I held my breath, waiting. Were they worried? Would they go round to Auntie Jean’s and check? Nobody did, and I got very bored waiting in the toilet. Eventually, I shuffled out. Nobody commented because nobody had realised I’d gone missing. It was a huge non-event.
Of course my pride was dented, but I soon forgot about it as I helped make Crispy Crunchy Crackly Crack with Auntie Jean and Annabel in their kitchen. Oh, the pleasure of that first bite and taste with a glass of milk! It was enough to make anybody forget all about running away.
Auntie Jean was a wonderful cook, unlike my mother. I think my mother could have been, but her plants interested her far more. However, sometimes a glut in the garden would spur her into making slightly crazy dishes, her Eastern European heritage making a rare appearance.
“Ach, the plums are nearly ripe. Next week we will make Zwetschgenknödel.”
“Hooray!”
The damson plums ripened, and the day was set aside for Zwetschgenknödel, or plum dumplings.
On these days, we all lent a hand. My brother and I rushed out into the garden and picked the plums from the tree, dodging the wasps that were just as keen to get to the fruit as we were. Then we washed the plums, but, unlike most recipes, left the stones in. My sister was on dough duty, and my mother supervised and dropped the dumplings into boiling water. The result was a mountain of fragrant dumplings. On Zwetschgenknödel days, there was nothing else on the menu; we just guzzled Zwetschgenknödel, eating them with our hands, juice running down our faces. We ate until we could eat no more.
My mother’s gardening skills ensured we had fresh vegetables and fruit nearly all year round. The only thing she failed dismally at was corn on the cob. The cobs never reached their full size, and never ripened to that glorious yellow. This was a big disappointment, particularly as my parents had named the house Kukuruz, meaning corn on the cob. I really don’t know why it was named that. When the subject came up, my parents would steal secret glances at each other and my mother would blush.
Along with gardening, history was another of my mother’s passions.
“Come along!” she would shout up the stairs. “Today we are visiting Sherborne Castle. It was built by Sir Walter Raleigh, you know, and it has 40 acres of grounds.”
We climbed into Ivy, and she ground the gears and bucked all the way to Sherborne, some 40 miles away.
My mother adored visiting castles and country estates, all steeped in history, then touring the grounds, always on the lookout for gardening ideas. Dorset has numerous stately homes, and we probably visited most of them. I don’t remember many individually; they blur together in a haze of suits of armour, portraits, mazes and kitchen gardens.
I remember visiting Athelhampton House, a fine example of a 15th century manor house surrounded by one of the great architectural gardens of England. Of course, my mother almost drooled as she spotted rare plants, and her sleight of hand, as she stole cuttings and stashed them in her enormous handbag, was legendary.
I also recall Kingston Lacy, an elegant Italian-inspired country residence in Wimborne Minster. I don’t remember it because of its lavish interior, or because of its splendid gardens. I remember it because of the rather incongruous Egyptian obelisk, sculpted from pink granite, which stands in the gardens.
In 1820, adventurer William John Bankes found the toppled 2nd century BC obelisk on the Nile island of Philae. Being a collector, he arranged to have the granite artefact transported to his family home in Dorset. The inscriptions on this obelisk, along with the famous Rosetta Stone, helped crack open the mystery of the ancient Egyptian symbols.
And the story didn’t finish there. Very recently, in 2014 to be precise, the inscriptions were inspected again. Modern imaging techniques allowed for areas to be deciphered that had gradually been rubbed away by centuries of Egyptian sun and 200 years of English weather. The result has revealed startling new insights into ancient Egyptian history. Fifty years later, Joe and I visited the island of Philae on the Nile, the birthplace of the Kingston Lacy obelisk I had stared at as a child.
Back home, my mother nurtured and nursed the cuttings and seeds she had stolen. It was common to overhear this typical conversation as she walked visitors round our garden.
“Ach, this rather unusual azalea comes from Athelhampton House, and this shrub here is a very fine hebe I found in the grounds of Lulworth Castle.”
