk) a written piece about something you've been through from any aspect of your life that you want to share. It can literally be about anything: your relationships, your past, a road not taken, being a parent, an illness or your regrets etc. We've called it "You're Not The Only One" to reflect the camaraderie of blogging.

Proceeds will go to WARCHILD ‘

Good luck!

I'm not sure if this will work but it's my favourite cliff- hanger at the moment.
http://www.turnipnet.com/radio/lwm.wav

Uncle Vanya

Aside

After well over 50 years of theatre going I tend to muddle my Ibsens and Chekhovs There are similar themes; deep boredom and depression, the need to go to Moscow or a similar place, and dramatic gunshots which are farcical rather than tragic. I think it was Michael Redgrave who I saw originally - so it was along time ago. We took the – what MTL calls ‘the granny bus ‘ - to Bath and for once I took the time to suss out three restaurants near the theatre, with their telephone numbers. We have a couple more trips quite soon and it will be nice to have a change from the theatre restaurant.

I was really looking forward to the play as the cast looked interesting and it was a new translation by Stephen Mulrine. It has been called ‘theatre of nastroenie’ – full of mood and atmosphere. It is set on a crumbling Russian Estate which is run by Vanya and his niece Sonya for the benefit of Vanya’s brother in law – Serebryakov an ailing academic, also known as the Professor. He had been married to Vanya’s sister who died and in fact the property is now owned by Sonya but as she is a mere young woman, this tends to get over looked. When the professor – with his beautiful new wife - announces he may sell up all hell breaks loose.

Vanya is a typical Chekhovian hero – unhappy, drinks too much, a comic, tragic figure bewailing lost time, wasted lives and impossible loves. He develops a loathing for the Professor and calls him ‘a sort of scholarly kipper’. Vanya is in love with the professor’s wife Yelena who has an alabaster beauty and sizzles with latent sexuality. The doctor- Astrov - a frequent visitor, also develops a passion for Yelena and he in turn is adored by the plain little mouse that is Sonya. Vanya is devastated when he comes upon the doctor and Yelena in a passionate embrace - just when he is about to give her a bouquet.

It doesn’t sound like a barrel of laughs but it is played in such a comic way that I feared the sadness of the ending would be diluted. I need not have worried.

Vanya is so self obsessed with his own misery he blithely ignores Sonya’s despair and the last scene, when the visitors depart, is deeply moving as Sonya tells him they will survive, they will rest and they will finish their lives. I always relish the swirling movement of the actors on stage in a Russian play and the whole play is a resounding success and finally moved me to tears.

Principal Characters

Sonya Lou Brealey

Yelena Michelle Dockery

Vanya Nicholas Le Provost

Astrov Neil Pearson

Serebryakov Ronald Pickup

Director

Peter Hall

Yelena

Vanya and Sonya

Sonya and UncleVanya



Vanya

Yelena, Astrov and Vanya

The last Goodbye

Aside

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

1807-1882

We went to a neighbour’s funeral on Friday. Usually the funerals we attend are either held in one of the local churches or the Crematorium – sometimes both. This was held in the Funeral Director’s Chapel of Rest and it was an interesting and helpful experience. Our friend died just before her 90^th birthday which was to be a joint celebration with her son who will be celebrating his 65^th Birthday. On the Saturday of the birthday week-end, next month, there will be drinks at the Railway Station to be followed by lunch on the steam train journey (first class) to Bishops Lydeard. The following day there is a buffet lunch with drinks at their home

Our friend has suffered these last few years with osteoporosis which has precluded her from following her interests – especially gardening. They had decided that whatever happened the arrangements would go ahead and they would also be a celebration of her life.

