The Morris Traveller
Carole Hughes
It was a Sunday afternoon in 1963 and we were overcome by excitement at the thought of our new Morris Traveller. It all came about after Dad happened to be walking past our local garage and was lured by the car’s special personality. He knew at once it was just the car for us. And so Morris was delivered the following day and we became its proud owners.
There was one small problem though. Dad couldn’t drive. He promptly booked himself in with the driving school and hoped it wouldn’t be long before he could get on the road.
We all fell in love the first time we saw the car and wondered why anyone would give it up. The salesman had mentioned that its former owner suffered from ill health, but Dad said you could never be too sure of car salesmen. I remember the brown worn log book with its turned up mottled edge, containing the car’s history and the name of its former owner, Mr. Dodge, an unfortunate name which amused us for hours.
That first night, I don’t think any of us slept, including my parents. We never left the window. There was a full moon and the temperature began to drop. I drew a circle in the condensation so I could see Morris outside. As the evening grew colder, a frost appeared leaving a thin layer of ice over the bonnet. The car looked beautiful as it glistened under the lamplight.
Dad went outside and placed newspaper on the windscreen and an old cream blanket over the roof.
‘There, that should do it,’ he said as he came back inside. ‘He’ll be warmer now.’ At that moment I felt that Morris had become one of us.
The next morning at 6 o’clock we children ran outside to get in the car, still wearing our pajamas and dressing gowns. It was freezing so we snuggled tightly together, one at the steering wheel, one in the passenger seat, and the others squeezed together in the back.
I can’t have been more than seven years old, but remember quite vividly the red worn interior with its musty leather smell. The leather upholstery was stitched in vertical columns that we could feel through our clothing. Its curved metal dashboard had a small chrome and glass clock. The levered silver handles on weighty doors made a wonderful clunking sound as they were shut. Of course there were imperfections, including the dented chrome bumper and a scrape in the wheel arch, but we felt that these added to the car’s character. We’d take it in turns to sit at the large beige steering wheel, energetically pretending to drive. We were transported into an imaginary journey, entering a whole new world before being called back indoors for our porridge.
Who would have thought our Morris would have given us such pleasure! Throughout the day, each of us in turn would run out just to touch the car, making sure it was real. It was just like Christmas morning. We put flowers on the dashboard and sat our teddy bears and dolls amongst the soft cushions and blankets we’d put there to keep us warm. Mum often came in search of me, only to find me bent over the steering wheel, almost hugging it, willing the car to move.
‘Carole, that’s enough for today,’ she’d say gently. ‘Come in now dear.’
Gradually, our sit-ins grew longer, with both Mum and Dad joining us, excited and proud to be the owners of this Morris.
Dad came out to clean the car. Mum said he loved to work with his hands after being stuck in an office all day with nothing but figures in his head. I watched him washing down the honey-stained wood panels. The teal blue paintwork gleamed in the autumn sunshine. Dad seemed to get wetter than the car, his brown leather gilet darkened all down the front. Being so tall, he was able to glide the sponge effortlessly over the rounded roof. He began to whistle, pushing back his fair hair and leaving soap suds above his ears. I laughed with him and he smiled. As he was rinsing the car, suds rolled slowly down the curves of the paintwork in a stream of flowing bubbles. I could have stood watching all day.
‘Here, take a cloth and help me rub it down,’ he said. The sun had warmed the car and it dried off quickly, revealing a very satisfying sheen.
Later on, I was upstairs in the attic with my brothers and sisters, searching through the metal tea chest. We were dressing ourselves in fur capes and beads, twisting scarves round each other's necks and clomping up and down to show off our oversized high heels. Yes. We had decided to dress up for our next imaginary journey. How daft this all sounds now, but there it was.
Excited now, I ran down the staircase and yelled up to the others, ‘Nearly time!’
Mum turned and smiled, ‘Not quite. I’ve just got to fetch my silk scarf.’ She walked over to the hall mirror and her reflection smiled back at me. She knew how much I enjoyed watching her brush her hair, and then she delicately applied the rose coloured lipstick, pressing her lip print on a tissue which I would always take as a keepsake. The soft blue mohair fibres on her coat stood out and her soft pale skin was flawless. She tied a pastel scarf neatly under her chin and looked like a film star to me.
