Didcot had one definite pleasure. We knew that little boys would be going up and down the platform singing out, ‘Banbury cakes! Banbury cakes!’ And mother would crane out and buy some, just to encourage the crew.
Next came Swindon—name of sweet assurance. How often mother used to say, ‘They can’t leave Swindon under ten minutes, no matter how late we are.’ Considering our early breakfast, or lack of it, the refreshment-room at Swindon was a land of Canaan, and the hot soup all round is still a joyful memory. So hot it was that Dym launched a theory that it was hoped some would be left to serve up for the next train. Those ever-memorable ten minutes were no doubt entirely for the gain of the restaurant and entirely to the detriment of the Great Western, but they were sheer life-savers to long-distance travellers. In later years the railway had to compensate the restaurant for doing away with those ten minutes, to the tune of £50,000. Perhaps a little remorseful, the restaurant proprietors presented a silver model engine to Swindon, to commemorate the transaction, and the little model is known to the railwaymen as ‘the £50,000 engine’.
Thus refreshed we were all agog for our next excitement—the Box Tunnel. The railway cuttings grew higher and higher, and at last we rushed with a piercing whistle into the total darkness of ‘the longest tunnel in the world’. The oil lamps, and later the gas lamps, were let down from above with much labour only at dusk. There was no thought of lighting up for a tunnel. Old ladies may have been afraid of robbery and murder, but it was a great feature of the day’s entertainment to us. By a prearranged plan the boys and I rose stealthily and felt our way into one another’s places. When the train emerged into the light the elders sustained a turn, or handsomely pretended that they did.
The charm of Bristol was its appearance of being a half-way house. Not that it was so by any means, but it was the elbow-joint in the journey. The muddle and rush were greater even than at Reading, and we were often kept there for some twenty minutes. Yet we dared not leave the carriage for more than a mere leg-stretch just outside the door. I sucked much pleasure from hanging out at the off-side window, to watch the man tapping the wheels and applying the yellow stuff from his box. Thus I understood what my father meant by calling London butter ‘train-oil’.
Some of our company usually left the train at Bristol, so that we had the carriage more or less to ourselves, and could move about more freely. This was specially desirable because there was soon to come a magic moment when a glimpse of the sea was possible, just for the short time when Bridgwater Bay was visible on our right. Then we bowled along the warm sleepy countryside of Somerset, with no excitements beyond fields and cows and tiny villages, mile after mile. This was the strategic point that mother chose for unveiling dinner. A bulging basket had long been eyed as it sat in the rack. Restaurant cars are boons, and luncheon-baskets have their merry surprises, but for food as a species of rapture nothing compares with sandwiches, eggs, pasties, and turnovers, doled out one by one from napkins, when the supply is severely limited. Oranges in summer were unknown then, as well as all the foreign apples and other fruit to be had in London today. We had to slake our thirst with acid-drops and a tiny ration of lemonade. If by any chance a fellow passenger remained we always managed to do some little barter of biscuits or sweets, because strange food is even more pleasant than one’s own.
We used to hail Exeter as being ‘almost there’, for it was in Devon, actually the next county to Cornwall, and definitely ‘west’. A quiet dignity pervaded its saintly stations, but we could never stay long because of course we were late. A train in those days was never ‘on time’. After Exeter we were all keyed up for the greatest treat of the journey. I have travelled in many show places of Europe and America, but have never been along a piece of line to equal the run from Exeter to Teignmouth. We children were not stirred as mother was by the beauties of the estuary and the opposite shore. What we looked out for were the waders carrying on some mysterious hunt in the water, and two pleasure-boats, shaped like some kind of water-fowl, and called the Swan and Cygnet. I never dreamt but what they were real birds.
Then, with a magnificent gesture, the Great Western swept us to the sea-side, indeed almost into the sea. Mother remembered a day when the waves had washed into the carriage. The bare possibility of such a thing made this part of the run something of an adventure, and we almost hoped it would happen again.
