Memories

We were on the way back from Sidmouth when my father stopped the
car. He turned to look at Uncle Bill, his brother, sitting on the back
seat. I was struck again by how similar they looked - dark eyes, black
wavy hair, both stocky and open-faced. People sometimes thought they
were twins. And when they were together Dad's Devon accent always got
stronger so that, hearing them, you couldn't tell them apart.

"You know, Colyford's only a couple of miles down that road."

They exchanged an odd look, and I didn't understand what he was talking
about.

"Let's go, why not?" said Uncle Bill and they both glanced at their
wives who shrugged a tacit permission.

"As long as the children don't get too tired," said Mum, and my little
brother Chris bounced up and down in the middle of the front seat with
enthusiasm, chanting "Let's go, let's go, let's go," over and over
again until Mum slapped his leg to make him stop.

Dad reversed the old Armstrong Siddeley back up the road, and then
turned the cumbersome vehicle onto the narrow country lane, moving from
bright sunshine to deep shadow as the high overgrown hedges funnelled
us in to the interior. Everyone rushed to wind the windows up rapidly
as leaves brushed against the car on both sides and branches scraped
and scratched at the black metal, as though to claw us from our steel
cage. I cringed against my aunt, terrified that we would get stuck in
the hedge, or meet a car coming the other way. Every now and then the
lane widened to allow a passing place, but that afternoon we were the
only crass intruders into that leafy domain.

I breathed a sigh of relief as the lane finally expanded into a
half-decent road where the hedges gave way to dry-stone walls. A dozen
or so houses, some thatched, and all fronted by neat gardens, were
strung out behind the walls along both sides. We drove past a terrace
of cottages with a pub sandwiched in the middle, and found ourselves in
an open square that was a village crossroads. Dad pulled the car over
to the verge. A pump with a stone trough sat on a raised grassy space
in the middle of the road, with a crude wooden bench nearby. A small
cottage, its slate roof streaked with yellow lichen, slumbered behind
the wall to our right, bees busily going about their summer business
amongst the tangle of sweet-scented honeysuckle that framed the door.
Outside, on the edge of the road, was a table with bundles of fresh
runner beans and shiny green cucumbers for sale, an honesty box for the
money set into the wall above.

"Which way do you think?" my father mused thoughtfully.

"Let's get out and walk around a bit," responded Uncle Bill. "We could
ask, but, unless I miss my guess, I reckon it's up that road. Doesn't
the old house on that corner look familiar? And it's opposite the
church, which should be about right."

We all piled out of the car and Mum grabbed Chris' hand before he could
go running off. We stood in the still bright light of the late
afternoon sun, on the edge of the long shadow from the old
granite-built church with its heavy Norman tower that dominated the far
left-hand side of the square. An agitated flock of starlings fussed
noisily on a thorn bush in the churchyard, while a distant bleating of
sheep wafted from the hills above the village, along with the faint but
distinct smell of manure. Dad and Uncle had their heads together in
conference and I went up to Mum and slipped my arm through hers.

"What's going on, Mum? What are they looking for?"

"This is the village where your father was born," she replied.
"Christopher, stop fidgeting - now!"

She turned her attention back to me as Chris picked sullenly at Mum's
cardigan.

"Nen used to live in a farmhouse here before she was married, and she
always came back to her mother when her babies were born, and for
holidays too when the children were young." She looked around her. "It
seems a nice village, doesn't it? I've never been here before. Your Dad
and Uncle are trying to remember where the farmhouse was." She turned
to my aunt. "Have you come here at all, Lilian?"

"Can't say as I have. Bill and I don't ever come up this way, my love,
do we?"

Lillian stared at the church &; hunched her shoulders slightly
inside her neatly fitted jacket. Her tightly permed hair barely touched
the collar.

"Can't but say it depresses me, that old church. Wouldn't care for a
service in that place, it looks too cold."