‘There. All ready! Shout the others, dear, while I go and fetch your brother.’ Holding a soft blanket, she picked up my tiny brother and collected the basket which held our games. The others descended the stairs looking as if they were about to embark on the Orient Express.
Mum said, ‘That’s my mother's sable cape! You’d better take care of it.’
Dad walked in just then. ‘What this?’ he said. ‘Audrey, have you seen what they're wearing!’ He smiled broadly and began to laugh.
That first Sunday morning, Mum had been busy making sandwiches and hot tea for the thermos flask. This in itself was nothing strange as we would often prepare picnics for a family outing. What made this particular adventure unique was that we were not actually planning to go anywhere.
And so began our weekly imaginary journeys, sitting stationary in the Morris on the front drive facing the church, with a pair of red learner plates stuck on the front and rear.
Mum sat by my father at the front, with my baby brother cradled tightly in her arms. The twins always sat at the far back with three more on the middle seat.
Dad would switch on the ignition with a splutter of petrol and a loud shudder from the engine, which shook the car and created hysteria among the children. He would put the windscreen wipers in motion, and we watched with excited faces they swept back and forth across the windscreen. We would all move our weight to the left then right, making the car move slightly, which rocked us into laughter. We were only allowed to honk the horn at the beginning and end of our sessions as my parents worried that we would disturb the neighbours, particularly as it was a Sunday. Mum told us that everyone spoke highly of our good manners and we mustn’t let the side down. The noise of the horn was deafening.
‘Wow!’ we cried.
‘Shush,’ said Mum, ‘you’ll wake your brother up.’ But he just slept on, completely oblivious to all the commotion around him.
I would sit back in the deep leather seat and observe everyone. Dad was so proud of us all, he loved us so much. Mum was content just watching my baby brother. His tiny doll-like fingers, so pink and dimpled, curled around her finger. This was her characteristic pose as she sat with us. She was naturally artistic, and often took a pencil to draw lifelike pictures of the people who passed by. We would trace her swirling lines, trying to imitate her style.
We would often break out in song, all singing, ‘We’re all going on a summer holiday’ until Dad turned to Mum and said, ‘Audrey, where’s the tea?’
Neighbours came by to admire our Morris, as we were one of the first families in the avenue to own a motor car. Some stood waiting, expecting us to pull out of the drive, and there were some awkward moments when they realized that we weren’t actually going anywhere. My Dad would often go back indoors, making out that he’d forgotten something. We’d just wave, praying that the neighbours would get bored and move on.
Mrs. Hammond would walk by, all dressed up in her big, bell-like coat in dark green tweed, which swished as she passed. We’d given her the nickname of Black Widow because of her sternness. She gave me a funny look and I waved, with a nervous smile. She used to come and help out in the house when mum was expecting my brother, and let ash from her cigarette fall all over the ironing. She didn't stay long because she didn’t like children.
John the vicar caught up with my father one day for a drink, and brought up the topic of our Morris.
‘Dennis, why do you all sit in that car for so long?’
Dad was a little embarrassed, but his answer was quick. ‘John, if you had six young children to entertain, you’d understand.’
The vicar nodded. ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right.
One particular Sunday, the others were putting together the final pieces of a large jigsaw. They had even roped in Mum and Dad, so I took myself off to sit inside the Morris alone. I was quite content by myself, fiddling with the switches and putting my hands on the big wheel, pretending to steer. I managed to lift the hand brake lever, although it was quite stiff. The drive wasn’t steep, but it had enough of a slope for the car to move forward fractionally before coming to a stop. I was so excited. It was the first time the car had moved! Not even my father had managed that.
I was eager to show the others, but decided to wait until they were all inside the car so I could surprise them. I waited patiently till they joined me. What I hadn’t realized was that with all the extra weight inside, the car would almost certainly move. Within seconds, the Morris rolled forwards, and I felt terrified as I knelt on the seat. Luckily, the steering wheel was turned to the right, so the car rolled to the side and came to a halt in the vicar’s hedge! There wasn't too much damage done - just a couple of light bulbs were smashed. But it did instill one good lesson into us: the importance of a handbrake!
My father said he would stop us getting inside the car on our own, but we pestered him until he gave in. And so our imaginary journeys continued, until the day my father came home early from work with a huge smile, carrying his learner plates.