The sun was always shining at Dawlish, and there was the sea all spread out in dazzling blue. And as if the train knew how to enhance the effect, it would roll in and out of short tunnels in the ‘rouge’, or red sandstone of Devon. Each time it emerged the sea looked bluer and the rocks more fantastic in shape. However beautiful the inland scenery might be, it seemed dull after this, and after Teignmouth we usually fell asleep. I remember being laid out at length with my head on mother’s lap, and the rest being a blank till the glad sound of ‘Here’s Plymouth’ woke me.
By now it was late afternoon, and you would suppose that here at last would be some chance of tea and a wash in comfort. Ah no! The London train didn’t care about Cornwall, there were no through carriages arranged for long-distance people, and we had to change into a local affair, with hard wooden seats, and patronized by a succession of market people with large bundles. By the time we had found this train, seen the luggage shifted, carried along our small parcels, and settled into our seats, there was no time to do more than buy a bag of buns. They had not thought then of allowing people to carry cups of tea into the carriage with them.
In all this confusion I had time to notice that we were coming out of Millbay the same way that we had gone in. It was a sort of terminus, apparently, and very mysterious, because I was assured that we were not going back to London. I asked my father what became of the engine that had brought us from London. How did it get out so as to pull the train away again? He explained very carefully how it was lowered into an underground passage, run along under the train, and then hauled up again at the other end. This seemed to me no more peculiar than most things.
Shipping on the Hamoaze amused us mightily enough until we reached the climax of our journey—the Albert Bridge. We were leaving ‘England’ behind and were in the enchanted land of Cornwall at last. We greeted the tiny whitewashed cottages of the ‘natives’ with far greater fervour than we had shown over Windsor Castle. We vied with one another in trying to remember the order in which the stations came. We stopped at all of them. And when I say stopped I mean stopped. There was none of the hurry of Reading or Bristol. We leant out to catch the accents of the porter, proclaiming his piece in the soft west-country drawl. We watched all the greetings and partings and waving of hands of the travellers…. Then would descend that peculiar silence of a country station that signifies that everyone is settled, and the guard feels that it is safe to let the train start again.
If a sun-bonneted market woman got in with us mother could never resist talking to her, and answering the invariable Cornish question ‘Wheer be ’ee goin’?’ Then would follow the astonished ‘From Lunnon, are ’ee? Aw, my deer!’
And now it was growing dusk, and the familiar tin-mine buildings were silhouetted against the sky, and generally darkness had descended before we ran into Camborne more than an hour late. We had become indescribably dirty and tired and hungry. But our reception atoned for all. Countless uncles and aunts and cousins were crowding the platform, and as we got out every one was exclaiming ‘Here they are!’ We children were the heroes and the spoilt darlings of the hour. We were bundled into waiting carriages and driven to a royal spread. On one such occasion I remember my cousin Edgar running all the mile and a half by the side of the carriage in the dark, giving us a whoop of joy when a gate into a lane had to be opened for us to pass.
X. Reskadinnick
SUCH was the name of the homestead that was our journey’s end. To any but a Cornishman the word sounds strange. London tradespeople made curious play with it, and Peter Robinson once sent a parcel to my aunt addressed: ‘Miss Vivian, c
/o Rev. Kadinnick.’ To us children the name was synonymous with Paradise.
I call it a homestead because it was much more than a mere home or house or farm. When the town was left behind you entered a lane through a gate. This had the alluring name of Blackberry Lane, and meandered between mossy hedges thick with wild flowers until a large white gate barred the way. Beyond this was a quarter of a mile of sweeping drive, bordered by neatly cut grass and tall trees of great variety with more woodland behind them. Here and there was a bright flowering shrub, and in one recessed spot was a deep pond among the trees. A beautiful cool walk on a summer’s day, but terrifying at night when one had to come home alone in the dark.