Another of my mother’s ideas of a good time was visiting old churches, of which there were hundreds within easy reach of Ivy. Old churches abound in Dorset, and we visited many. Some were within walking distance of our house, like the Saxon St Martin’s Church, which is one thousand years old and holds a priceless effigy of Lawrence of Arabia.
Why Wareham for such a valuable effigy? Because it was sculpted for St Paul’s Cathedral but was refused because of the controversy surrounding T.E. Lawrence’s death. Neither would Westminster Abbey or Salisbury Cathedral take it. So it ended up in the tiny Wareham church which, at a stretch, seats just 40. The effigy didn’t interest me much, but I stared with horrified fascination at the crude red stars daubed on one wall, each star representing yet another death in the parish due to the Great Plague.
I confess, as a child, I didn’t always enjoy these trips. The churches were dark and cold inside, and smelled musty. Even the sun shining through the stained-glass windows didn’t brighten things up much. I did quite enjoy exploring the graveyards, reading the headstones with ghoulish interest, but even that palled after a while.
So my mother came up with an idea she thought might keep us amused. She bought thick wax crayons and rolls of shelf-lining paper, and showed us how to lay the paper on a headstone or brass plaque. When we rubbed the wax crayon over the surface of the paper, the inscriptions magically appeared on the paper. Brass-rubbing, as this was called, is no longer permitted as it is very damaging, but it was common in those days.
My mother’s latest money-making venture, painting little salt boxes my father made with edelweiss flowers, (I will sell hundreds! I can’t understand why nobody has thought of it before!) hadn’t taken off, so she was trying something completely different. She became a market researcher, working for a big company. Now she knocked on doors asking to interview people from specific age groups, or lurked on street corners ready to pounce on unsuspecting members of the public. More and more of her time was taken up by her new job.
“Ach, you should take the children away somewhere,” she suggested to my father, “then I can catch up with my paperwork.”
Discussion followed, and a decision was made. My father would take us camping in the New Forest that weekend.
“Can Annabel come, too?”
“Not this time, we haven’t got room in the tent. Now go and get your stuff together.”
The tent was new, we hadn’t taken it on its maiden voyage yet. Ivy was packed up with great excitement. The drive, with my father at the helm, was surprisingly smooth, with no kangaroo jumps.
The New Forest was decreed a royal forest by King William I in about 1079. Used for the royal hunt, it consisted mainly of deer, and is mentioned in the Domesday Book. Wild ponies are plentiful having been allowed to roam free and breed for centuries. In fact, as Wikipedia states:
Grazing of commoners’ ponies and cattle is an essential part of the management of the Forest, helping to maintain the internationally important heathland, bog, grassland and wood-pasture habitats and their associated wildlife.
“First person to see a pony wins!” shouted my sister.
That didn’t take long as the wild ponies, although unbroken, are very accustomed to humans. Not only did we see ponies, but also foals born that spring. I hugged myself in anticipation. That night, I so hoped to see deer, maybe badgers, and foxes, too. I also knew that there were still some red squirrels in the New Forest. These did finally vanish in the 1970s, chased out by their grey cousins, and only survived in cut off, managed areas like Brownsea Island.
We put the tent up eventually, although it wasn’t
easy. It was the type that had a separate inner bedroom. My sister and I were going to sleep in there, while my father and brother slept in the outer part. We pumped up our inflatable mattresses and laid out our sleeping bags; it all looked very cosy and inviting. The New Forest ponies watched our activities and swished their tails.
“Let’s explore,” I said, my notebook in hand. “I want to see some wildlife!”
13 Robberies
Watercress, Olive and Lentil Pâté
The campsite seemed very nice, but on my first trip to the washrooms, I made three discoveries.
New Forest ponies watch everything you do.
Campsite washrooms are a breeding ground for spiders. Big hairy ones.
Campsites don’t necessarily provide hot water.
Never mind. We were only there for one night and breakfast.