We arranged to go out that afternoon for our first real moving trip. Dad must have been quite nervous because, for the first time, he asked us not to talk or sing inside the car so he could concentrate. We fell silent. What, no talking? No singing? Mum flashed us a smile.
The Morris began to vibrate as we left the drive. It felt so strange to be moving, especially when we turned out into the road. We lived just minutes from the inner city of Nottingham, so the road was busy with trams. I noticed the sparks flashing off the rails, and I prodded my sister to look.
‘Shush,’ she said.
We all picked up my father’s nervousness, which was something new to us. I noticed his hands shaking slightly, and when he stalled, he cursed under his breath. Mum quickly reassured him. We were dwarfed by big old Ford vans on both sides. I saw our reflection in a shop window, and realized that my mother had noticed it too. The car looked wider somehow, and was full of bobbing heads wearing woolly hats with pompoms. It did look funny. I covered my face with my scarf to muffle my laughter. Mum looked back and smiled with her eyes: we both knew what the other was thinking.
After a few close run-ins, we made it back home in one piece and could talk and laugh again, thank goodness.
Dad put his arm around me and said, ‘Did you enjoy that?’
‘Yes,’ I said, but secretly I’d been as nervous as he had. The real journeys were never nearly as much fun as our imaginary ones. The game had run its course and I knew that an era was over.
CAROLE HUGHES was born in Nottingham and travelled abroad in her early teens. She has had a varied career, from working in Brussels, Germany, and New York as a nanny and supplying textiles for Marks & Spencer to providing shooting lunches around Berkshire. Her spare time is presently spent campaigning to raise awareness of indoor toxicity caused by combustion fumes from boilers and faulty appliances. Carole lives with her husband Gareth who is a Master stonemason & sculptor. They have a daughter Alison and live in the Somerset levels. Yearning to write has now become a reality, and Carole would encourage others to try!
Off the Rails
Lesley Rigby
Brought up to make stuff, you know – not go buying, when you don’t need to. Besides, buy the cheap ones and they look so plastic-y. Same size, same colour; same Christmas tree shape; ten in a box. The dearer ones aren’t much better; worse really, because you’ve paid more but you only get six of them.
Had a bit of luck! The memsahib’s arranged for us to waste a whole Sunday at her sister’s; I’m having a shave, next thing I’m elbowed out of the way by her wanting to put her face on. Plasters this gunk on her eyelashes with a little brush thingy. That’s just the job, I thought, so when she’d gone downstairs I had a rummage in her make-up bag. Found these - mascara brushes they’re called. I borrowed one to experiment with. Anyway the upshot is I can get these things – different sizes and bristles – really cheap by the hundred on e-bay. Then, bit of trimming with a craft knife and a dip in acrylic paint. I used viridian to start with, but it looked too much like the bought ones, so – trial and error – Hooker’s green, touch of Prussian blue, spot of burnt umber, then the lightest dusting of sap green and Bob’s your uncle! You would swear they were miniature Scots pines or Douglas firs. So now I’ve got a scale model of the Carlisle to Newcastle train line at Haltwhistle with Hadrian’s Wall, Housteads Fort – all in papier maché, of course, and then my Kielder Forest in the background. I’m looking forward to a pleasant evening with the Intercity 125.
LESLEY RIGBY moved to Devon from Lancashire with husband, John, twenty seven years ago after visiting some friends in the South West one winter and discovering that it was indeed ‘an overcoat warmer’ down here. They have a married daughter who lives in London. At various times in her working life she has been a civil servant, a farmer, a bookkeeper and general clerical assistant, art teacher, junior school teacher, riding school proprietor and riding instructor. Now retired with just a few sheep, two miniature Shetland ponies, and a dog and cat, she enjoys writing, painting and crochet.
Talking to Chickens
Jan Sargent
A few years back, when we lived in Warwickshire, I had a small ‘Good Life’ moment and decided to keep chickens. Not many, just four.
The first couple were a breed called Bluebells: Beryl, named after a favourite aunt, and Camilla, rather a stately bird with blond highlights in her lavender feathers. This was when Prince Charles was about to marry Camilla Parker Bowles so it seemed appropriate. We’d only had them a couple of months when Camilla died. She had a heart attack on the day of the royal wedding. I hoped it wasn’t a bad omen.