With the last curve of the drive the house came in sight, facing a large lawn, bordered by wooded banks and dotted with huge elms. While the carriage-drive led away through another wood to a lane beyond, a flower-garden lay on the other side of the house. Over a little brook and up a sunny bank there stretched a kitchen garden with fruit-trees innumerable, and in another part was a special orchard.
My grandfather had planned the whole place and planted all the trees except two Scotch firs in the drive, of unknown antiquity. The house too was of his own building, arranged for his bride in the reign of George III.
He had started with a farm and its dwelling-house, with huge old outside chimneys, gables, rafters, and stone floors. The walls were made of anything to be had some two or three centuries ago mostly mud and timber. In some alterations made during my time a large trunk of a tree was found embedded in one wall. In some places these walls were two yards thick, and it had been customary to gouge a bit out when a cupboard was wanted.
At the end of this old part he had built a new Georgian house, with pillared front and a brick arch at each side, concealing the back regions. These arches became mellowed in colour and creeper-clad, and gave a pleasant surprise to anyone approaching and passing through to the beautiful older buildings beyond.
The connexion of the new house with the old had necessitated some strange staircases and dark corners, and every room seemed to lead into some other room. And it was easy to get on the roof, or jump from a window at almost any point. The delightfully rambling ensemble seemed to have been designed by some celestial architect for the sole purpose of playing hide-and-seek. My grandfather had ten children, and no doubt they took as much advantage of this as we grandchildren did.
The out-buildings were even more rambling and mysterious than the interior. Beyond the great dairy there was the hen-yard, surrounded by coops inhabited by hens in every stage of their duty. From this you went into the big yard, with its long row of stables and a granary over them. Beyond this again was the lower yard, where the cows were housed and milked in sheds all round, and where the pigs wallowed about in the middle. By the side of this was the big barn, and beyond that the mowey, another yard where the ricks were built up on stone supports to keep the rats away. The little lane led in one direction to the smithy, the horse-pond, and a few scattered cottages, and in the other direction to the water-mill. All round were the various fields belonging to the farm, some with cows, some with sheep, but most of them with corn.
The difficulty on arriving from London was to know where to begin enjoying oneself. I well remember one such evening, being far too excited to sleep, I kept leaping from my bed to the window-seat, from sheer exuberance. At last I burst one of the panes in pieces. My golden aunt thought this quite a natural thing to do, and ‘it saved having to open the window’.
As a regular thing so far as I was concerned the first charge on the estate was a personal visit to every animal. Cats first. These were divided into four distinct classes, and the cats seemed to be as snobbish as humans. The parlour cats were Persians, sat on laps and best chairs, and would never recline in the kitchen, although they would stroll casually about when a savoury smell was prevailing. The kitchen cats seemed to be always having kittens in the fathomless linen-cupboard at the top of the stairs. If they ventured into the dining-room it was to hide under the table in the hope of gain. Orchard cats prowled round the yards and stables, quite self-supporting, never venturing indoors unless under stress of hunger. One of these, a torn called Sarah, was so fierce that I was afraid to stroke him, and threw scraps to him at a distance. Then there were the office cats. The ‘office’ was a side wing of the old house, where accounts were kept and where the farm-men used to be paid on a Saturday. Behind it was a place called the ‘slaughter-house’, which I never had the courage to explore; the name put me off. A few cats, lean and humble-minded, managed to exist in this borderland, despised by both parlour and kitchen cats.
The only creature that really frightened me was the turkey-cock. Nothing in my life has ever made me so weak with terror as that horrible gobbling bird. Tired of parading with his harem in the orchard, he would now and again strut in the hen-yard or mowey. He would definitely forbid me to cross a yard if he was in it. If I made a dash to cross it, so would he….
There was never any alarm to me about a horse, and the very smell of the stables was intoxicating. Beautiful, glossy-coated carriage-horses, a pony for us to ride, and numberless farm-horses—all were beloved. One of these last was called Taffy, an enormous fellow, noted for his ferocity. At dinner one day I was missing, and as children never fail to turn up at meal-time unless something has gone wrong, a search was ordered. I could be found in none of the usual haunts, and as I was only five years old, anxiety began. At last I was discovered seated cross-legged, with complete unconcern, under Taffy, who was munching from his manger. The stable-boy who accidentally found me had to entice me away, for he was afraid to go near Taffy himself.
