MY ANIMALS
(and other family)
A Rural Childhood 1937-1956
Phyllida Barstow
To my grandchildren:
Molly, Beth and Robert Hindhaugh
and Edward Hart-Davis;
and in memory of my parents
John and Diana Barstow,
and my brother Gerry.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Foreword
1. Chapel House
2. Much Hadham
3. Old Dalby
4. Fforest Farm
5. Lawnside
6. Farm Life
7. France
8. London
Plates
Further Reading from Merlin Unwin Books
Copyright
Foreword
This is a rite of passage memoir, as well as an account of childhood in a vanished world. Phyllida Barstow weaves a refreshingly candid account of her developing personality into the fabric of the kind of eccentric, rural, educated upbringing that we seem too nervously conformist to give our children nowadays. The personalities are vibrant, from parents through sibling to sheepdogs and a succession of beloved ponies; and the arduous life on a Welsh farm is interleaved with civilising spells in seductive France, and the extraordinary rituals of the London season, especially for a girl whose heart lay more in dog baskets than handbags.
It is a book carried along by the author’s own energy and appetite for life, and written with the clarity and elegance of someone who knows what they are doing.
Joanna Trollope
June 2009
CHAPTER ONE
Chapel House
THE SECOND WORLD WAR broke out just before I was two years old, and my first plunge into the dark soup of early consciousness in search of a flashback of memory finds me lying in a rumpled nest of clothes and rugs on the back seat of a car on a hot afternoon, thirsty and sticky, looking up into the anxious eyes of our nanny, Celia, shoe-horned into the luggage compartment among the suitcases and longing, like me, for the journey to end.
She was beautiful, gentle and beloved, and though there was no getting away from her strong personal aroma I knew exactly how she was feeling, tired of being cooped up and jolted about, but also like me, uneasily aware of tension emanating from the front seats, where my mother and brother were arguing over the map. She knew as well as I did that we’d better keep quiet because any complaint was liable to provoke an explosion. When I had begun to whine some time back I had been told in no uncertain terms to shut up and go to sleep, but how could I when their voices were getting ever louder and snappier?
‘That can’t be right,’ Mummy exclaimed.
‘It is! I’m sure it is,’ insisted Gerry, on the brink of tears.
‘But we’ve tried that way already.’
‘We didn’t go far enough. There’s another turning,’
‘There isn’t.’
‘Then we’re lost,’ said Gerry gloomily, and the word hung in the air with a dreadful finality. I wanted to cry, but knew it would be a mistake to attract attention. So long as Celia and I kept quiet, we wouldn’t be – what? Blamed? Shouted at? There was nothing either of us could do to improve the situation. The safest option was to keep a low profile.
For the past eternity, it seemed, the car had been moving in short spurts then halting, reversing, making about-turns and sudden changes of direction, but now it had been stationary for several minutes although the engine went on girning away, puffing out evil fumes. Sprawled on the back seat, I could see sky and trees and a signpost leaning drunkenly and I was dimly aware that it would be a calamity if the engine stopped. There was something wrong with the battery. Only that morning it had taken several men to push the car downhill before Mummy let in the clutch with a jolt and, calling ‘We’re off!’ had driven jerkily away from the hotel where we’d spent the night. Now the sun was beating on the roof, the heat in the back was building up and along with the thermometer, tempers were rising.
As soon as the long-expected, long-dreaded war broke out, the even tenor of our nursery routine in London – meals, walks in the park, play with parents, bath, bed – had become unsettled, as nannies and nursery-maids came and went. Gerry and I never knew who would be looking after us next. Mummy volunteered for the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry (FANY) and became an ambulance driver. Daddy put his legal career on hold and, being already a territorial captain in the Honourable Artillery Company, was soon appointed major in the 12th Regiment (HAC) Royal Horse Artillery, guarding vulnerable points in London.
