Changing Ways
By okokjazz
- 447 reads
Driving through familiar countryside, it was a journey back in time
for us. Past the familiar buildings; mostly little changed in the years
since we came through here, but spread around are new ones, covering
once empty spaces. It is these that are testament to times
changed.
I was nervous - I think we all were - as we pulled up to the Grange. I
think the building to which we headed would once have been a stable
block or something, but was now designed for the giving of receptions
like this one. We'd not known what to wear that morning, and so were
dressed to an assortment of levels, as each considered most
appropriate. We children didn't know quite what to expect, or who we
would know. We hadn't seen most of these people in seven years, and we
doubted how many names and faces would dredge themselves up from the
swamps of memory. My littlest brother, who had been only seven when we
left, said later that he felt he would only have been able to recognise
anyone by their middles, and would have to go along on his knees to be
able to have any chance of establishing whether or not he was familiar
with any of them. As it happened, we were able to simply get hold of
food and wine and sit and talk to one another and the few old
acquaintances we remembered from the past, grown now to men from the
boys they had been. The usual speeches ensued after lunch, given by
people we hardly recalled, and who were now much more lined and much
smaller than they had seemed to us as children.
It wasn't until we repaired to the village proper that I really began
to feel the pangs of homesickness that I had expected. The afternoon
was sunny; not really warm, but delicate and spring-like. It was the
way I remember Ashwell from when I was small, with the thatched houses
opposite the village garden bathed in a light that made their white
walls shine; that showed all the grooves of the ancient wood of the
lych gate of the church; that made the needles of the yew trees shine a
rich blue-green in the church yard. Walking up the gravel path, I tried
to look at the church like a stranger would, to put a value on it
relating to its interest and beauty, but my memories impinged on my
contemporary vision. To me, it seemed the epitome of a church;
everything a church ought to be. Its aged pale grey walls are
crumbling. It is set in a green grass graveyard, with flowers here and
there, among imposing trees. The tower has only clock-faces on three
sides, so that workers on one particular estate (whose name escapes me)
were kept from clock watching. We passed under the arch of yew trees in
front of the church door, and it was David - my littlest brother - who
remembered the wedding photograph of our parents under this very pair
of trees, looking young and happy, with the sun shining on the roses
that lined the path behind them. Every step we took was rich with
memories of our three childhoods. In the porch was the ill-fitting door
that led, via some incredibly steep steps, to the tower room. Edward
(the middle brother) and I, at different times, had both made the
treacherous journey up these steps, dressed in our long blue
choristers' robes and surplices, for Sunday school; David had been too
young to be in that group.
The reason for our little trip down Memory Lane was to sing once again
in our beloved church choir. All except David, who was too young, loved
that choir; my dad had been a member thirty years when we left. I hold
it responsible for my eternal love of singing and I looked forward to
hearing them sing once more with a trained ear, to establish whether my
childish hearing had misrepresented their skill. It was hard work;
there were long pieces, some in eight parts and none easy, that had to
be learnt before evening. My youth meant I had sung none before and I
had to work hard indeed to bring out a decent performance that evening.
Sometimes, singing in a group like that, all focussed together on one
object and all pouring out entire souls towards attaining it, I feel a
shiver of pure orgasmic gratitude at being part of that group. I almost
felt, then, that I would regain the faith I had harboured unknowingly
as a child, as I revelled in the pure delight of singing, that day, in
that church, and with those people.
It was the break between the rehearsal and the concert, however, that
was the special part of the day for Edward, David and myself. We sat in
the pews, taking the edge off the raging teenage hunger and thirst that
had been exacerbated by singing. It was Edward who commented on he fact
that the church seemed so much smaller than it had done. There was a
wooden screen that he remembered as going right up to the roof, but
that in fact was little more than two metres tall. The aisle seemed
short and the pews narrow. The Lady Chapel was tiny and the pillars
seemed less massive. Apart from our growing up, this surely had had
something to do with our more recent familiarity with the majestic
Abbey at St. Albans. We gulped down second cups of tea and headed out
into the soft late May afternoon. We went first in search of a little
gift shop that had been opposite the church and where we had spent many
a long hour playing with the cat and her regular litters of kittens
that lived there. We walked past the place where it had been, at first;
it had closed and so we missed it. We passed on up the road to Elbrook.
This was a huge field whose usual inhabitants were usually cows, but
for the August Bank Holiday it was taken over for the Horse Show. Our
dad was on the committee, and so was drafted in to set up. We, of
course, went too, and spent all day sitting in the open boots of cars
with ropes and stakes, or climbing lorries loaded with hay bales, or
'helping' to drive the digger or the car. We even got to work the
bucket of the digger when it was used to drive stakes into the ground.
It was, in short, a far better and more interesting day for inquisitive
and active children than the actual show ever could be. That usually
involved sitting with granny and the dog outside the car, parked at
ringside, and eating from the immense picnic mum always packed. We were
never particularly interested in the horses, but there were falcon
displays and dog agility and, the highlight, a local hunt who brought
their hounds to the ring for the children to pet. Plus, there were a
myriad of stalls, most selling horse-related items, but there was
always a huge sweet van that meant that we spent the following week
well stocked with good things.
The field was empty, it being May, and all we could do was lean on the
gate and look at the cows. We turned round and headed back past the
church and up to the Seven Springs. This was the reason there was a
village here in the first place. At seven points, water flowed out pure
and clear from under the chalk hills to form the river Cam, which went
on to flow through Cambridge. The pool was a favourite summer time
haunt for us, where we splashed about, catching the ecologically
fascinating little water fleas and prehistoric leeches that lived in
it. None of us went for a paddle that day - it wasn't really safe to go
in without something on your feet because there was a lot of broken
glass. Anyway, it was bitterly cold. The boys scrambled up and around
the high steep banks. I had to content myself with watching them
because my shoes were totally unsuitable.
Time eventually pushed us back to the church, where we wandered through
the churchyard. We mourned the loss of particular branches on
particular trees, where we had swung and climbed after the services
when we were little, with every other child of the church, all of us
waiting for our parents to drink their coffee and take us home. We
walked down to the bottom, where the churchyard joined the rectory
garden. There was a stern gate there now, that had never been closed
when we had been part of the congregation, but there was a different
vicar these days; we could see the grave of the previous one from where
we stood.
We drifted back up towards the North door. We peered over the fence
into the paddock, looking for the horses that were sometimes there and
would often come up and take a handful of grass from our hands. In the
late afternoon sunshine we sat down and began to make daisy chains - an
activity even two teenage boys took part in. After the concert, we
drove home past the house we had built and had lived in for years. We
couldn't see it from the road - it's set back up a tarmac drive that we
laid, but it was nice to remember that place, that is our true home,
once more.
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