Attending the Chapel, which is local, was much easier than the 50 mile round trip to the Crematorium and was appreciated by the, mainly, elderly mourners. My dilemma is that, although MTL and I are believers we do not attend church and I would feel a little odd having a funeral there. It was very reassuring to see this ceremony. It was conducted by a silver haired woman dressed in a black gown with a wine red scarf, who radiated peace and goodness. I’m not sure if she was a vicar or a lay person but she was just right. The small organ was played by another mature lady and there was also some taped music. At the head of the room was a modern stained glass window and beneath that was a cloth- covered table/ altar/ coffin which was covered with flowers and the floor beneath was also bedecked with flowers that her friends had sent. We all knew she loved them – especially yellow ones.

We sang a hymn, there was a reading from Ecclesiastes and then the silver haired woman spoke about the life and family of our friend. It’s a shame that one has to wait for someone’s funeral to really get to know their life. There was a reading that was read at the Queen Mother’s funeral which starts…

‘You can shed tears that she is gone or you can smile because she lived.

You can close your eyes and pray she’ll come back or you can open your eyes and see all she’s left…’

We could leave donations in her memory to the Cat’s Protection League which caused me to give a wry grin to MTL who daily curses the cat who leaves its calling card in our drive. I feel relieved that there is an acceptable alternative to the Crematorium and the Church which is simple and more like MTL’s simple Church of Scotland and my Unitarian chapel.

Hello America!

Cocktails at the Plaza.

Hello America! Part 1

Story contd.

Maddie and her husband were settled in an apartment in White Plains and also had bought a house in Vermont. I was thrilled when she invited me over for a visit. William and the boys were quite happy about it, I was able to afford it and I had just had a big birthday. Maddie would be working in New York to start with and then we would go up to Vermont.

It was my first flight and I was excited and nervous. I was sitting next to a young girl so we agreed to hold hands as we took off and chattered happily throughout the flight. Maddie had told me how to be picked up by a limousine which is a cross between a chauffeur driven car and a bus. I asked a fellow passenger what was her favourite place in the States and she said San Francisco where she had just been on holiday. It was quite a few years before I found out for myself.

When I tried to tip the driver at the end of the journey he said his mother came from England and he wouldn’t take it - which I thought was sweet. As Maddie was working, Maria, Liam’s wife, met me in White Plains and took me to the apartment. Liam was Jamie’s brother and I was quite startled when Maria said Jamie had recently been over on business and had stayed with them. I’d just missed him. I didn’t want to spend this great experience by mooning over a lost love, so I put him out of my mind.

The next day Maddie said I should go into town with her, see her office and then spend the day sight seeing – on my own! On the train on the outskirts of the city I looked down to a sort of scene straight from hell- derelict buildings – it looked like a bomb site, and every other person I saw - they were black -seemed to be crippled or helpless. I had never seen anything like it and Maddie said to stop staring as people wouldn’t like it. This was 1970.

Her office building was a sky scraper and we whizzed up at a dizzying speed. Later Maddie told me that the receptionist had asked her if her sister was in the movies. All too soon I had to go and start sight – seeing and I felt quite lonely and wondered if maybe I should spend the day going up and down in the lift or elevator. Telling myself not to be such a wimp, I found myself on the pavement and asked the first reasonable looking man where the Empire State building was. Turned out he was from Broadstairs (a UK sea-side resort) and that I was standing right outside the building. Doh!

If, like me, you are a member of the cinema generation, your first trip to America is magical – like stepping into the screen at the King’s Cinema in Waterfoot where one might see Andy Hardy, Clark Gable, Bette Davis or any of the screen gods and goddesses. Diners, drug stores and motels all had this romantic feel. After the Empire state building I went to the Frick Museum which I loved. There was a little garden place with water where I could rest my tired feet and I revelled in the Fragonard paintings and lost my heart to Rembrandt’s ‘Polish Rider’.

