Lost and Found

by Lynda Bellingham

  This was encouraged by my maternal grandmother, Granny Carter, who was herself very devout, and consumed with the guilt of having given birth to her child, Ruth, illegitimately. I adored her. She had amazing black hair that reached down to her waist, which she wore in plaits round the top of her head. I never saw anyone else ever wear their hair like that, except Heidi the goat herder! She used to let me sit on her bed in the mornings and brush it for her. She brushed it a hundred times a day and would only wash it twice a year, which seems strange in this day and age, but it never seemed greasy or dirty and was always shining. To the day she died, in her late seventies, she hardly had a grey hair. When I realised the implications of what it meant to be adopted, it was Granny Carter who really helped me understand it all. She always tried to make me feel special. She must have felt a special affinity with my birth mother who had given me up.

  Brought up in a household full of men, Granny Carter had three brothers and a very strict Victorian father. She had got pregnant by a soldier at the end of the First World War. He was married, but his wife would not give him a divorce. I don’t really know the ins and outs but my grandmother decided to keep the baby. When the father offered her the money for a termination, she refused and went and threw the money in the river. It must have been a very brave thing to do in those days. She subsequently married Charles Carter, who was ‘prepared to take on’ her and her baby. From what I can gather from my mum, he was not an easy man to live with, and my grandmother did not help the relationship when she refused to have any more children. Her husband’s disappointment manifested itself in his dislike of her daughter and I think my mum had a really hard time with him over the years. Then my grandmother became very religious, which isolated her even more, so it was never a very happy marriage.

  I knew nothing of this at the time, however, and used to love going to stay with Granny and Grandpa Carter in my summer holidays, although I was aware that my grandfather was quite stern and that I had to behave to keep him sweet. One of my enduring traits is the desire to please, so I worked on winning him over. I know he was very fond of me and, when I stayed for holidays, he used to devise an egg hunt for me every morning.

  They lived in a suburban street in Worthing by the Sea. All the houses in the street looked the same. Their house was rather dark inside with lots of leather chairs and dark wood. At the back they had what my granny called a loggia. It was a bit like a conservatory but not nearly so grand. It was full of plant pots with all kinds of plants, and lots of cacti. Both of them loved gardening. Theirs was a classic English garden, full of blooming flower beds of many colours, and lots of shrubs at the far end, leading to a small vegetable patch, and rows of runner beans and sweet peas. Grandad had a garden shed that was kept immaculately tidy and, beside it, a small greenhouse for tomatoes. I can still recall its musty, woody smell mixed with the scent of summer lupins.

  The garden was perfect for an egg hunt because it had so many nooks and crannies. I would crawl around under the bushes, fearful of any creepy-crawlies that might be lurking. Oh, the sheer joy of spotting my lovely brown egg nestling under a mossy stone, waiting for me to carry it gently and proudly to the stove, to be popped in the boiling water for my breakfast! Then dipping soft white buttered bread soldiers into the golden yolk and watching it dribble down the side of my egg cup. Magic days.

  Often the days would be filled with us taking buckets and spades up the long, wide avenue to the sea. The beach was all stones there, but I never cared. It was part of the fun, trying to run into the sea barefoot. Picnics were conducted like military operations in the trenches. Towels were attached to poles stuck in the stones to act as windbreaks, but provided poor cover against the English summer winds. I loved the whole camping element. We had plastic cups and plates so all the drinks tasted of plastic, and all the food slid off the plates into the salty piles of seaweed. Which just added to the flavour, my grandad would say. I believed him! Then we would find a sandy patch and make a sandcastle or he would bury me in the sand to look like I was in a car. Such simple pleasures. In the early days we had donkey rides on the beach: I have a photo of me by the sea on a horse, which was so fat I can still remember the discomfort in trying to stretch my legs across its back.

