Child from Home (15 page)

After Kitty moved to Grove House, Alan would cycle over to Newton-on-Rawcliffe, where he left his bike and walked down the steep path. Even when she could not see him she knew he was coming as he whistled loudly everywhere he went. Whenever she was with him she was radiant and her face lit up with pleasure. If the weather was fine and sunny he often took her for long, loitering walks and they would sit in the quiet of sun-drenched glades or linger in the dappled shade of the wild woods. Here they walked arm-in-arm, quietly talking as only lovers can and, with no one there to see them, they would gaze into each other's eyes and share a kiss or two. Their liking became a fondness that blossomed into full-blown love – a love that was to transform their lives and bring them joy and happiness.

Warm-hearted Kitty tried so hard to make up for the maternal love that she knew was missing from our young lives: she seemed to instinctively sense how important it was that someone should love and care for us. She had experienced the emotional pain on being put into a home as a child; maybe she too had lain awake at night afraid of the dark and its secrets; maybe she had once yearned for a parent to hug and cuddle her and kiss away the dark forebodings. She was so kind-hearted; there was not a malicious thought in her.

Sometimes, if the weather was kind, she took us up the track that started close to a tall railway signal post on the other side of the railway line. After a short, flat stretch of grass-seamed track we crossed the little footbridge that spanned the shallow waters of the boulder-strewn Pickering Beck. Its white-painted handrails reflected the glare of the sun and as we peered into the clear water gurgling over the smooth stones it threw off scintillating and shifting darts of light. Below the surface the fast-flowing stream shook its long, green tresses of waterweed. Ugly flatheads and spiny sticklebacks darted about on the bottom but we left them for another day. The stony path gradually became a narrow hard-packed earthen track that climbed the steep hillside. It became very muddy after rain and near the crest there was a hairpin bend. The path came out on a hedge-lined lane that led into the pretty village of Newton-on-Rawcliffe that stood 300 feet above the railway line.

In the middle of the village was a large grassy green close to the
White Swan
public house. We walked down to the duck pond that was close to the road and had a raised grassy bank; the sun twinkling on its wind-ruffled surface fascinated me. A little further down was another small pond, the two being separated by a muddy farm track down which the local farmers brought their cattle during droughts. This track was often churned up into an ankle-deep morass in wet spells. We liked to see the ducks preening and upending; cutting themselves in half and turning the water murky with their dabbling. We fed them bits of stale bread and were delighted to see the flotilla of fluffy ducklings that paddled like mad in their mother's wake sending widening ripples across the sun-glinting surface.

We were happily enjoying the warmth of the sun and the peaceful village scene when we suddenly became aware of a wild and strange-looking boy staring at us intently from the other side of the road. He had long, filthy, matted hair that hung down to his shoulders and was wearing dirty, ragged clothes. Kitty told us that he lived with his parents in a shack in the woods, adding, ‘he never mixes with or speaks to anyone. The family are reclusive and probably of gypsy stock.' Feeling scared and uncomfortable we asked her to take us back to Grove House.

We hurried to the top of the path, and as we set off down to the railway in the valley we kept looking back to make sure that the wild boy was not following us. The view from the top was magnificent; far below Grove House looked as if it was floating in a sea of bright green foliage, with the tree canopies on the steep slopes above the house at their full and luxuriant best. We were glad to get back down that day. Sometimes the Vicar of Newton-on-Rawcliffe used the same steep path when he came to conduct short prayer services for us. The Reverend Tibbit, the middle-aged vicar of the church of St John, was an eccentric bachelor. His hurrying cloaked figure could sometimes be seen followed (at a safe distance) by groups of local children who pursued him, insolently shouting, ‘Tib, Tib, Tib, Tib!' He completely ignored them, abstractedly muttering, ‘Boys will be boys.'