The other two, Henrietta and Claudette, were Rhode Island Reds, a bog standard sort of chicken if you know what I mean. My Grandfather always kept Rhodies, and I have many happy memories of helping him take care of them and collecting their eggs. I can still remember fetching the corn from the feed bin and trickling the cool, shiny, sweet smelling grains through my hands into the feeder. Mixing up their mash was a rather whiffy moment, which I can smell now, as I write.
In our village there was a wonderful chap, a retired carpenter called Mr Dyer, who made their henhouse. He phoned several times during its construction and had an unfortunate habit of saying ‘Mr. Dyer ’ere,’ which always caused huge merriment. It was so much easier when we were on first name terms and I could call him Maurice.
Maurice was a real countryman, and after ‘the girls’ arrived, he showed me how to clip their wings so that they couldn’t fly over the low wire fence around their pen. It didn’t hurt them: it’s just like cutting toenails. He was full of tips, such as tossing some of the lawn mowings into the pen, which they loved to eat. It was a great way of getting rid of mown grass, plus the fact that the more green stuff they ate, the yellower the yolks were.
They soon settled in, and I could hear them crooning away in their run whilst I sat in my studio designing gardens. Occasionally there would be a loud cackle which usually announced the arrival of an egg. Beryl was a bit of a clumsy soul, and if I didn’t get there quickly, she’d trample on her newly laid egg with her overly large feet. I always knew her cackle. She had a different voice to the others.
Their eggs were wonderful: big and brown with deep, yellow yolks. Often we’d get a double yolker. I’m pretty sure those were Beryl’s – she never did things by halves. We used to sell the ‘overs’ to neighbours and put the money into a collecting box for the Warwickshire Air Ambulance, raising nearly two hundred pounds.
We had such fun watching the girls play tug-of-war with a worm, squabbling over the remains of a cabbage and scratching out shallow scrapes for their dust baths. Beryl’s were always huge. We used to call them Beryl’s bunkers.
To stop the girls getting bored, we gave them an iceberg lettuce on a string. This was just like Swingball. One of them would peck at the lettuce which would swing round and biff one of the others on the head. They’d look a bit startled but carry on until the lettuce was finished. They really enjoyed this game.
One summer evening, Chris and I had fallen asleep in front of the television after a long day planting a garden. I was woken by our dog, Duff, licking my hand. He probably thought it was time for bed. Oh Lord, the girls, I thought. I haven’t shut them in the hen house. I hope the fox hasn’t got them.
It was pitch dark outside. Quickly I grabbed a torch and shot down the garden. I could hear crooning coming from the corner of the pen. I shone the torch around and discovered two of the girls huddled in a corner, but where was the third? Quickly I hustled the pair of chickens inside the hen house and set about looking for the missing one. It was Henrietta who had made a bid for freedom. No sign of her in the pen, so she must have managed to fly over the wire despite her clipped wings.
‘Henrietta,’ I called. ‘Where are you?’
To my relief, I heard the odd cluck coming from the vegetable patch, and there she was, cowering in a row of spinach.
Now, to pick up a chicken when you’re carrying a large torch is not easy. I put the torch down and picked her up with both hands, but then the torch was still on the ground.
‘It’s alright Henrietta, you’re safe now,’ I said to this dark, shadowy bunch of feathers. ‘I’m so sorry I fell asleep.’
At this point Chris came down the garden with a big flashlight and shone it on the pair of us.
‘Do you realise you’re talking to the chicken’s arse,’ he said. We both collapsed with laughter.
When we left Warwickshire to live in East Devon we had a huge renovation project on our hands, so I had to leave my girls behind. They lived out their lives, happily, by the edge of the Stratford-upon-Avon canal with a flock belonging to a friend. In fact, Beryl is still alive and kicking, with her large feet, aged eight.
On my study wall I have the plaque the Air Ambulance fundraisers gave us. It says,
Warwickshire Air Ambulance
Thanks Beryl, Henrietta and Claudette for their donation of one hundred and eighty seven pounds
It’s a lovely reminder of our girls.
JAN SARGENT has lived in East Devon for five years, having spent the previous fifteen years in Warwickshire designing gardens. In 2004 she won Royal Horticultural Society silver-gilt and bronze medals for two gardens at the Gardeners’ World Exhibition. She continues to create gardens for clients in East Devon, and has now almost finished writing a novel based on her experiences. She and her husband have been married for five years. They spent their honeymoon in Beer, when, on an impulse, they bought their cottage in Colyton.