I’d been reading up all about the New Forest, and I knew that we should be able to spot quite a lot of wildlife. I didn’t think spiders really counted.
“We’d better lock tonight’s supper away in the tent,” said my father. “I’m looking forward to hotdogs.”
We zipped up the tent carefully and made our way down the track, equine eyes following us.
I’d love to be able to report that we saw badgers, several species of deer, stoats, red squirrels, grey squirrels, polecats and dozens of species of birds. But we didn’t. Plenty of ponies, of course, but nothing else. At the end of the walk, all I could write down in my notebook was:
Spiders - in washroom
Ants - on ground, climbing trees
Beetles - on ground, climbing trees
Ponies - everywhere
A naturalist never gives up, I told myself and the watching ponies. Perhaps I’d see some wildlife during the night.
“Time to cook our supper,” said my father, and we headed back to our campsite as the sun sank behind the trees.
Ponies stopped cropping the grass and lifted their heads as we passed. An annoying zing floated past my ear and I added another sighting to my list.
Mosquitoes - on my arms, legs, everywhere
Nearing our tent, all of us realised there was something seriously amiss. It was unzipped, and the door flap hung open, revealing devastation inside. We stared.
“What on earth has happened here?” asked my father, peering into the tent, his military moustache bristling with indignation. “It looks like somebody has been searching for valuables.”
We three kids gaped in wide-eyed wonder.
“Anything missing, do you think?” asked my sister.
“Not as far as I can see, but I think we should report it before we touch anything. The police will need to photograph the scene of the crime. Come along, we’ll go and report it at the campsite office.”
I tore my eyes from the mess inside. Darkness was falling, but I had seen that the little camp stove had toppled over, clothes and sleeping bags were strewn about, milk had been spilt, and plates and pans were scattered everywhere.
We trudged to the campsite office near the entrance gates. Shapes shuffled in the shadows under the trees, and I knew the ponies were watching us.
No lights burned in the campsite office and the door was locked.
“It’s all closed up, now what?” asked my sister. “Wait, it says here: Ring bell for attention out of hours or emergencies.”
My father pressed the button firmly, and somewhere, a long way away, I heard an electric bell ring. As we waited, I stared at the flyers pasted on the windows of the office. Brownsea Island Boat Ride, Tour Athelhampton House, Visit Poole Pottery, Visit Bournemouth Winter Gardens!
I jumped in fright as something snickered a few feet away.
“Ponies,” said my sister.
Human footsteps approached and an ancient figure stepped into view. An old man peered inquiringly at us, his scraggly white eyebrows raised in question.
“You rang?” he quavered.
“Good evening,” said my father. “I’m here to report a robbery. Our tent has been broken into while we were away on a walk. I wonder if you could phone the police for us. I expect they’ll want to come out and examine the crime scene.”
“What was stolen?” asked the old man, “Are you missing any valuables?”
“Not that we can see yet,” said my father, “but the thieves left a frightful mess.”
“It was the ponies.”
“Pardon?”
“The ponies broke into your tent, hehe,” cackled the old man. “They do it all the time.”
Something snorted in the darkness.
“I’m sorry, but it can’t have been the ponies. The zip was undone.”
“T’was the ponies! Clever little buggers! They’ve learnt to open tent zips with their teeth. And if they cain’t git in that way, sometimes they’ll just lean on a tent until it gives way. Betcha they’ve eaten all your food if you left it lying around in the tent. They ain’t tidy neither, they always leave a helluva mess!”
We gaped at him. My father thanked him quickly and we hurried back to our tent.
The old man was right, of course. The ponies had unzipped our tent and helped themselves to our provisions, leaving a trail of destruction.
“Well, we’ve still got sausages,” said my father cheerfully. “No bread rolls to put them in, but at least they left us something for supper.”
He lit the little gas stove and we cooked, shared and ate the sausages that hadn’t been trampled. They tasted good, but sausages on their own are not an exciting meal. And washing plates and a skillet in cold water isn’t fun, either.
