Marjories Story
Family members in the North of England are very important to each other, always having the proprietary prefix of ‘our’ added to the Christian name. Consequently, from the time I was born, in the Lancashire cotton mill town of Ashton-Under-Lyne I was always known within the family as ‘Our Marjorie’ and my only sibling was always ‘Our Jack’. My maternal Grandmother had blessed me with lots of Aunts and Uncles, but Sarah was the favourite Aunt and Fred the favourite Uncle – Our Fred having been given the honorary ‘Our’ by the fortunate circumstance of his marriage to ‘Our Sarah’. This couple were childless and comparatively well-off and, due to my parents busy life trying to build up a business in the depression of the twenties; I spent a considerable portion of my childhood being fostered by them in their pretty cottage on the borders of the beautiful Derbyshire hills. It is to this couple that I owe my love of the English countryside and to the memory of a reasonably happy childhood.
I was twelve years old when WW2 was declared and had just won an academic scholarship to a very good School in Manchester . However, when war broke out this school was evacuated and, to my great joy, I was allowed to stay with my Aunt and Uncle (This is where they lived) for a while and attend the local school in, what was then, the very small market town of Glossop. Eventually I was forced to return to my home in Manchester and, as I had a leaning towards Art, and the Art school had yet to be evacuated, I spent some undisciplined months there before my parents found me a place in a country boarding school in Cheshire . Indeed the war was to cause me to have a very hodge-podge of an education, but I grew up very quickly and have recently started to write down my experiences of that period.
Excert from "Shadows" (there is more on my stories page)……………………We had only just returned from a wonderful week with Mrs Higginbotham at her boarding house in the northern sea-side holiday town of Cleethorpes.
Sunday lunch was eaten at the plain wooden kitchen table, serviceably covered by a rose-patterned ‘oil’ cloth. A glass of beer sat at Uncle’s elbow, while a jug of homemade lemonade stood within easy reach of Auntie and me, and the door, flung wide to the fresh air, gave out to a view of the back garden, where the leaves of the Lilac tree in the far corner threw freckled shadows on to the little brick shed that housed the outside lavatory. Just beyond the kitchen window, the fruitful boughs of a gnarled old apple tree cast dark blue lines across the tiny square of daisy-speckled lawn, and clumps of bright orange marigolds leant splashes of colour to each shady corner. Gradually, the significance of the day’s news began to sink in, and both adults became reflective. “How old is our Jack now?” Uncle looked towards my Aunt. “Nearly nineteen isn’t he? – Aye, about the same age as I was when the last lot started..” Auntie threw a warning glance towards me as I started to look worried. I loved my brother. “Does that mean that he’ll have to go and fight?” For most of my life I had heard stories of the first World War, mostly from my Grandmother, who had lost three sons to that conflict. Stories of my uncles, coming home on leave and having to have Grandma throw buckets of soapy water over both them and their crawling, mud covered clothing, before being allowed to even cuddle their horrified family, and of their having to strip off in the outdoor ‘wash-house’ to have their khaki uniforms de-loused, the flame of a candle travelling up and down the seams to kill off the eggs of fleas and bugs. I had no desire for my big brother to go through anything I like that. Auntie was quick to reassure me. “No, love,” she said, “Our Jack wont have to go, -?” She looked the question towards her husband, but he just shook his head. “Perhaps it won’t come to that,” he said. “Some say it’ll be over before anybody gets called up, and it’ll all be left to the Territorials.” – or The British Expeditionary Forces as they seem to be calling themselves now.” I wasn’t convinced, and afterwards, the Yorkshire pudding covered in rich brown gravy as an accompaniment to the roast, but sluiced in lemon juice and sugar for the usual Sunday pudding, didn't seem to taste as good as it normally did
It was within this period that I was to meet my husband, Arthur. A man of honour, a man of great courage, a true gentleman and a man that I would love and who would love me till the day he died.