Carole Hughes
It was a Sunday afternoon in 1963 and we were overcome by excitement at the thought of our new Morris Traveller. It all came about after Dad happened to be walking past our local garage and was lured by the car’s special personality. He knew at once it was just the car for us. And so Morris was delivered the following day and we became its proud owners.
There was one small problem though. Dad couldn’t drive. He promptly booked himself in with the driving school and hoped it wouldn’t be long before he could get on the road.
We all fell in love the first time we saw the car and wondered why anyone would give it up. The salesman had mentioned that its former owner suffered from ill health, but Dad said you could never be too sure of car salesmen. I remember the brown worn log book with its turned up mottled edge, containing the car’s history and the name of its former owner, Mr. Dodge, an unfortunate name which amused us for hours.
That first night, I don’t think any of us slept, including my parents. We never left the window. There was a full moon and the temperature began to drop. I drew a circle in the condensation so I could see Morris outside. As the evening grew colder, a frost appeared leaving a thin layer of ice over the bonnet. The car looked beautiful as it glistened under the lamplight.
Dad went outside and placed newspaper on the windscreen and an old cream blanket over the roof.
‘There, that should do it,’ he said as he came back inside. ‘He’ll be warmer now.’ At that moment I felt that Morris had become one of us.
The next morning at 6 o’clock we children ran outside to get in the car, still wearing our pajamas and dressing gowns. It was freezing so we snuggled tightly together, one at the steering wheel, one in the passenger seat, and the others squeezed together in the back.
I can’t have been more than seven years old, but remember quite vividly the red worn interior with its musty leather smell. The leather upholstery was stitched in vertical columns that we could feel through our clothing. Its curved metal dashboard had a small chrome and glass clock. The levered silver handles on weighty doors made a wonderful clunking sound as they were shut. Of course there were imperfections, including the dented chrome bumper and a scrape in the wheel arch, but we felt that these added to the car’s character. We’d take it in turns to sit at the large beige steering wheel, energetically pretending to drive. We were transported into an imaginary journey, entering a whole new world before being called back indoors for our porridge.
Who would have thought our Morris would have given us such pleasure! Throughout the day, each of us in turn would run out just to touch the car, making sure it was real. It was just like Christmas morning. We put flowers on the dashboard and sat our teddy bears and dolls amongst the soft cushions and blankets we’d put there to keep us warm. Mum often came in search of me, only to find me bent over the steering wheel, almost hugging it, willing the car to move.
‘Carole, that’s enough for today,’ she’d say gently. ‘Come in now dear.’
Gradually, our sit-ins grew longer, with both Mum and Dad joining us, excited and proud to be the owners of this Morris.
Dad came out to clean the car. Mum said he loved to work with his hands after being stuck in an office all day with nothing but figures in his head. I watched him washing down the honey-stained wood panels. The teal blue paintwork gleamed in the autumn sunshine. Dad seemed to get wetter than the car, his brown leather gilet darkened all down the front. Being so tall, he was able to glide the sponge effortlessly over the rounded roof. He began to whistle, pushing back his fair hair and leaving soap suds above his ears. I laughed with him and he smiled. As he was rinsing the car, suds rolled slowly down the curves of the paintwork in a stream of flowing bubbles. I could have stood watching all day.
‘Here, take a cloth and help me rub it down,’ he said. The sun had warmed the car and it dried off quickly, revealing a very satisfying sheen.
Later on, I was upstairs in the attic with my brothers and sisters, searching through the metal tea chest. We were dressing ourselves in fur capes and beads, twisting scarves round each other's necks and clomping up and down to show off our oversized high heels. Yes. We had decided to dress up for our next imaginary journey. How daft this all sounds now, but there it was.
Excited now, I ran down the staircase and yelled up to the others, ‘Nearly time!’
Mum turned and smiled, ‘Not quite. I’ve just got to fetch my silk scarf.’ She walked over to the hall mirror and her reflection smiled back at me. She knew how much I enjoyed watching her brush her hair, and then she delicately applied the rose coloured lipstick, pressing her lip print on a tissue which I would always take as a keepsake. The soft blue mohair fibres on her coat stood out and her soft pale skin was flawless. She tied a pastel scarf neatly under her chin and looked like a film star to me.