Dad and Uncle had already decided which direction to go in when an old
man came down from one of the side roads with his terrier, which rushed
before him to fuss and sniff interestedly at the strangers. Dad
accosted him for directions and the old man pointed his stick up the
way he had come.

"I reckon it's that there house up to the right, what's now a bed and
breakfast place. Walk on up and you can't miss it. There's a sign and
all, you'll see it straight off."

Dad marched off up the road indicated and Uncle Bill called back to us
all to join them, then followed after his brother. A little way up the
road we saw Dad stop, and when we reached him we saw his face, eyes
shining with anticipation and purpose.

"Bill, look. Colyford Guest House. That's it, for certain. Come on,
we'll go in and have a look round."

The large slate-roofed house was whitewashed and touched off with green
paintwork, and sat quite blandly amongst its tended gardens of flowers
and vegetables, shaded by enormous chestnut trees on one side. Looking
down the wide drive beside the house we could see that its grounds
opened out into small enclosed fields at the back. I could see sheep
milling against one of the fences. A violent clucking reached our ears
and a flustered little chicken bustled down the side path, hassled by
an arrogant cock bird.

"Chickens! Look, love, they've got little bantam chickens! We used to
keep chickens. But big bad-tempered ones, ready for the pot. I remember
feeding them in the mornings and they'd all follow us round and get
under our feet. Eh Bill? Remember?"

Dad was beside himself with excitement. I thought he might pop with
pleasure.

"I remember, all right," said Uncle Bill. "It was always my job to
clean up the yard, same as at home. You always got the inside jobs, Ed,
never the dirty outside ones. And you'd chase the chickens round that
yard on purpose just to make my life a misery. Blasted feathers, seeds
and bird mess everywhere after you'd been out putting the wind up those
wretched creatures. Too well I remember!"

Dad looked guiltily taken aback by this remark and muttered, "Well,
boys will be boys," then moved to lift the heavy black bull's head
knocker on the front door.

"You know," he said, staring hungrily all around as he waited for the
door to open, "I never expected it would still be a farm. I mean, it's
a guesthouse, and it's still a farm. I can't believe it, I really
can't! But it looks different, doesn't it? Smaller, somehow."

The door opened on a pleasant rather arty-looking woman wearing a rough
jumper and trousers with a pinafore on top. She was wiping her hands
with a tea towel and looked slightly alarmed at the number of people on
her doorstep.

"Er, good afternoon. May I help you?" she asked warily.

We all moved back a pace or two while Dad explained what we were doing
here. The woman's face opened up in welcome.

"But, that's wonderful! Come in, come in!"

She pulled the door wide and ushered us all into the hall with a sweep
of her hand.

"We've been interested in the history of this place and we've tried to
renovate it in keeping with when it was built. We've got old photos of
it as well - I'll show you. You'll be able to help us, maybe fill in
some gaps. Sam!"

She turned and shouted back through to the kitchen, and a man in muddy
rubber boots appeared at the open back door.

"Sam! Come in here. We've got some interesting visitors!"

It seemed a bit old-fashioned and fussy inside the house to me. It was
full of flowery patterns, silly little ornaments and inconvenient bits
of indeterminate old furniture, but Dad and Mum and my uncle and auntie
seemed to be over the moon. They were given a full tour of all the
rooms and I could hear Dad and Uncle exclaiming over this and
that.

"This must have been the room we slept in, remember? Look at that
fireplace, I remember when we toasted chestnuts?yes, we had a bedpan
like that, remember how Gran filled it with coals from the stove?
Remember..., remember??

It was fun when we were taken out the back, though, and I got a chance
to feed the goat. Chris was running around and got butted by it, and
Mum told him it served him right for playing up. Dad remembered that
they'd had dairy cows and horses in his day, and the fields were
bigger, and there was a barn over that side, and here's where we milked
the cows, and so on and so on.

As we left the house, Dad took their phone number and promised he'd be
back. And all the way home he and Uncle Bill went on and on about what
it was like "in those days" until we were all heartily sick of hearing
about it.

And I fell asleep and didn't wake up until we got home.