  I’ll always remember how the walk to the beach was so easy, but how the return lagged! God, it seemed to go on and on. Tired, grumpy and often with a bit of sunburn on the tops of my legs, which stung when they rubbed together, I would trudge home along Worthing’s avenues, which seemed to be immensely wide, and all lined with tall pine trees like the kind one always finds by the sea. Some were bent and gnarled against the winter winds, and curled over the pavement like an arch.

  One of my granny’s brothers was called Row Harvey. He had a daughter called Gillian who is a year younger than I am, and we would often all be there together. Uncle Row was quite strict with Gillian but he really adored me, so I got away with murder. When Gillian and I would get a fit of the giggles at the dinner table, Uncle Row would tell Gillian off, which would make me laugh more, and then he would have to forgive her or tell me off as well. He would drive us to Brighton to have a day on the pier, or to Hove, where there was a brand-new swimming pool where we both learned to swim. I was so proud of myself. I loved going there because after we finished swimming we got enormous mugs of hot chocolate to drink and would sit and warm up before the car ride home. I would always sing very loudly from the back of the car and annoy everyone. When we got home Granny would give us meringues with whipped cream, eaten in the loggia so as not to make a mess inside on the carpet.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MY LITTLE PONY

  IN 1958, when I was ten years old, we were living just outside Aylesbury in a little village called Weedon. But Dad had found the farm of his dreams in Aston Abbotts, the next-door village, and was making plans for the big move. Meanwhile I was enjoying a life without care.

  The riding stables next door was providing me with endless hours of joy. It was more a livery stable, really, where people kept their horses. I would spend all my free time there helping to muck out the loose boxes (that’s professional horse-speak for stable), walking the horses round and cleaning the tack (the reins and saddles, etc.) There was a very famous show jumper of the day called Pat Smythe, and I wanted to be her. Acting was not even an idea, then.

  One day, a lorry pulled into the yard with a new recruit. The lady who owned the stables, Pat, introduced me to Tiddlywinks, a bay (that’s brown to the uninitiated) pony, with a beautiful black shiny mane and tail, and the biggest dark brown eyes you have ever seen. It was love at first sight for me, though Tiddlywinks looked decidedly suspicious, and was reluctant to come out of the trailer. She was very nervous and jumpy, and Pat explained she was a rescue pony who had been badly treated by her owner, and would need lots of love and care to put her back on the road to recovery. No problem. This was my mission. I applied myself with gusto.

  It took several weeks for me and the pony to bond. In the early days it was hard work. Every time I went near her she swung round and tried to kick me. She would flash the whites of her eyes and bare her teeth. I was pretty nervous myself, which is the worst thing to be around animals. I would try to sneak up on her to get her saddle on, and she would lash out at me and send me scuttling into a corner. We must have looked a strange pair: the jumpy pony and the little girl talking nineteen-to-the-dozen, as she tried to get near. But I persevered and slowly Tiddlywinks began to relax. One of the memorable moments for me was when I went to the field and called out to her, and instead of running off she came up to me at the gate and nuzzled my hand, looking for her daily apple. I would groom her until her coat shone and the thick wiry hair of her mane and tail started to become soft and silky. I loved her with a passion.

  Riding her was more of a problem. I was a competent horsewoman, well, girl, but still quite nervous, and Tiddlywinks could sense this and gave me hell. She was very devious as well. One morning I was with my dad, who had come to watch
me ride out. I was showing off to him, but should have remembered that pride comes before a fall… I mounted OK, and gathered up the reins, gently kicking her to go forward. Up until this point, Tiddlywinks had been as good as gold, standing quietly, swishing her tail and looking like the perfect pony. Suddenly, up came her rear end as she kicked out her hind legs, and she let out a squeal of indignation as she bucked me off. I cannot tell you how humiliating it is to land on your arse in the mud, look up, and see your mount standing there quietly nibbling the reins you are still clutching. I made things even worse by bursting into tears. What a wally.

