The Country Nurse Remembers

by Mary J. Macleod

  Dad was not very good at handling the pony. He was used to Punch and Charlie, the Shires, who were so placid and always seemed to know what to do without being told. The pony was probably young; he was certainly very frisky.

  Mr. Burn, the foreman, was experienced in handling horses and tried to teach Dad how different a pony was from a car. ‘You got to remember, Boss, as how this ’ere ’orse ’as a leg at each corner instead of four wheels and ee ’as ’is own idears ’bout where ’ees goin’. Them reins aint a steerin’ wheel!’

  Mum and I laughed at Dad’s efforts, but Mum was too frightened to go in the carriage. (We called it a ‘trap’, which was a shame, because it was far too posh to be a trap.)

  I had a few rides up and down the road to the Works, while Dad practised with the reins and the commands. I thought he was very clever to learn so fast. I liked bowling along in the fresh air with the pony clip-clopping in front.

  But one day when Dad took him out onto the lane, it ended in disaster. No one knew that the pony had a dislike of manhole covers. Perhaps it was the clank that his hooves made on the metal. So, Dad was happily relaxing with the reins held lightly in his hands when, to avoid a manhole cover, the pony suddenly side-stepped—straight into the path of one of the very few vehicles still on the roads. A big lorry!

  The lorry stopped in time, but the pony was frightened by the screech of the brakes and took off at a gallop. Dad just held on and pulled the reins, but the carriage was swaying from side to side and bumping about very close to the river. They were almost into the village before Dad gradually brought the terrified pony under control. By then, he was shaking with shock and the effort of hauling on the reins. He walked ‘that wretched horse’ home, and that was that! The pony had to go.

  With the Bath Blitz in the past, and the house full of people, Dad’s mind turned to food again.

  One dark, rainy Saturday evening, I was told that Dad, Mum and I were going in the car to pick something up from a farm. I was intrigued and excited to be included in the adventure.

  The farm was not an ordinary farm. There were no cows or sheep but lots of goats. Goat farms were unheard of: nobody drank goat’s milk or ate goat meat. After a lot of talking and laughing, we went out to a stall where there were two goats, a mother goat with a baby. The nanny goat was grey with kind eyes and a beard and was quite happy for us to stroke her. The baby was about the size of a small dog, rather fluffy and very pretty.

  I realised that this was to be the next venture.

  ‘Have they got names?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh,’ said the farmer. ‘Babbie were born in the Bath Blitz. Us was in the shelter and knowed nothin’ about it. In the mornin’ there ’er were. So us called Babbie “Blitz”. Big un is “Nan”. ’Er’s a good milker and Blitz is near weaned. You like ’em, young lady?’

  ‘Oh yes, I do,’ I replied. I had never been called ‘young lady’ before. I felt quite grown-up.

  ‘’Ow be you getting them back, then?’ The nice man looked doubtfully at the Ford Eight.

  ‘Julia will sit on my wife’s knee; we’ll fold the rear seats down and put the goats in the back.’

  The man scratched his head. ‘Aint never ’eard o’ goats sittin’ in the back seat of a car, afore.’ He roared with laughter.

  But that is exactly what we did. The goats took some persuading to get into the back of the car but, once there, seemed quite happy. Nan snorted down the back of my neck all the way home, while Blitz tried to eat my hair.

  Dad had made a sort of stall for them for night-time, but they would be out in the paddock during the day. They trotted into their straw bed, were given drinks and some nuts to eat and we left them alone to settle down.

  Nan was, indeed, a good milker; goats do not give as much milk as cows, so we did not have the same problem we’d had with the cow. I do not remember making butter either, but perhaps we did. I do remember hating the taste of goat’s milk. But, of course, I could not say so, and I had to drink it.

  Goat’s milk and cheese is very healthy and fashionable now, but at the time we were considered to be most odd.

  Gradually, we acquired more goats, including a billy goat, who became daddy to Nan’s twins, born the next year. He was very wild and always escaping from his field, and Dad got very cross with him. I was told not to give the goats names because we would be eating them at some point. When the twins were young, I tried not to think of having to eat them one day; they were so sweet.

  As it happened, we did not eat them. But for a very sad reason: they fell into one of the big tanks of water on the Works and were drowned.

  Grandma and Granddad S. were still living with us when we once tried goat meat for Sunday dinner. Mum had told Grandma that it was chicken because she knew that Grandma would refuse to eat goat. Grandma did not guess, but Granddad, who did not approve of lies—even white ones—told her after dinner. From then on, she would not even eat chicken in case it was goat. So the white lie did more harm than good, as Granddad said, severely.

  We kept the goats until after the end of the war. Food became shorter and shorter in supply than ever then, and Dad said he was glad we had them.

  So was I.

  Tig was safe as long as we had goats.

  Train to Auntie Jinny

  Harry left us to go home to Southsea. I was sorry to lose a friend; an ally. Some suitable transport had been found for his return; he had friends there to help him, District Nurses to care for him and a flat that had been adapted to suit his needs. Harry’s bed was taken back to wherever it had come from, the other room was rearranged and it was as if Harry had never been there.