Only one dog do I remember. I think he was so dear to everyone that when he died the family could never bear to have another. Theo was a great shaggy Newfoundland, who joined in all our childish games as well as ever he could, being treated as a member of the family. The old cook was heard to say one day, as she stooped to pick up his dish, ‘Have you finished, please, Master Theo?’ Barnholt once offered him a bite of his bun, but Theo did not quite understand the Limits implied in the word ‘bite’, and the whole bun disappeared.
With such profusion of cows, sheep, pigs, poultry, and vegetation of all kinds, Reskadinnick was practically self-supporting, and my grandfather was able to boast frequently that there was nothing on the dinner-table but what he had produced on the farm. Fish was a rare treat, and a gift of trout or salmon was prepared and served with a ritual almost religious. Now and again there would resound from the lane a penetrating cry of ‘Pilchards! Pilchards!’ There had been a big haul, and a pony-cart was going round the countryside to sell them. All other food-preparations were then set aside for a pilchard orgy. The staple food was ‘pig-meat’ in its endless variety, and poultry. We had an old cookery-book containing tins, to a London mind, extraordinary hint: ‘If you have nothing in the house, and company should come, take a cold turkey, &c.’ To suggest the killing and cooking of a live turkey is reasonable enough, but to select a cold one from one’s ‘empty’ larder!
Bread was made every day, in batches of a dozen manchet loaves. A ‘manchet’ was a loaf moulded by hand, and not put in a tin. It was against ancient ritual for a loaf that had been cut to be placed on the table. My aunt was so angry one day when this occurred that I began to wonder what became of all the bread that was left. However, the mystery was solved when I saw her preparing a mash for the turkeys. In my day German yeast was used, but mother told me that when she was little they had no yeast, but used a bit of the dough of the previous batch to raise the new batch. What puzzled her so much was how they ever began it. Probably she asked and no one knew, for like so many Cornish customs it may have been centuries old, and I picture the Phoenicians bringing a piece of dough as a capital invention of the East. They used to bake the loaves, mother told me, by placing them in the wood-ash on the great stone slab in the kitchen. The stone slab is still there, and I have often stood on it and looked up the great chimney to the op
en sky. How jolly, I thought, those old wood fires must have been, with their spits and their cauldrons, so much more fun than the iron range, which in its turn seems fun compared to my modern efficient gas-stove.
The centre of excitement in the food scheme was the dairy. Its stone floor and slate shelves made it cool on the hottest day. On the shelves were ranged vast pans of milk, in various stages from cow to consumer. Foaming in from the milking-sheds, standing for the cream to rise before being scalded, scalded and thick with the deep cream waiting to be skimmed (the most attractive form), scalded and allowed to be drunk ad lib., sold to children at the door for a halfpenny a quart, or more often given to them for nothing. Now I had a special and private permit from my aunt to go into the sacred dairy and help myself to the clotted cream whenever I liked.
The bulk of the cream was, of course, turned into butter. Turned, not churned. A churn was never seen at Reskadinnick. It had been heard of, and actually used by my aunt who lived up in the town, but Tony, my golden aunt of Reskadinnick, tossed her head at the idea. She had her own ritual of butter-making, and many a time I used to curl up in the corner of the kitchen window-seat to watch it. Her hands had to be elaborately washed first, and dipped in cold water to be cool. The wooden tub with the cream in it had to be held at a special angle on her lap. With fixed eye and stern mouth she then began to swirl the cream round, and you mustn’t speak to her till the butter came. One day I was allowed as a great treat to make a little butter all by myself, with no one even watching. When it came, behold, it was very good, and the joy of creation was mine.
A London Child of the Seventies Page 10