‘There. All ready! Shout the others, dear, while I go and fetch your brother.’ Holding a soft blanket, she picked up my tiny brother and collected the basket which held our games. The others descended the stairs looking as if they were about to embark on the Orient Express.
Mum said, ‘That’s my mother's sable cape! You’d better take care of it.’
Dad walked in just then. ‘What this?’ he said. ‘Audrey, have you seen what they're wearing!’ He smiled broadly and began to laugh.
That first Sunday morning, Mum had been busy making sandwiches and hot tea for the thermos flask. This in itself was nothing strange as we would often prepare picnics for a family outing. What made this particular adventure unique was that we were not actually planning to go anywhere.
And so began our weekly imaginary journeys, sitting stationary in the Morris on the front drive facing the church, with a pair of red learner plates stuck on the front and rear.
Mum sat by my father at the front, with my baby brother cradled tightly in her arms. The twins always sat at the far back with three more on the middle seat.
Dad would switch on the ignition with a splutter of petrol and a loud shudder from the engine, which shook the car and created hysteria among the children. He would put the windscreen wipers in motion, and we watched with excited faces they swept back and forth across the windscreen. We would all move our weight to the left then right, making the car move slightly, which rocked us into laughter. We were only allowed to honk the horn at the beginning and end of our sessions as my parents worried that we would disturb the neighbours, particularly as it was a Sunday. Mum told us that everyone spoke highly of our good manners and we mustn’t let the side down. The noise of the horn was deafening.
‘Wow!’ we cried.
‘Shush,’ said Mum, ‘you’ll wake your brother up.’ But he just slept on, completely oblivious to all the commotion around him.
I would sit back in the deep leather seat and observe everyone. Dad was so proud of us all, he loved us so much. Mum was content just watching my baby brother. His tiny doll-like fingers, so pink and dimpled, curled around her finger. This was her characteristic pose as she sat with us. She was naturally artistic, and often took a pencil to draw lifelike pictures of the people who passed by. We would trace her swirling lines, trying to imitate her style.
We would often break out in song, all singing, ‘We’re all going on a summer holiday’ until Dad turned to Mum and said, ‘Audrey, where’s the tea?’
Neighbours came by to admire our Morris, as we were one of the first families in the avenue to own a motor car. Some stood waiting, expecting us to pull out of the drive, and there were some awkward moments when they realized that we weren’t actually going anywhere. My Dad would often go back indoors, making out that he’d forgotten something. We’d just wave, praying that the neighbours would get bored and move on.
Mrs. Hammond would walk by, all dressed up in her big, bell-like coat in dark green tweed, which swished as she passed. We’d given her the nickname of Black Widow because of her sternness. She gave me a funny look and I waved, with a nervous smile. She used to come and help out in the house when mum was expecting my brother, and let ash from her cigarette fall all over the ironing. She didn't stay long because she didn’t like children.
John the vicar caught up with my father one day for a drink, and brought up the topic of our Morris.
‘Dennis, why do you all sit in that car for so long?’
Dad was a little embarrassed, but his answer was quick. ‘John, if you had six young children to entertain, you’d understand.’
The vicar nodded. ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right.
One particular Sunday, the others were putting together the final pieces of a large jigsaw. They had even roped in Mum and Dad, so I took myself off to sit inside the Morris alone. I was quite content by myself, fiddling with the switches and putting my hands on the big wheel, pretending to steer. I managed to lift the hand brake lever, although it was quite stiff. The drive wasn’t steep, but it had enough of a slope for the car to move forward fractionally before coming to a stop. I was so excited. It was the first time the car had moved! Not even my father had managed that.
I was eager to show the others, but decided to wait until they were all inside the car so I could surprise them. I waited patiently till they joined me. What I hadn’t realized was that with all the extra weight inside, the car would almost certainly move. Within seconds, the Morris rolled forwards, and I felt terrified as I knelt on the seat. Luckily, the steering wheel was turned to the right, so the car rolled to the side and came to a halt in the vicar’s hedge! There wasn't too much damage done - just a couple of light bulbs were smashed. But it did instill one good lesson into us: the importance of a handbrake!
My father said he would stop us getting inside the car on our own, but we pestered him until he gave in. And so our imaginary journeys continued, until the day my father came home early from work with a huge smile, carrying his learner plates.
