The Love of a Lifetime Read online

  “Listen to me William and you too, Richard. Manor Farm is now Wilde land and that’s the way it’s going to stay. When I’m dead and gone, you must keep the place always.” He looked seriously at our Billy. “Are you listening, William?

  Billy nodded. His mouth was full of bread and blackcurrant jam, which Mother had put out for our tea. He had eaten steadily throughout the entire excitement of Father’s announcement.

  “Yes Father,” he mumbled.

  “Good. This is Wilde land forever.” He walked to the window and stared out onto the yard. Mother went to stand beside him and for a moment, I swear I saw his shoulders shake. When he turned back his eyes were damp.

  “Sit down, Thomas,” said Mother, all bustling now and businesslike. “Let me get you a cup of tea to celebrate.”

  Father fished out his large handkerchief and blew his nose. “Thank you, Mary Constance. That would go down a treat.” And he looked round the kitchen with a proprietarial air and when his gaze came back to me, he gave me a kind smile.

  “It’s very good news, Richard. Did you understand that?”

  “Yes Father,” I whispered.

  We had an exciting few days after that because it seemed that every field and every hedge took on a new significance. It was something, I can tell you, for ordinary people like us, to join the land-owning class. People in the village talked and said things about Father getting above his station, but he ignored them and Mother said they were jealous.

  Those were hard days that followed and anxious ones but in a way the war helped. Prices were good and we were able to make profits on milk and beef and on vegetables, that we couldn’t have managed before. That set us up and after that, for the next few years, we did well.

  As I said, the village is a mile from the house along the top road. It was small in those early days with grey stone cottages lining the one main street. Down one end was a cattle yard and abattoir but that closed in the twenties and then we used the one in the town, five miles away.

  In the middle of the village is the old stone church which we attended most Sundays. It’s Anglican, which Mother liked for its lack of mithering.

  “Not Godly enough for true believers,” Granny would snort, preferring the Free Church in the next village, where the services were less formalised but the worshippers busybodies to a man and woman. Nobody got away with slightest indiscretion in her church. Everything was looked down upon, from the merest medicinal brandy to the worst case of sexual indiscretion. Poor Mabel Parry was called before the deacons in front of the entire church membership and made to confess her crime. When she died in childbirth, being not much more than a child herself, they wouldn’t even let her be buried in their scrubby church yard.

  “She was nothing more than a trollop,” said Granny with a dismissive shrug of her shoulders when Mother complained that it was cruel putting Mabel in a pauper’s grave.

  Father said nothing but according to Marian, it was after that he started attending St Winifred’s.

  The village had a pub too, the Golden Lion. It’s still there today, but you’d hardly recognise it as the same place. When I was a lad, it had sawdust on the floor and spittoons in every corner and as for drinks, well, if you didn’t like beer, gin or whisky, then there was no point in your going in. There were two bars, the saloon and the snug, which the older men claimed as their territory. The few women who went into the pub never ventured into that part. They were considered common anyway because respectable women stayed away. All that changed of course after the Great War and even if ladies like Mother kept away, the younger ones began to go in, but only if accompanied by their young men.

  Now the Golden Lion is a fancy place, with carpets and cushioned window seats and no sign of the spittoons. The young couple who run it do meals and have built an hotel annex on the old allotment gardens behind. I went to the pub a few weeks ago with Andrew Jones and drank a double whisky that went down a treat on a cold December day. He’s a nice lad, that Jones fellow.

  Father wasn’t a drinker but went to the Golden Lion occasionally to conduct business. Quite a bit of buying and selling went on in there and Father, being abstemious, did well. He was good at bargaining, calm and determined.

  As young men, Billy and I spent a lot of time in the pub, mostly at the weekends because by then it had taken over from the church, as the centre of village activity. I remember once drinking ten pints and being sick at every bend of the road on the way home. Billy was not a drinker like me. He could nurse a lemonade shandy for two hours without getting to the bottom of the glass.