  Dad decided to help. He took the reins from me and mounted Tiddlywinks. Of course, the pony was only little and my dad was six foot, so when he sat on her his feet touched the ground. Tiddlywinks did not like this at all. She looked round at the lump on her back and went to buck him off just as she had done with me. Nothing happened. She could not lift her hindquarters because of the weight. It was so funny – you could actually see her straining to kick her legs out, but to no avail. She kept looking behind her at my dad, and eventually almost seemed to shake her head in defeat, and give up. Dad then made me get back on, much to my dismay, but nothing happened. Tiddlywinks was so relieved to get rid of the big heavy man, she behaved like a dream and never gave me grief again.

  One morning, I arrived at the stables to start the day with my usual routine, and found the yard was blocked by the horse box. The ramp was down, and Pat was leading Tiddlywinks out of her stable towards it. Panic took me over. Where was she going?

  ‘We’re taking her for a check-up because we may have found a buyer for her,’ Pat told me.

  A buyer? It had never occurred to me that Tiddlywinks was for sale. I had just assumed she would stay for ever. I ran home in floods of tears. I begged my mum to stop them selling my pony.

  ‘But, love, she’s not yours. She belongs to Pat, who can do what she likes with her.’ My mother’s gentle response didn’t help.

  ‘But Tiddlywinks loves me,’ I sobbed. ‘She trusts me, Mum. If she goes to a new owner she’ll be upset all over again. You can’t let her go. Please stop them!’

  It was like Black Beauty in spades. But my pleading fell on deaf ears, and I watched the lorry disappear over the hill. I was beside myself and, to make matters worse, the following day we were going on holiday, so I had no idea when I would see my precious pony again.

  The holiday was to be a big event in the Bellingham calendar. We usually stayed in the UK but this time we were off to Italy. Rimini and Rome. I couldn’t have cared less where we were: I just wanted my pony back. However, we arrived at the Trevi fountain and I suddenly perked up. One of the big successes in the cinema, then, had been the film Three Coins in the Fountain where the heroine throws a coin into the water and makes a wish, and lo and behold, it comes true. Could this be my moment? Would my wish be granted and Tiddlywinks be mine? It was worth a punt. I closed my eyes tight and prayed with all my might. I promised God all manner of good behaviour if he granted my request.

  How fickle is youth? I forgot my promise so quickly that, half an hour later, when my good humour had left me once more, and we were traipsing round the Vatican, I did a terrible thing. I feel obliged to share it with you, dear readers, at the risk that you may be so disgusted with me you throw this book at the wall. But confession is good for the soul and we are talking about being in the Holy City. Anyway, Mum had bought us all an ice cream in the hope it would cheer me up. As we continued round the great works of art, I was now struggling to eat it all before the ice cream melted down my hands. The exercise was becoming very tiresome, and I was getting stickier and crosser, when we passed a letter box and I decided to post the whole creamy pile. Yes, I posted my ice cream! Presumably into the very letter box used by thousands of tourists to send letters to loved ones all over the world, from the ancient Holy See. What kind of vandal am I? I have kept that secret all these years and I am still truly ashamed of it.

  On arriving home after the holiday, I rushed down to the stables to see if my beloved pony had returned. No. I was plunged into despair once again. To add to the gloom I was about to take my 11+ exam, which would gain me entry to the Aylesbury grammar school if I passed it. I knew my parents wanted me to get this exam and I was filled with foreboding. Not that my parents pushed us girls in any way. They did not pressurise us, but always said you must try and do your best. My best could have been better, quite frankly.

  My parents had engaged a maths tutor (well, start with the weakest link). He was a beady little man called Mr Nuttall; even the name makes me shudder. He had slicked-back hair with a middle parting, and black-rimmed spectacles. He had the neatest, most anal handwriting you have ever seen. He would purse his lips as he showed me how to draw a margin with a ruler, and those lips would stay firmly pursed for the rest of the hour. It was torment. I can only assume I was being punished for the ice cream incident.

  My eleventh birthday dawned bright and sunny. I ran into my parents’ room and jumped on the bed. My father got up and went over to the window.