By late summer of 1940, when my mother was expecting a third baby, she applied for a discharge from the FANY so that she, and we, could follow the drum, perching in a series of chilly and uncomfortable boarding houses as Daddy’s regiment was posted first to Hertfordshire and then to the East Coast, the car becoming more battered and our possessions more scattered with every move.
We were living at Skegness in what we called the Mungle Bungalow when news reached my mother of the British Expeditionary Force’s retreat from Dunkirk. Fear of an immediate German invasion prompted the authorities either to remove roadside finger-posts or turn them the wrong way round in the hope of confusing the advancing enemy, and this well-meant initiative made a nightmare of our long slow cross-country journey from East Anglia to Chapel House, my grandparents’ house in Wales. Daddy and his regiment had vanished in conditions of secrecy without even saying goodbye, and Gerry, only two years older than me, was pitch-forked into the role of man of the family.
Along with the heat and the smell, I remember feeling hopeless and helpless as tension mounted in the front of the car, and the cowardly way I squeezed my eyes tight shut when Mummy asked, ‘How’s Phylla?’ and Gerry peered over the back of his seat to report, ‘Asleep,’ adding with a tinge of envy, ‘Lucky thing.’ No doubt he wished he could shed his responsibilities as easily.
I lay doggo, hoping to escape further notice, feeling a strong bond of sympathy for Celia, though our immediate needs were different. I was longing for a drink, while she was bursting to be milked, but we were both scared of triggering one of Mummy’s sudden explosions. Patience was never among my mother’s many virtues, and at this moment she had enough fears and frustrations to justify an outburst of wrath.
With my father, along with most men of fighting age, in uniform, swept up in the war machine that was stuttering fitfully into action, her own future must have looked bleak and uncertain, and although she was good at giving a positive spin to circumstances – looking on the bright side, as she would have said – it can’t have helped to know that Daddy’s new life showed every sign being much more dramatic and enjoyable than hers.
This was not only unfair; it also upset the dynamics of their marriage, pushing each of them into an unfamiliar role. Hers was the quick, bold, enterprising spirit whose love of adventure verged on recklessness and whose threshold of boredom was correspondingly low, while my father, calm, steady, tolerant, good-humoured and nine years her senior had always acted as a brake on her impetuosity and gently teased her out of her wilder enthusiasms.
Now it was up to her to behave sensibly and responsibly – virtues which she instinctively despised. Fun, along with food and petrol, was in short supply. The threat of a German invasion hung over the country like a black cloud and the whole family was tormented by anxiety about my father’s younger brother, Oliver, who had not been in touch since the retreat from Dunkirk.
At this pivotal and terrifying moment of English history, staying in the depths of the country to look after small children was an unappealing prospect, and now she couldn’t even find the right road.
‘Al
l right, we’ll try your way,’ she said in an exasperated tone that boded ill for Gerry if he was wrong. The growl of the engine grew louder as she revved, the car jerked forward a few yards, and then to my dismay, it faltered, coughed a couple of times, and died.
‘Thank you, God, for a lovely day,’ said Mummy bitterly into the silence, and at that point my flash of recall cuts off as abruptly as an eyelid closing.
Did it happen? The memory is sharp and vivid, but even a cursory check casts doubts on certain points. For a start, could a three-year-old remember in such detail? Isn’t it more likely that I have run several different journeys together and come up with a composite scenario? Certainly we did drive for three days across the breadth of the country during the blackout, with Gerry asking passers-by for directions because the signposts had been removed, but what about the goat? Would the hotels we stayed in have put her up too? Would there even have been room for her along with the suitcases and the rest of our clobber in BYK 2, our little Standard 9?
Whatever the truth, she is firmly there in my memory as a comforting presence when the rest of the world seemed chaotic and frightening, and even nowadays the slightest whiff of that half delicious, half disgusting goaty smell brings my wartime childhood instantly to mind.