  The school was at the other end of the village, close to the fields where they were sinking the new mine shaft. We had a seam of coal in our district, but somehow, it didn’t seem to have the overpowering effect on the community that it had in other areas. Many of the mine workers worked the land as smallholders or farm labourers, going straight from morning milking into the cage that would take them underground. Father wasn’t one of these men working at two jobs. He said it took all his time to do one properly, but when the mine in our village was up and running, Eddie Hyde left us to go down the pit full time. Funny thing was, that his son, Harold, refused to go underground and returned to farming, taking the tenancy of fifty acres of hillside and running sheep. He was a good shepherd too and once, in the thirties when the prices were down and our Billy was thinking about trying something new, he bought forty ewes from Harold and grazed them on the water meadows. It didn’t work though; the land was too wet and they got foot-rot.

  “I hate school,” Billy used to say every morning as he sat at the breakfast table.

  Mother would sigh and shake her head whilst ladling porridge into the blue striped bowls. “You’re going, my lad, and that’s an end to it.” She would never let him get away with skiving off, even though he was more use on the farm than he ever was at school.

  “I’m not learning nothing useful for a farmer,” he’d grumble, but he did. Top of the class at mental arithmetic he was, clever at those figuring sums where you had to work out how many bushels of wheat you could get out of twenty pounds of money. In later years he would always drive a hard bargain at the market, working out in his head the best deal he could make and when it came to shaking hands on the contract, everyone knew that Billy Wilde had come off best.

  He was no good at the other subjects though. His reading and spelling were poor and I saw him break his slate more than once rather than show his work. Old Cutts, the school master, would get out his strap and Billy would get a leathering. Those slates cost a fair penny in those days.

  “I’ll teach you, Wilde,” Cutts used to say and belt our Billy on the backside in front of the whole class. It made me wince to see it and many’s the time I felt like running out of the classroom and back down the lane to Mother, but I was a nervous boy and too frightened to get out of my place. Billy never seemed to care much. He’d look up at me from where he was leaning over the high stool and give a little wink and afterwards, all he’d do was knuckle his eyes quickly and walk jauntily back to his seat. The other children would stare round-eyed at him, specially the girls.

  The school was a stone building with a steeply pitched roof and a bell lodged in the gable at the front. It had two classrooms and most times the boys were in one room and the girls in another. We had straight lines of desks; wooden they were, with curved metal legs, which cut cruelly into your bare legs in the winter. The lid lifted up so that your exercise book could be kept inside and on top was a ridge for your pen and an inkwell.

  The bigger girls, the eleven and twelve-year-olds helped the little ones and Mr Cutts would walk between the two rooms giving the lessons. For singing and scripture we would be crowded in together. For the beatings, which Mr Cutts seemed to think was an important part of his day, we were gathered at one end of the boys’ room, by the stove. The girls were never beaten on the backside, but he would make them hold out their hands for the strap. Even the little ones would get it if he was in the moo
d and I can see now the little trickles of piddle that would run into the wooden floorboards from beneath those wool frocks and aprons or down small grubby knees from under the serge knickerbockers. They did cry too. Made my stomach turn over, but then as I said, I was like that, squeamish. It wouldn’t be allowed today and I suppose that’s a good thing, but by God we knew our manners and learned quickly to show adults some proper respect.

  When I started at school, Billy was already two years ahead but I soon caught up. I liked the lessons and best of all, Marian was an apprentice teacher then so she kept an eye on me and made sure that the bigger children weren’t rough. She left the next year, though, when she married Albert Baker. They lived in the town and Albert worked for his father, the apothecary. In later years, after his father died, Albert had as many as three shops and became a very warm man. Marian was quite the lady in those days.

  Our house and the barns were built of the old pinky-red Cheshire brick that always looked so fine and smart. When you got up close, however, you could see that the brick was crumbly and had to be repaired with lumps of mortar at regular intervals.

  “This bugger will fall about our ears, one of these fine days,” Father would say as he stood on the wooden ladder slapping a mixture of mortar and sand on the walls of the house. He was good with his hands generally, could make anything from wood and could even do a bit of blacksmithing, if necessary, but he made a hell of a mess of the house. Billy got in a proper bricklayer later and had the whole place repointed. It looks grand now and the council have listed it.