I remembered I had the telephone number and address of the black American who had played Lord Windermere when we were fellow students on my drama course, some years back. Maddie said it was unlikely he would have stayed put, but his wife answered the phone and later Charles rang and said he’d love to meet up even though it meant a long train journey. In the end Charles, Barbara – an English friend of Maddies’s, Howard – a gay Chinese colleague of Maddie’s and Maddie and I met up in a splendid cocktail bar in the Plaza hotel. After a martini or two we were the best of buddies and went to inspect the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art. Then Howard thought he should take us to eat in China Town where we ended up drinking gallons of fragrant tea. I notice Barbara was wearing a badge which said Moratorium.

She explained it was a plea to stop the fighting in Viet Nam for a year to reflect and hopefully to resolve the problem.

As we waved farewell to Charles at the railway station we all agreed it had been a very special night. Maddie and I spent the night at Barbara’s apartment and I wondered how she ever slept - with the constant background of sirens on the street below. It would soon be the week-end and then we were off to Vermont. Would there be moonlight?

February 14th - Valentine's Day tomorrow!

Say it with Flowers

Hail, Bishop Valentine, whose day this is,

All the air is thy Diocese.

John Donne1571-1631

Aside

If you want to see beautiful flower arrangements click on Kenju (Side bar)- the expert. Sadly, I am of the stick ‘em in a vase and hope for the best - as you can see. Different flowers have different meanings. Here are some of them:

Anemones – my mother’s favourites means ‘I expect you.’

Bluebell – Kim and Zinnia’s favourite means ‘Our love will last’

Camellia – blooming in my garden now means ‘I am longing for you.’

Heather – ‘good luck.’

Love –in –a –mist. ‘Do you love me?’

Poppy ‘Please wait.’

Primrose ‘I might love you.’

Red rose ‘I love you.’

Sweet pea ‘Gratitude.’

Viola ‘Let’s take a chance on happiness.’

Wallflower ‘Constancy’.

Will the Shake (as Hoss succinctly puts it) uses flowers all the time:-

‘And there is pansies- that’s for thoughts.’ Hamlet.

‘There’s Rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray love remember.’ Hamlet

‘I know a bank where the wild thyme blows...’ Midsummer- Night’s Dream.

‘Away before me to sweet beds of flowers’ Twelfth Night.

‘The flowers are sweet, their colour fresh and trim’ Venus and Adonis.

'The fairest flowers o’ the season.'

' Are our carnations and streak’d gillyvors’. The Winter’s Tale

‘Nay I am the very pink of courtesy.'

'Pink for flower.’ Romeo and Juliet.

‘These blue-veined violets whereon we lean,

Never can blab, nor know what we mean.’ Venus and Adonis

'There will we make our bed of roses

And a thousand fragrant posies.’ The Merry Wives of Windsor

‘Come sit thee down upon this flowery bed

While I thy amiable cheeks do coy,

And stick musk- roses in thy sleek smooth head.’ A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

This is a day early as we have to go to funeral tomorrow.

Would you be happy with flowers on Valentine’s Day, and which would you prefer?

Snowdrop Valley

Aside

Make Thou my spirit pure and clear

As are the frosty skies,

Or this first snowdrop of the year

That in my bosom lies

St Agnes’ Eve.

Tennyson Alfred 1809-1892

When we first came to live here – in ’85 - we would drive on the road between Dunster and Dulverton, to the turning to the valley, park the car and wander – lonely as clouds - through the white carpeted wonderland. But its fame has spread and now there is no parking allowed and the road is closed to traffic. These days the council run a special bus from Wheddon Cross and one can leave one’s car in the pub car park. We caught the half past ten bus – the first - and were driven towards Exford, then took the turning towards Steart. Then a long, long drop into the bowels of the earth and I marvelled that MTL and I had walked that whole valley. At the bottom the bus deposited us and told us there would be a return bus a ten to and twenty past.

It was very cold – in spite of the weak winter sunshine and soggy underfoot. By the time we had finished the circular walk we realised we had missed the ten to and would have a chilly wait for the next one when - hey presto - a different bus appeared and we thawed inside it until the driver took off- driving to the far end of the valley to avoid the precipitous hill which we were certain it would never make.