With just a single lantern to share between us, we had an early night. I wanted to read in bed, but the ponies had broken my flashlight so that was out of the question. As the ponies stamped and snuffled around our tent, I drifted off to sleep, but not for long.
Whispered voices woke me up. My brother was trying to attract my father’s attention.
“Dad!”
“What?”
“I need the toilet!”
“What?”
“I need a wee.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No.”
“Well, go to the toilet block.”
“What about the ponies?”
“They won’t hurt you.”
Silence.
“Well, just go round the back of the tent if you want.”
“Okay.”
Rustling. Buzz of the zipper. Footsteps round the tent. Splashing.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” roared my father, fully awake now. “When I said go round the back of the tent, I didn’t mean on the back of the tent!”
“Sorry.”
I scratched a mosquito bite and drifted back to sleep, not at all sure if camping was really my thing.
The next day, breakfast was cancelled. The ponies had eaten the Kelloggs Rice Crispies and sugar, and kicked over the milk. They’d guzzled the bread destined for toast.
No, I thought to myself, I don’t think I really like camping.
I imagine we were all quite relieved to pack up the tent, climb back into Ivy and head for home.
* * *
The days slipped by, and it was time to exchange the navy blue uniform of TH for the grey of Parkstone Grammar School for Girls on the outskirts of Poole. My sister was at the college in Bournemouth, and my brother was in boarding school. My parents didn’t want me to attend the mixed grammar school in Swanage, and Wareham didn’t have a grammar school.
Of course, this meant a long journey to and from school every day. I would have to walk to the station, catch a train to Poole, walk to Poole bus station, then catch a final bus to the school. However, because it was my first day, my mother decided, just this once, she would drive me.
Ivy bucked, stuttered and stammered her way to Poole. My mother’s knuckles were white as she gripped the steering wheel, and mine were equally white as I hung onto my satchel. I was terrified, but not of my mother’s driving. It was the thought of sch
ool that scared me. I knew that everybody else would have already made friends, and I was joining them in their second year.
“Ach, I’m not going to take you right into the school car park,” announced my mother, “in case I have to reverse Ivy out. No, I’ll just drop you at a bus stop if we see girls in Parkstone uniform.”
That didn’t take long. My mother stamped on Ivy’s brake and we jolted to a stop. I shrank down in my seat as my mother jumped out.
“Is there somebody in the second year here?” she bellowed at the clusters of grey-clad girls.
I shrank down so low I could barely see over Ivy’s dashboard. The girls swung round to stare first at my mother, then Ivy, then at me.
“Anyone in the second year who will look after a new girl?” repeated my mother.
I was mortified.
An extraordinarily pretty girl stepped forward, smiling. I wanted this whole nightmare to end as quickly as possible, so I grabbed my satchel and jumped out onto the pavement.
“Hello,” smiled the girl. “I’ll look after you. I’m Jo, what’s your name?”
She was quietly-spoken, but exuded friendliness. Her huge brown eyes, with just a hint of naughtiness, smiled kindly at me. The other girls lost interest and turned away. My mother jumped back into Ivy and disappeared up the road in puffs of exhaust fumes.
I’m still grateful to Jo for rescuing me that bleak day. Without hesitation, she introduced me to Hilary and their circle of friends and I have much to thank her for. We stayed close friends all through school and still keep in touch. Today we are both grandmothers.
I believe my first form teacher was Miss Meniss, but a menace she wasn’t. She was a giant of a woman, with hands like a bunch of bananas and feet the size of row boats, but there was nothing fierce about her. I believe she had been a novice in a convent, but had decided at the eleventh hour that she didn’t want to be a nun after all, and became a teacher instead.
I didn’t do particularly well at school. As usual, my head was in the clouds. I dropped Latin as soon as I could, and did the bare minimum required for every subject except English and Art, and German, which I obviously found quite easy.
One Young Fool in Dorset Page 10