Celia was a handsome British Saanen, white all over with a sensitive aristocratic face and ears that pricked alertly like a sheep rather than hanging spaniel-fashion. Her fine silky summer coat was soft and warm to the fingers, her tail flicked jauntily upward, and her neat small rubbery hoofs were almost prehensile in their ability to scramble and cling. Though svelte of figure, she had a prodigious appetite and she liked the best of everything – the youngest, most succulent leaves and shoots, the unopened buds of flowers, the newly-baked cake on the kitchen table.
Contemptuous of thorns, she made short work of roses and, balancing on her hind legs in a heraldic pose, she could reach up to strip the lower branches of most garden shrubs, which did not endear her to gardeners. She was meant to spend her days tethered to an iron peg firmly hammered into the ground, with a revolving ring and a long light chain attached to her broad leather collar, but Mummy worried that she would tangle the chain and garotte herself. She therefore spent much time and energy constructing secure areas where Celia could roam free, but from which she always managed to escape.
‘Diana! Your goat’s in the garden!’ was a frequent cry from the house-proud owner of wherever we happened to be staying, for Celia was a Houdini par excellence, and naturally enough preferred the delights of the potager to the rough grass and brambles of her official diet.
Gluttony was her besetting sin, and nearly cut short her career when, in her giddy youth, a rare over-estimation of her digestive powers inspired her to binge on rhododendron leaves. The result was severe – potentially fatal – colic. Like donkeys, goats are seldom ill, but when they do succumb they have very little fighting spirit and are inclined to give up without a struggle.
My mother nursed her with gruel and hot water bottles for two days and nights and then, exhausted, accepted an offer from Celia Johnson, bright star of stage and screen and wife of my parents’ friend Peter Fleming, who happened to be staying, to spend the next night in the goat shed, and since it was on Celia’s watch that the patient turned the corner, she was named in her honour.
She led easily and was an excellent traveller, jumping into small spaces in the back of cars as readily as a dog. When we travelled by train, she made herself comfortable in the guard’s van. I can visualise myself leading her down the platform, past the snorting, grimy, sulphurous engine, past rows of dingy maroon carriage doors, with Mummy directing and Gerry helping a porter with the luggage, until after what seemed an endless trudge we reached the goods’ van with its ramp resting on the platform and a tangle of bicycles in the corner.
There we would construct a pen from boxes and suitcases, and Celia would settle down equably to chew her cud as the train thundered and rattled towards London, Glasgow, Ayr, Cambridge or wherever we were bound.
As a mobile milk supply she was usually a welcome guest in friends’ houses, though landladies were apt to go into mild hysterics when she pattered into the kitchen and leapt lightly on to the table to be milked. This was her party trick, and you could see from her sly complacent glances that she enjoyed an audience. She had a fine bold squarish udder, pink and slightly freckled, and teats like ice-cream cones from which milk cascaded into the shiny bucket in a frothing stream, making a high-pitched ping-ping which deepened to a soothing swish-swish as it covered the bottom.
Mummy’s clever monkey paws, (as I used to call her small strong hands), were good at milking, and took only a few minutes to fill the bucket with more than enough for nursery needs. She would reward Celia with a scratch behind the ears and a cabbage leaf, quickly pour the foaming brew through a wire sieve to strain out bits of dirt, and pour the warm, rich, nutty milk into a Breton jug decorated with figures of country dancers in traditional knee-breeches and stiffened head-dresses prancing round its middle.
Goat’s milk is now considered a rather specialised taste, and even then I remember some grown-ups objecting to putting it in their tea, which puzzled us because we thought it the normal thing to drink. Celia must have produced more than we needed because the kitchen or nursery ceiling always seemed to be festooned with dripping muslin bags full of sour milk. The idea was to strain off the whey and make soft cheese from the resulting solids, but more often the evil-smelling dangling shrouds became a booby trap for any grown-up who forgot to duck, and splatted on the floor, leaving an ineradicable smell of sick.