  The roofs are blue slate topped with fancy red ridge tiles. As a boy I loved to watch the rain slip across those slates leaving them bright and glistening. Then I’d get a telling off for day dreaming.

  “For goodness sake, Richard,” Mother would shout, rushing out to get the washing off the line. “Don’t stand there, all gormless, help me.” Mother was rarely sharp with me. Billy said I was her pet, and maybe it was true. But if I was her pet, I certainly wasn’t Father’s.

  As well as the brick shippon and the hay barn, we had pig sties and kennels. They were generally in poor shape and mended with whatever material could be found around the yard. But if the pig sty and the kennel had tin roofs and gaps in the walls, we had good stables. These were home for Father’s shire horses and he always took care with them and made sure that they were free from draughts and well cleaned out.

  Our shires were grand. Old Diamond was a prize winner and I saw Father cry when he died. The horse had a knotted intestine and the Father had to shoot him. The old horse’s colt, also called Diamond, grew up to be our Billy’s favourite.

  We never had the vet in those early days; it was only later, when the farm was doing well that Father paid to have all the stock properly looked after. Sammy Philips, called Sammy the Oaks after his smallholding on the other side of the village, was a sort of self-trained vet who we used before the real vets came into the town.

  He was a small man with bandy legs and a bright shock of curly fair hair. Father called him out for a difficult calving or trouble with the horses and he never minded getting out of bed on the worst of nights. As far as I know he was a good animal doctor but I do know that he drank and was often found in the ditch close to the Golden Lion. But sober, you wouldn’t ask for better or more reliable help.

  The other thing about Sammy was that he could always find something you wanted. The right implement, the particular breed of cow, or chicken, even the occasional temporary labourer to help with hay-making or harvest. Sammy had it all at his fingertips and would get up on his old cob and go and make the deal. He couldn’t read a line of writing or know one number from another when it was put on paper, but word of mouth he was right good and made himself a bob or two. He never did you down neither and that was why he prospered. These days people have forgotten what it means to act as an agent. They’re looking out for themselves and bugger you.

  Even in later years when the animals became more valuable and Father was keen on the proper vet, Sammy still remained a friend and would be round the house often on a Sunday evening for a bite to eat and a bit of company. He hadn’t got a wife and his old mother was as deaf as a brick and spent most of her time sitting on the rocker and gazing at the fire. I remember most fondly those Sunday evenings, sitting round the kitchen table while Father cut big slices of cold roast beef and Mother dished up fried vegetables and home-made pickles.

  “Nice bit of meat this, missus,” Sammy would say, nodding whilst he chewed and looked round our cosy, oil-lit kitchen contentedly.

  “Another slice, Sammy?” Father would ask, knife and fork poised above the big rib joint, but the man always refused. He knew his manners, besides, on the dresser Mother would have put an apple pie and a jug of our cream for afters and he had to leave room for that. He and Father would smoke their pipes for a while after supper and talk about the animals. Those evenings he was always sober and would thank Mother most kindly before leaving. I dare say he would call in at the pub on the way home, but that was his business.

  When Father was ill, before he died, a knock came on the door. It was Sammy, sober. “Hear the master is poorly, missus,” he said to Mother.

  “He’s not himself, I’ll say that,” Mother said.

  “Well, I thought I call to see if I could do something.”

  So, it was Sammy who got Father onto the commode and kept him clean down below. It was he who shaved him every day, not Billy nor me although we were thirteen and eleven and could have helped with the nursing, I suppose, but Mother wouldn’t let us. She was concerned, I think, about Father’s dignity.

  I’m getting ahead of myself now. I’ll come back to Father’s death later on. But now I’m tired and will put this aside for the evening. God willing, I’ll be spared to continue this tomorrow.

  Chapter 3

  It’s been two weeks since I wrote those last notes. Suddenly, in the night, I came over with a bad chill and was taken into the hospital as it went to my lungs. And then, when I was better, what a business. They wanted to take me to an old people’s home. Old peoples dump! Never, never, never! I fought that and I’m home again, with the nurse coming in every now and then and some girl from the council bringing my grub and cleaning the place.