  ‘What’s going on next door?’ he said. ‘Lynda, pop out and see what’s happening, will you?’ Rather grumpily, I made my way downstairs and outside to the bottom of the garden. I could see a brown rump through the bushes and strode towards it. Suddenly, from above the hedge came a flash of black hair and a welcoming whinny. No. Oh my goodness, it can’t be…! It is! Running now, I jumped the gate and fell on Tiddlywinks’s neck. My pony! The dreaded buyer had actually been my mum and dad. You cannot begin to imagine my joy. That had to be one of the great moments of my life. Not passing the 11+. Which I did, much to everyone’s surprise, in particular mine and Mr Nuttall’s.

  As far as I was concerned, Life was now perfect. I spent the summer of 1958 riding Tiddlywinks round country lanes and going to gymkhanas. I tried very hard to become the next Pat Smythe but, much as I loved my pony, I did not love the hard work and dedication that is needed to make it in the competitive world of horses. Nor did I take to the people. In the main they were rather upper class and a bit snotty.

  My parents were preparing for the big move to the next village, and the farm that was to be our home for the next forty years. It was in a terrible state, as the owner was on old boy who was quite ill, and had to keep going into a mental institution. He kept pigs and sheep in the kitchen on a regular basis and none of the bedrooms had been used for years and were full of rubbish. Every room was painted a dark brown colour. Out in the yard, all the buildings were crumbling and the focal point was a huge pile of manure. It was as high as the telephone wires, and when we started to clear the manure, it was so hot in the middle you could fry an egg!

  The farm was a mess but it was in the middle of the Vale of Aylesbury, and the land was very sought after. There was no way my father could have afforded a farm like that if it had not needed so much work. He was a man on a mission. My poor, dear mum had her work cut out. She had never lived in the country and knew nothing about farms. The house was potentially really beautiful, though, so she set to, with all her tremendous energy, and turned it into a gorgeous home.

  When we first arrived we all ran upstairs and chose our bedrooms. There was a long corridor and our three bedrooms were all in a row. Each about the same. Then there was a huge room at the end, which was over the dairy downstairs. It was amazing. It could fit a full-size table-tennis table. And because we were in the middle of nowhere we could play our music as loud as we liked. It made me very spoiled for future places!

  It was near Christmas, and we begged Mum for a Christmas tree. She was reluctant because there was so much mess everywhere, but we persuaded her to agree, if we promised to paint the little study so we had one room to sit in. Dad gave us a paintbrush each and we were soon splashing away happily. It was tiny but we made it very cosy. It had a real fire and all winter the flames roared. There was no central heating in the house, and I remember that winter was bitter. We would all sit in a row, in front of the TV, facing t
he fire, and get absolutely roasted, but our backs remained freezing. I would come in from school and sit in front of the fire with my feet practically in the flames and give myself chilblains. I don’t think they exist any more. They are bumps that itch really badly and are created by your feet being very cold and then very hot. They were murder. Snow fell and the windows all had ice on them. I used to wake up in the morning and study the patterns on the window made by the frost, and then breathe on it to clear it. If we were feeling cold we just put another layer of clothing on. We were hardy little souls.

  We all worked together on the new house. To clear the pile of manure, Dad gave us all a spade and instructions to just dig. There were rats and fleas all over the place. At night we would queue up to get in the bath, almost crying with aches and pains and flea bites. Talk about abuse! When Dad first got the farm it had everything. Pigs, sheep, cows and chickens. I helped him castrate the little baby pigs. That was quite something: if you were not careful with the knife, you could lose your fingers. Every morning I was up with the lark, bringing in the cows on a cold, frosty morning, keeping warm by staying close to their bodies, and watching the warm, creamy milk fill the machines. Then into the dairy, which was wet and cold all the time from sterilising the equipment, and pouring the milk into the churns, to be picked up by the lorry later. After that I had to feed Tiddlywinks and muck out her stall. It was hard work but I loved every minute.