  Grandma and Granddad S.’s house would not be rebuilt until after the war was over, they were told. Grandma could not understand that everyone was too busy just trying to survive to bother about them, as they had a roof over their heads. Many people were being housed in halls, churches and derelict buildings. Granddad was earnestly following the progress of the war and paid little attention to her complaints. As an ex-serviceman, his main interest was listening to the news and thumping the table, whilst delivering his forceful opinion. Grandma and Mum seemed to have lots of arguments, but I could never work out what they were about.

  Occasionally, our vicar would ask Granddad to play the organ for a service in the parish church, as the regular organist had been called up. Granddad was delighted to ‘keep his hand in’, he said. There was no power to the church, so on Saturdays I occasionally accompanied him to pump the bellows when he went to practise the hymns for Sunday. I enjoyed being in the lovely old building and listening to the organ, as I pushed the big handle up and down to work the pump. It was hard work, and if I flagged a bit the organ would begin to make weird groaning noises. (Some big man pumped for the actual services.) It is possible that my love of organ music stems from those afternoons.

  Granddad played all manner of tunes on his piano in the other room at home: some hymns, some well-known songs and a lot of classical music. I liked it when he played dance tunes. I would leap about and twirl round to the rhythm of the music. Granddad said that I had a good ear—whatever that meant.

  One day, he had been playing very serious music for a long time, so I asked if he would play some dance music. ‘Good gracious, no, child!’ he replied, sounding very severe. ‘It’s Sunday. We do not have dance music on Sundays.’

  At about this time, Grandma had a really big row with Mum and arranged to spend a few days with a friend in Bath. Granddad went with her to catch up with some old friends from his church and to keep the peace, he said.

  So Dad decided that we would go to see Auntie Jinny, but it would have to be by train because of the petrol situation. I was quite excited at the thought of a long train journey. Mum and I had been into Bath by train to see Grandma and Granddad before the bombing; but that was only a short distance on the LMS line. The village also had the GWR railway, and each line had a station at that time. Now there is only one line still passing through the villa
ge, but there are no stations, so the trains just race through without stopping.

  I don’t remember which line we travelled on to see Auntie Jinny, but we ended our journey in Cheltenham. To me, the trip itself was an adventure, but more important was seeing Auntie Jinny again. It must have been about two years since our last visit because I was now ten years old.

  The cottage, the street and the town seemed just the same. I think Cheltenham had suffered some bombing, but the rest of the Cotswolds were almost untouched, and it was nice to walk around Winchcombe without seeing piles of rubble or big gaps where buildings used to stand. The bombing had more or less stopped in our part of the country, but Bath and Bristol were very sad sights as a result of those terrible raids.

  Auntie Jinny was as lovely as ever. She greeted me with a great big hug and held my hand while she said ‘Hello’ to Dad and Mum.

  ‘You are growing up, little one. We will have some lovely walks together, and you can tell me all that has been happening,’ she said.

  Auntie was too old to go for long walks, but we went into the town, round the little back lanes and into the churchyard. We had done this before because she always kept ‘dear Frank’s’ grave tidy and put flowers on it in the summer and lovely red leaves in the autumn. We sat on a seat in the sun, near the grave, and chatted.

  I told her how ill I had been shortly after our last visit. She was quite shocked, as Dad and Mum had not let her know. I assured her that it was all right, because Mum had been nice to me while I was ill. Auntie looked a bit funny, and I think I heard her say, ‘So I should think,’ but she spoke so quietly that I was not sure. She clutched my hand very firmly. I was so happy just to be with her.

  But there was something I had to ask her.

  ‘Auntie, if I had died and gone to see Jesus, would I have seen Mummy?’

  ‘Of course, you would. She would have been waiting with Jesus. I know I shall see my dear Frank again when I die.’ Auntie was totally convinced about such things.

  ‘But, would Mummy know me now? I’ve got so big that she might not recognise me.’ This had been a worry for a while. I had realised that if ever I did get to see Mummy, she would look the same as I remembered. But I was changing—growing—and I would not look like the little girl that she had left. Had not wanted to leave, Auntie corrected me. I sometimes wished that the last five or so years had just not happened and that I was still four or five years old and still had Mummy.

  ‘Jesus would make sure that your mummy knew you, little one. But you are not going to die for years and years.’

  ‘They didn’t say, but I think I might have nearly died when I was so ill.’

  Auntie murmured, ‘And they didn’t tell me.’ She seemed upset, and I suddenly thought that she might say something to Dad and Mum, which might make it look as though I had been complaining.

  ‘Auntie, it’s all right. Please don’t say anything, will you?’

  She looked at me sadly and sighed, shaking her head. Then, taking my hand, she rose and we wandered off, through the trees, back to the road. She told me a little story.

  Near the town was the lovely old Sudeley Castle, which we had seen through the trees in the days before the war. But now the grounds were surrounded by barbed wire and big fences, and no one was allowed near. It was a prison camp for Italian soldiers who had been captured by the British. Lots of big huts could be seen, and sometimes the Italian men were walking about between them. I was a bit confused about Italians because they fought on the German side, but later they changed sides and fought against the Germans. I couldn’t understand this at all. In company with most people, Auntie thought they were just as bad as the Germans and not trustworthy. She did not like the way that the authorities, who did not consider them to be a danger, allowed the prisoners to walk into town.