We arranged to go out that afternoon for our first real moving trip. Dad must have been quite nervous because, for the first time, he asked us not to talk or sing inside the car so he could concentrate. We fell silent. What, no talking? No singing? Mum flashed us a smile.
The Morris began to vibrate as we left the drive. It felt so strange to be moving, especially when we turned out into the road. We lived just minutes from the inner city of Nottingham, so the road was busy with trams. I noticed the sparks flashing off the rails, and I prodded my sister to look.
‘Shush,’ she said.
We all picked up my father’s nervousness, which was something new to us. I noticed his hands shaking slightly, and when he stalled, he cursed under his breath. Mum quickly reassured him. We were dwarfed by big old Ford vans on both sides. I saw our reflection in a shop window, and realized that my mother had noticed it too. The car looked wider somehow, and was full of bobbing heads wearing woolly hats with pompoms. It did look funny. I covered my face with my scarf to muffle my laughter. Mum looked back and smiled with her eyes: we both knew what the other was thinking.
After a few close run-ins, we made it back home in one piece and could talk and laugh again, thank goodness.
Dad put his arm around me and said, ‘Did you enjoy that?’
‘Yes,’ I said, but secretly I’d been as nervous as he had. The real journeys were never nearly as much fun as our imaginary ones. The game had run its course and I knew that an era was over.
CAROLE HUGHES was born in Nottingham and travelled abroad in her early teens. She has had a varied career, from working in Brussels, Germany, and New York as a nanny and supplying textiles for Marks & Spencer to providing shooting lunches around Berkshire. Her spare time is presently spent campaigning to raise awareness of indoor toxicity caused by combustion fumes from boilers and faulty appliances. Carole lives with her husband Gareth who is a Master stonemason & sculptor. They have a daughter Alison and live in the Somerset levels. Yearning to write has now become a reality, and Carole would encourage others to try!
Off the Rails
Lesley Rigby
Brought up to make stuff, you know – not go buying, when you don’t need to. Besides, buy the cheap ones and they look so plastic-y. Same size, same colour; same Christmas tree shape; ten in a box. The dearer ones aren’t much better; worse really, because you’ve paid more but you only get six of them.
Had a bit of luck! The memsahib’s arranged for us to waste a whole Sunday at her sister’s; I’m having a shave, next thing I’m elbowed out of the way by her wanting to put her face on. Plasters this gunk on her eyelashes with a little brush thingy. That’s just the job, I thought, so when she’d gone downstairs I had a rummage in her make-up bag. Found these - mascara brushes they’re called. I borrowed one to experiment with. Anyway the upshot is I can get these things – different sizes and bristles – really cheap by the hundred on e-bay. Then, bit of trimming with a craft knife and a dip in acrylic paint. I used viridian to start with, but it looked too much like the bought ones, so – trial and error – Hooker’s green, touch of Prussian blue, spot of burnt umber, then the lightest dusting of sap green and Bob’s your uncle! You would swear they were miniature Scots pines or Douglas firs. So now I’ve got a scale model of the Carlisle to Newcastle train line at Haltwhistle with Hadrian’s Wall, Housteads Fort – all in papier maché, of course, and then my Kielder Forest in the background. I’m looking forward to a pleasant evening with the Intercity 125.
LESLEY RIGBY moved to Devon from Lancashire with husband, John, twenty seven years ago after visiting some friends in the South West one winter and discovering that it was indeed ‘an overcoat warmer’ down here. They have a married daughter who lives in London. At various times in her working life she has been a civil servant, a farmer, a bookkeeper and general clerical assistant, art teacher, junior school teacher, riding school proprietor and riding instructor. Now retired with just a few sheep, two miniature Shetland ponies, and a dog and cat, she enjoys writing, painting and crochet.
Talking to Chickens
Jan Sargent
A few years back, when we lived in Warwickshire, I had a small ‘Good Life’ moment and decided to keep chickens. Not many, just four.
The first couple were a breed called Bluebells: Beryl, named after a favourite aunt, and Camilla, rather a stately bird with blond highlights in her lavender feathers. This was when Prince Charles was about to marry Camilla Parker Bowles so it seemed appropriate. We’d only had them a couple of months when Camilla died. She had a heart attack on the day of the royal wedding. I hoped it wasn’t a bad omen.