Where I now live
I think I could safely say that the estate in which I now live is unique. Just minutes away from the beautiful city of Perth in Western Australia, it was started by a few of the returning airmen of WW2, in conjunction with the Royal Australian Air Force Association – RAAFA – and was to provide semi sheltered, yet self catering accommodation for retired airmen and their wives, many of them like myself "new Australians" having served in the Royal Air Force, but who were welcomed with warmth and equality by true blue Australians.
Covering about 15 acres of what was then virgin bush; one and two bed-roomed apartments were built around a lake of peaceful beauty. The Lake was already home to both native and transitional water birds that quickly accepted, and indeed thrived on the close proximity to their new neighbours.
A licensed club soon appeared, along with outdoor pool, bowling greens and tennis courts; all connected by pleasant wooded walks around the lake-side oval, and as time went on other additions were to be made, such as little motel units for the benefit of resident’s visitors, a Village Hall, a pretty little chapel and a lodge for when residents become unable to care for themselves.
However,I have to admit, that when my son John drove me round the estate, just "to have a look Mum" - my first reaction was to declare in no uncertain terms that I was "not yet ready" for such a move, and besides which, all the folks living there were "old". After all I was only - oh yes, - well perhaps other people were old, but surely not me!!!
I had also to admit that the residents seemed to be having a ball, doing the things that I no longer had the time to do. What with cleaning all my spare bedrooms, cutting the lawns and cleaning the pool when John was working too far away to call on for help. There was also the enormous cost of things like Council Rates and Insurance. I went home and looked around. The place needed a coat of paint and the gates were squeaking for lack of new hinges. Tradespeople were not easy to get hold of and I was going to have to get the ladders out to change a ceiling light globe. Well, it was a bit traumatic, getting rid of the old house and the most loved but superfluous pieces of furniture, but I eventually bit the bullet and moved in to my little unit in Sivyer House. That was four years ago and although I sometimes get a bit nostalgia for the old days I haven't really regretted the move. I have made so many good friends, and found time to do a lot of the things I'd never had time for before. I painted till I ran out of wall space on which to hang my efforts.
I started to write short stories and had some success in having them accepted by magazines. I wrote poetry and became a member of The International Library of Poets. I even wrote pieces, free lance, for the local newspaper. I became secretary to the Resident's Estate Group and then secretary to the Village Day Club, although I'd never worked as office tea girl let alone anything so grand sounding as "Secretary". By golly they even gave me an official badge.
There were other things that I found myself involved with. For instance our little buggy, a generous gift from the Dept of Veterans Affairs to our estate, and something that is most useful for those residents who might not be as agile as they were, and find walking a bit trying on a hot summers day or when the wind is blowing on a cold wintery one. Very useful indeed when they want to go up to our little shop, or the pool, or to the club or to join one or other of our Association shopping buses which are also always available to take us on organised trips or even just to get out of four walls and take a ride with a friendly driver.
Our Buggy | Committee |
| “Here you are,” they kindly said “Don’t go too fast, or let it go to your head. It has to be driven with delicate care, With dignity, calm, and with gentle flair”. But somewhere along our drivers’ route With a yell of delight and a Root,Toot,Toot, The buggy went haring around the estate Like shivering jelly, on a hot plate. Over the bumps with speed and with flight, Flags all a flying and wheels all alight. Down to the gates, and up again yonder Making the ducks to all squawk and to ponder On dear old ladies jumping out of the way, And gardener’s language as they hide in the hay. But nevertheless, through rain, hail and thunder The dear little buggy drives the puddles asunder And takes us with kindly care and new mates, With smiles and good fellowship, Right up to the gates. | We've formed a new committee, starting with just three. There's Allen as the President, - a bonzer guy is he. There's Kevin as a back-up, to keep the peace you see, And we've got a team of helpers, but the secretary's me. I'm not exactly Einstein, and my spelling skills are foul, So why have I been chosen? I'll drop the files, forget my pen, my slip it will be showing. I'm bound to catch a cold and find, my nose it needs a blowing. There are those with much more knowledge. Secretaries so much Cuter, But then - I've just remembered ... I'm the one with a computer. |