  One day, she had been tending ‘dear Frank’s’ grave as usual, when an Italian prisoner stopped beside her and watched what she was doing. She was a bit nervous at first, but he tried to talk to her in his broken English.

  ‘This your man?’

  ‘Yes, my husband,’ said Auntie.

  ‘Very sad. Much long dead?’

  ‘Yes. He was killed in the Great War.’ Auntie thought the Italian was very kind to ask about ‘dear Frank’.

  ‘You very nice lady … talk to prisoner. Sorry … your husband.’

  And the Italian wandered off.

  After that, Auntie changed her mind about all the Italians, telling everyone how kind they were, but when she told Dad this tale, he was not so impressed and just said, ‘Hmm.’

  We did not do anything exciting—you couldn’t in the war because of petrol rationing and problems with food. About the only restaurants where you might get a meal if you were out for the day were called ‘British Restaurants’. They were not ordinary restaurants: they were run by something called the ‘local authority’. But there weren’t any near Winchcombe, so we always took sandwiches if we were out at lunchtime.

  None of these restrictions bothered me. We were at Auntie Jinny’s house, and that was all that mattered.

  One evening, we all went to a film being shown at the local hall. There was no cinema for miles. It was terribly cold in the hall, and the film broke down from time to time and an old lady came forward and played tunes on a piano until they got it going again. Although about the war at sea, the film was very funny in parts. There was a ship’s cat that seemed to warn the men of an attack and was called ‘the intelligent cat’. Auntie had a cat at the time, and we teased her, saying that her cat was not as intelligent as the one in the film. She found this very funny and changed the cat’s name to ‘Intelligent Cat’. I wondered how she would call it in—it seemed a very long name to shout down the garden.

  All too soon, the visit was over, and we went home on the train. I think it was another four years until I saw Auntie Jinny again.

  And a lot had changed by then.

  The War Effort

  Perhaps it was because of all the bombing that the local schools became involved in ‘the war effort’. Suddenly, there were all sorts of projects to raise money for people who had been bombed out, and for soldiers and seamen and all manner of other folk.

  One morning Governess popped her head into the playground before school and called four girls in to help her. We were told to take some large, bulky parcels into the top classroom.

  It was called the ‘top’ classroom because it was for the older pupils—or the ‘big ones’. I was now about ten and so was a member of this class. The little ones were taught in the other classroom by Miss Barnes most of the time. As the wall between the rooms was only a folding wooden screen, there was always a terrific din, said Governess, and when she couldn’t stand it any longer, she went in there to ‘restore order’.

  When the big ones had all assembled, Governess produced lots of huge balls of very thick white wool. Every child in the class had to take several of these home, together with a sheet of paper with a picture of a long seaman’s sock, the instructions and some huge knitting needles. The boys handled the wool as though it might bite. They were mortified to be associated with knitting! We were to tell—not ask—our mothers to knit a pair of these socks, return them to school and then more wool would be issued.

  I was very worried. I had never ‘told’ Mum to do anything—how was I to do this? I made sure that I ran most of the way home so that there was not a chance of being late, and I hoped that Grandma S. would be there. It seemed easier to talk to Mum if someone else was present.

  I took my bundle in. Mum looked at it and frowned, but before she could say anything I held up the picture of the socks and said, ‘Governess says that all the mums have to knit these socks for the seamen and then they have to go back to school and then the mums have to knit some more.’ This was all in one breath.

  It worked. Mum glanced at Grandma, and then at the wool and pattern, and began to laugh!

  ‘I have never knitted a sock in my life,’ she said. ‘This
wool is so thick, it should knit up quickly, though. Well, I’ll do what I can.’

  In the end, she liked knitting with this rather greasy wool and the big needles. It all turned into a sort of competition. The mums tried to be the first to finish the initial pair and therefore get more wool for the second. Governess was pleased but was kept very busy sending for more wool. Dad got the idea that if Mum could knit socks for sailors, she could knit socks (the ordinary sort) for him. I think she knitted his socks for the rest of his life.

  The ‘war effort’ that I found fun was the ‘Scrap Iron Drive’. One day the local policeman came to the school and explained that in order to make armaments—we guessed that he meant guns and things—the factories needed raw materials. What did he mean by that? ‘Raw’ to us meant baby carrots or scraped skin! However, he told us that we were to form pairs and go round all the houses in the village asking people for their scrap iron. This could be old pots and pans, old garden implements, garden benches … anything that was metal. We called it all ‘iron’. This ‘drive’ was to start on Saturday and continue for several weeks.

  When he had gone, Governess paired us off and said that we were to tell our parents we were to do it on Saturday. Again, I was worried. More ‘telling’ Mum what had to happen, and I was not allowed out on Saturdays anyway. But I thought what fun it would be if she let me do this.

  I ran all the way home as before and told Mum, ‘The policeman said … ’ She looked very doubtful and told me she would speak to Dad. Luckily, he was quite enthusiastic, saying that it was a useful thing for me to do for the war effort.