  I’ve moved into the parlour now and use the downstairs bathroom so there isn’t much for her to do and she’s not a bad young woman, all told. Turns out that she’s a granddaughter of one of the Major’s by-blows. She told me that her great granny and the Major were married and divorced. Ha! I laughed at that. That’s what she thinks. He was never married to any of the village girls.

  But, fair play, this girl, Sharon, has just brought me a cup of tea and a biscuit and made sure that the warm shawl is round my shoulders. This is one of Mother’s shawls that I found in the big wardrobe in the main bedroom. Quite a few of Mother’s clothes are still there, I could never bear to get rid of them.

  I like wearing the shawl. It is comforting and has a faint smell of Mother’s favourite scent, Attar of Roses. Mother always kept a little bottle of that perfume on her dressing table.

  Sharon brought her son, Thomas, with her today. He’s about seven or eight, I think.

  “I hope you don’t mind, Mr Wilde,” she said, “but it’s half term and there’s no-one to look after him.”

  I’m not used to children, never had any of my own, well, none that I brought up, but this one is a kindly little chap and understands that I’m not to be disturbed. Sharon keeps him with her in the kitchen and now, as I look out of the window, he is in the garden, kicking a football.

  We played football, when we were boys. I wasn’t much cop, but Billy was good. He played for the school team and after he left school he joined the village team. The year our village won the Shropshire Cup, Billy was the captain. I went with him to the final against Market Drayton. What a day that was. Up at five-thirty and a quick scamper to the village where we joined all the others, players and supporters, at the station. It took a c
ouple of hours on the train and we enjoyed much jollity and some drinking. The members of the team stayed sober, but I, I’m ashamed to say, at age seventeen, led the drinkers and Sammy Philips and I were taken into custody by the constable at the station at Market Drayton and missed the match. I was sorry to miss it, for Billy kicked two goals and was hoisted on the shoulders of the rest of the team. Sammy and I were released to rejoin the others to go home and after we got off the train at our station and were walking home, Billy gave me a proper cuffing, he was that angry. He didn’t tell Mother though and I told her that I had fallen when she wanted to know why I had a bruised face. I dare say I deserved it, but he didn’t need to put stones in his fists to belt me.

  We played lots of games. Football in the winter and cricket in the summer. Those were the formal games that we learned at school. But that was at school. At home, after we’d done our chores, we were off into the fields to play at all sorts.

  Birds’ nesting was one of our favourite activities. These days, you can’t do it and rightly, I suppose, but then we knew no better and climbed all over the hillside looking for nests. We had a rule amongst us lads that you didn’t take all the eggs, but if you hadn’t got a certain one and you needed it to complete your collection, well, who was looking? We were cruel little buggers in those days. Buzzards nested on the cliffs near the top of the mountain and that was a whole day’s trip out for those eggs, but by God it was worth it on Monday morning when you could bring one of those bluish white eggs out of your jacket pocket and show off in front of your mates.

  “Look,” you’d say, “look at the blotches,” pointing out the brown spots, “proves it’s a buzzard.” There were always those lads who’d think you’d brought in one of your Mother’s own duck eggs.

  Many years later, when I was on leave from the army, I went to the Lake District on a climbing holiday. I met a man who took me up to see an eagle’s nest. I can’t find the words properly to tell of the excitement I felt that day. It was breathtaking and frightening when the great birds screamed around us as we climbed up to their nest. It was on a ledge and I had a right struggle to find footholds to get close enough. Then I saw the eggs, two of them lying in the middle of a great collection of sticks and bracken with a warm heather lining. A baby could have lain down comfortably in that bed. Strange, considering how I’d been as a boy, I had no desire then to take one of the eggs. It seemed too cruel especially in a world that was full of cruelty. Afterwards, I hoped that our visit hadn’t upset the eagles too much. I hoped that at least one of the eggs hatched and that the youngster made it into the world.