The other two, Henrietta and Claudette, were Rhode Island Reds, a bog standard sort of chicken if you know what I mean. My Grandfather always kept Rhodies, and I have many happy memories of helping him take care of them and collecting their eggs. I can still remember fetching the corn from the feed bin and trickling the cool, shiny, sweet smelling grains through my hands into the feeder. Mixing up their mash was a rather whiffy moment, which I can smell now, as I write.
In our village there was a wonderful chap, a retired carpenter called Mr Dyer, who made their henhouse. He phoned several times during its construction and had an unfortunate habit of saying ‘Mr. Dyer ’ere,’ which always caused huge merriment. It was so much easier when we were on first name terms and I could call him Maurice.
Maurice was a real countryman, and after ‘the girls’ arrived, he showed me how to clip their wings so that they couldn’t fly over the low wire fence around their pen. It didn’t hurt them: it’s just like cutting toenails. He was full of tips, such as tossing some of the lawn mowings into the pen, which they loved to eat. It was a great way of getting rid of mown grass, plus the fact that the more green stuff they ate, the yellower the yolks were.
They soon settled in, and I could hear them crooning away in their run whilst I sat in my studio designing gardens. Occasionally there would be a loud cackle which usually announced the arrival of an egg. Beryl was a bit of a clumsy soul, and if I didn’t get there quickly, she’d trample on her newly laid egg with her overly large feet. I always knew her cackle. She had a different voice to the others.
Their eggs were wonderful: big and brown with deep, yellow yolks. Often we’d get a double yolker. I’m pretty sure those were Beryl’s – she never did things by halves. We used to sell the ‘overs’ to neighbours and put the money into a collecting box for the Warwickshire Air Ambulance, raising nearly two hundred pounds.
We had such fun watching the girls play tug-of-war with a worm, squabbling over the remains of a cabbage and scratching out shallow scrapes for their dust baths. Beryl’s were always huge. We used to call them Beryl’s bunkers.
To stop the girls getting bored, we gave them an iceberg lettuce on a string. This was just like Swingball. One of them would peck at the lettuce which would swing round and biff one of the others on the head. They’d look a bit startled but carry on until the lettuce was finished. They really enjoyed this game.
One summer evening, Chris and I had fallen asleep in front of the television after a long day planting a garden. I was woken by our dog, Duff, licking my hand. He probably thought it was time for bed. Oh Lord, the girls, I thought. I haven’t shut them in the hen house. I hope the fox hasn’t got them.
It was pitch dark outside. Quickly I grabbed a torch and shot down the garden. I could hear crooning coming from the corner of the pen. I shone the torch around and discovered two of the girls huddled in a corner, but where was the third? Quickly I hustled the pair of chickens inside the hen house and set about looking for the missing one. It was Henrietta who had made a bid for freedom. No sign of her in the pen, so she must have managed to fly over the wire despite her clipped wings.
‘Henrietta,’ I called. ‘Where are you?’
To my relief, I heard the odd cluck coming from the vegetable patch, and there she was, cowering in a row of spinach.
Now, to pick up a chicken when you’re carrying a large torch is not easy. I put the torch down and picked her up with both hands, but then the torch was still on the ground.
‘It’s alright Henrietta, you’re safe now,’ I said to this dark, shadowy bunch of feathers. ‘I’m so sorry I fell asleep.’
At this point Chris came down the garden with a big flashlight and shone it on the pair of us.
‘Do you realise you’re talking to the chicken’s arse,’ he said. We both collapsed with laughter.
When we left Warwickshire to live in East Devon we had a huge renovation project on our hands, so I had to leave my girls behind. They lived out their lives, happily, by the edge of the Stratford-upon-Avon canal with a flock belonging to a friend. In fact, Beryl is still alive and kicking, with her large feet, aged eight.
On my study wall I have the plaque the Air Ambulance fundraisers gave us. It says,
Warwickshire Air Ambulance
Thanks Beryl, Henrietta and Claudette for their donation of one hundred and eighty seven pounds
It’s a lovely reminder of our girls.
JAN SARGENT has lived in East Devon for five years, having spent the previous fifteen years in Warwickshire designing gardens. In 2004 she won Royal Horticultural Society silver-gilt and bronze medals for two gardens at the Gardeners’ World Exhibition. She continues to create gardens for clients in East Devon, and has now almost finished writing a novel based on her experiences. She and her husband have been married for five years. They spent their honeymoon in Beer, when, on an impulse, they bought their cottage in Colyton.