We drove back home to collect MTL and thence to Porlock’s Ship Inn. Almost three years ago MTL had an atrial fibrillation episode whilst we were there with family, and we haven’t set foot in it since, so this was by way of laying a ghost (as long as it’s the ghost and not me said MTL.) The terrace was sunny but we slunk indoors and I was disappointed to find no fire.

‘It’s been manic!’ the waitress said – it did get busy later but seemed very quiet to us. Some of us had a hearty tomato and basil soup and some roast chicken plus accompaniments. We knew that grand- daughter was cooking a delicious pasta dish in the evening. Thank goodness for digital; I’m no great photographer but these are better than the white blurs I used to get.

Strange bedfellows. Are they fungi?

A different bus on the return journey

Two of my favourite teenagers.

Collection of helmets

No Fire!

View of the sea and selworthy Beacon - but a bit parky!

Monday

Aside

Will be round to see you all soon. Just making the most of the family before they have to curtail their stay for an important appointment. Another sunny day but REALLY cold.

Photo problem
We took these two today - which are reasonable but they distort dreadfully when put in profile mode-
so I'll leave it for the moment and believe me - I am smiling and twinkling at you all:)

After Tim

Story contd

I had always known there was no future for Tim and me and I knew the end would be painful, but after what I had been through with Jamie, years ago, this was bearable, and I was in the driving seat calling the shots. I had no regrets and believed I deserved to suffer. It was time to come down to earth and accept that for me, romance had gone forever. How little we know. One day, driving through the town I saw an accident; a man was lying prostrate on a zebra crossing. I was overwhelmed with the realisation that if Tim had an accident and was lying helpless I would never know. I had to drive into a side street to have a blub

We had outgrown the shop and left our first floor eyrie on the High Street for a street- level emporium with a huge basement. It was in the road parallel to the High Street and facing the Common. The front of the shop was all plate glass with a small area near the door for a display window. Our accountant told us we could afford it and we enlisted all friends and family to help us decorate. Once more one of the big stores was refurbishing and we acquired three large glass- topped counters and various shelves and cupboards

Downstairs in the basement there were four stalls in the large room, which we made into changing rooms with bright orange curtains. Then there was a room where we kept all foot wear- hockey, soccer and rugger boots and gum boots. The riding boots – being more valuable, we kept upstairs – in view. There was a small office, loo and kitchen. The worst thing that happened was the time when we discovered someone had peed in a gum boot.

On the ground floor our desk was by the window, looking out on the common. We felt naked with all that glass so had a brass pole fitted and hung, what were then fashionable restaurant curtains, which came half way up the window so we could see all that was happening outside. One day I noticed rats on the common and was told that they follow the same tracks for years. No more picnics on the Common for me then.

We had fun choosing the type of lettering for our shop sign which ran the width of the shop and was most impressive. That was the easy part; the actual move was a nightmare and I have managed to block it out of my memory. We had to buy lots more hanging rails and vowed that this was definitely our last move. We had gradually built up our part- time staff and were now down to two partners again. I had urged Jan – our third partner, to have investigations to see why she couldn’t get pregnant and she was found to have fibroids. After having them removed – again with much encouragement, she became pregnant which we were very happy about in spite of losing such a treasure. It was a girl and Mary and I became god-mothers. We considered looking for another partner until our accountant assured us that we didn’t need one.

I got great pleasure from driving into the town, leaving my little sports car in the middle of the common and walking down - it always seemed to be sunny- towards our magnificent shop. Friends would pop in at lunch-time and we had a choice of at least half a dozen good places for lunch. There was little crime in those days, fortunately, because in the school holidays we were turning over vast sums of money and in term time we needed to have a large amount to pay the customers whose garments we had sold. In the busy periods there was little time to enter up all the sales on the customer’s cards so I would often go in and work when the boys were in bed.