When this happened to my grandfather as he paid a rare visit to the nursery, even his legendary tolerance snapped. With most uncharacteristic sternness, he forbade any more cheese-making upstairs, and thereafter all further experiments were conducted in the cellar.
We spent most of the war years in Wales. Childhood memory is capricious and selective, and I remember very little about moving to Cambridgeshire for a few months when Daddy’s regiment was stationed near the village of Hinxton, except that I was sent to the village school where, on the very first day, children gathered round in the playground to tease me – one could hardly call it bullying – by calling me ‘Philadelphia.’ Where they got the word from, I can’t imagine, but I can still see their jeering faces and taunting mouths, which turned to shocked astonishment when I fled out through the gate and ran all the way home. Being a kind responsible brother, Gerry came with me, found a grownup and explained what had happened, then returned to school himself, but to my eternal gratitude, I was never sent there again.
Nor has our next sudden translocation to Ayr, on the east Coast of Scotland, left much impression. It must have been during the summer, because Gerry got badly stung by a jellyfish, and I put my bare foot on a broken bottle while wading in a pond, and remember my surprise at the blood and fuss made of a wound which had hurt so little that I hadn’t even noticed it while in the water.
Then the regiment embarked for North Africa, and we made our slow way back to the Wye Valley.
Chapel House – Chapho in family-speak – had been just a small plain-fronted Welsh cottage on the valley slope above the river Wye when my great grandparents, who owned the big, black-and-white fishing lodge called Abernant, bought it as a wedding present for their daughter and son-in-law Enid and George Barstow. Some thirty years later, when I was born, the little house next to the chapel had been largely rebuilt, with two new wings which more than doubled its original size, and had become a substantial, rather handsome family home.
A garden on several levels had been carved out of the steep fields all round the house. Orchard, rose garden, lily pond garden, tennis court and shrubbery stretched away to the right, and rock garden, paddock and greenhouses to the left. For some reason there were two kitchen gardens, their paths lined with espaliered apple trees, one either side of the house, each with its own fully equipped tool shed, and even in wartime two gardeners and a boy t
o tend them.
Mr Hadley, the head gardener, was tall, thin, twitchy and sourfaced. He had been shell-shocked in the trenches, poor man, and detested children, and we hated him right back. ‘I wish Mr Hadley was Deaf, Dumb, Blind and Wounded!’ we used to chant from a safe distance.
However Watkins, his second-in-command, was our friend, a limping, wizened, good-tempered Welshman whose face for some reason always reminded me of a dandelion bud just before it opens – something about the shape of his cheeks, I suppose. Watkins bustled between the upper and lower vegetable gardens with his big wooden barrow’s wheel crunching on the chipping paths. He let us cadge tomatoes from the greenhouse and delicious raw peas, and he could often be found with his lame leg propped on a log-box, reading the Brecon & Radnor as he munched his elevenses and swigged from a bottle of cold tea. (At least I imagine it was cold tea. It was certainly brownish; but in retrospect it seems odd that he chose to drink it in the tool-shed when his neat cottage and bun-like wife were only yards away on the other side of the orchard.)
Separated from the house by the valley road, then little more than a quiet lane, and a single grass meadow which frequently flooded, the broad gleaming surface of the River Wye could be seen from the dining room window, and both there and on the loggia at the end of the house, powerful binoculars were kept handy for checking the state of the water and assessing fishing prospects.
Into this children’s paradise, Gerry and I settled happily, and there our sister Olivia was born in January, 1941. Grandfather, who worked all week in London and came down by train on Friday evenings to be picked up by Granny at Three Cocks station, heroically allowed his library to be turned into a nursery in which we played and did our lessons and also ate. It was immediately above the kitchen, which greatly facilitated the exchange of hostilities between a succession of nannies and cooks, who could screech abuse at one another out of the windows without being heard in the dining-room.
My Animals (and Other Family) Page 1