On the whole things ran smoothly although one day some schoolboys came in larking about, using foul language and drinking coke. I spoke sharply to them and one of them spat at me. That sort of thing didn’t happen and I was very shaken. I wasn’t going to let it lie – how dare they behave like that in my shop? I managed to trace which school it was – from the uniform, and informed the head- master. Then I forgot about it until one afternoon that same boy came in and apologised. I asked him if his mother knew about it and he said no and, with tears in his eyes, asked me not to tell her. I asked him how he would feel if someone had spat at his mother. Both of us, I think felt quite emotional and I had to restrain myself from giving him a hug. Even in the late sixties William was shocked and said I should never stand up to them. How times have changed.

Footnote. Years later after being re-united with MTL, Julia my talented friend in the theatre club bumped into Tim on one of her frequent trips to town. They only had a quick chat and Tim was never very forth coming but it appears he was married and Julia told him I had married Jamie. We had been each other’s confidantes so of course he knew who Jamie was and was happy for me

Mid-week Memory

Aside

This was a photo taken of the play ‘A day in the Death of Joe Egg.’ - Peter Nichol’s black comedy about a couple and their daughter, who was severely brain damaged at birth. The play is a mixture of black comedy and heart break. The author himself had a very handicapped child.

I played the mother – the chap playing the father was a born comedian which was right for the play and made the sadness even more poignant. The school girl who played my daughter had to remain mute throughout, and was a sweetie.

There is quite bit of talking to the audience and I decide to do one piece, whilst putting lipstick on at the same time. We were very well rehearsed and normally the prompt was totally reliable but I’m happy to see we rarely, if ever, needed her. However one night she lost concentration and prompted me on a pause I had made to apply lip-stick – as we had rehearsed fifty million times. One of my friends in the audience said my face didn’t move a muscle - but my eyes flashed. I was quite cross!

Margaret’s Birthday Treat

Aside

Joy picked us up at 10.30am positively glowing from the treat we had given her. She had had a full body massage only the day before and it was great to see her relaxed and carefree. Only Joy knew what was in store for us and our first stop was Dunster Forest where we had a welcome coffee. It was jolly cold but the skies were blue and the sun shone so we felt blessed after the frightful weather, which has now resumed again.

We drove through Dunster and then took a single track road towards Luxborough. Normally Margaret is the fearless one regarding narrow roads but Joy drove merrily on for miles, so relaxed I wondered if we had overdone the therapy. We didn’t have to reverse once and Margaret pointed out a valley to our right where there is a deserted village. She couldn’t remember the name but said she would check with her husband Malcolm, who knows such a lot about flora and fauna and the history of Somerset.

Eventually we reached Stogumber which can be tricky for parking but we found the last space outside the church and opposite the pub: TheWhite Horse. We were grateful for the roaring fire and put the world to rights over a glass of wine (except for our driver) Jackie and I chose sausage and mash with onion gravy and lots of vegetables, whilst Joy and Margaret had broccoli and brie quiche. We all chose bread and butter pudding with apricot and saffron with either cream or custard and as usual I was allowed ice cream instead.

By now the pub was bustling with, mainly, locals and we remembered years ago, when we had come with the Guild to play skittles and that reminded us of some of the members who were no longer alive; one is ever aware of ‘Time’s winged chariot’. It doesn’t seem that long ago that we could have yomped down the valley to search for the village but now, only two of us could manage it. We do count our blessings. My turn nextJ ( I don’t mean popping off – treat time.)

We came back along theside the Quantocks. Malcolm searched high and low but couldn’t find his book on the village but thanks to Google I found this: Don’t miss the photos below.

Google ‘The Lost Village of Clicket’ to find out more. I can’t seem to transfer it.

Photos of our outing below:

Map of the Forest

Coffee stop

The Forest

Down in the dip is the lost village of Clicket