Kitty occasionally took some of us older children for a longer walk taking ham salads, meat pies, biscuits and pop prepared and packed up for us by Dinner Lady. One day she took us on a walk through the woods and up to Levisham village on the path that came out near the duck pond. We spent some time in the Chapel-of-Ease and found the little wooden mouse that was carved on the cover of the baptismal font. It was the trademark of Robert Thompson, the carpenter from Kilburn. As we noisily emerged, we disturbed the rooks nesting in the tall pine trees and their raucous cries added to our irreverent din. A farmhand was guiding a herd of cows up the main street with a stick and we took care not to stand in the wet cow claps. Eric trod in one and we made sure that we stayed upwind of him for a while.

We saw a number of deaf and dumb children who had also been evacuated here from Middlesbrough. They were pupils at the special school set up in the old village schoolroom that had closed when the war started. It stood just across the lane from the Chapel-of-Ease and next to the big house that had once been the village inn. The old inn, actually two houses made into one, was now a guest house. It stood by the village green, where the main road divided, and it was packed with paying guests at this time of the year. Most of them had had to make the long climb up from the station, their train usually being met by a young lad who lugged their cases up the steep hill for them. It was so popular that seven huts containing beds had been erected behind it.

The present incumbent, the Reverend Frederick Newby Kent, had only been here for six months, and he was often seen tinkering with, or roaring about the lanes, on his beloved Francis Barnett motorbike. We hopped and skipped down the steep lane, with its 1 in 4 incline, that descended through the woods to the bracken-clad slopes of Levisham Beck, which had its source – a mere trickle – in the bosom of the moors in the Hole of Horcum.

The waters of the tiny, fast-flowing stream leapt, fell, and leapt again between its steep banks. It gushed over coruscating waterfalls, which held small rainbows in their spray. The crystal clear waters then bounded and tumbled ever downwards before splashing and gurgling past the picturesque water mill that stood beside the old stone bridge. The mill had once been the property of the Reverend Skelton and there was a deep rock pool where fat trout with dark markings along their sides basked – until we disturbed them. Lower down, the brook flowed less rapidly as it levelled out, and beside it tall clumps of bright green ferns grew in abundance. The stream, with its grassy banks kept close-cropped by the wandering Masham sheep, flowed through the quiet isolation of the lovely Levisham-Lockton valley before emptying itself into Pickering Beck.

We trooped along with jam jars and fine-mesh nets on the end of canes as the birds twittered and powerful scents of flowering honeysuckle and wild garlic assailed our nostrils. We attempted to catch the red-breasted sticklebacks, while the spiny-backed bullheads, which we called flatheads, zigzagged about erratically. We left a muddy cloud when we lifted the stones from the bed of the stream. Wary of the ugly, bewhiskered, stone loaches we left them well alone. We had a picnic on the soft velvety grass, with juice dripping from our chins as we bit into luscious, shiny-red tomatoes that the gardener called love apples. Kitty poured sparkling lemonade from glass bottles that had a thick wire contraption, to which stoppers made of white pot were fixed. We ran and frolicked in the warmth of the sun that beat down from a clear blue sky. The grassy banks and the bracken-clad slopes were a vivid green and the clear waters sparkled in the sunlight. Salad days indeed!

The picturesque little church of St Mary was reached by means of a steep track that led off from the Levisham–Lockton road. It stood within its crowded churchyard and the summer sun showed up the crusty grey lichen on the gravestones. The small square tower had been built at its western end. It was now tucked away in the verdant folds of this green and pleasant vale, but in times long past, it had stood close to the old Whitby to Pickering road. It had been called Sleights Road on old maps but it was now little more than a narrow bridle track that led down to Farwath. We entered the church through a small stone porch and Kitty pointed out some intricately carved Anglo-Saxon remnants embedded in its walls. Once inside, our high-pitched voices were thrown back as hollow-sounding, spooky echoes that agitated the dust motes and it felt as if we had stepped into a past age; a time before our time; and we suddenly became subdued and quiet. It seemed as though the past was trapped within its ancient walls where a deep and timeless silence reigned. We were reluctant to disturb the reverent hush of the long years and the shadows in the corners seemed to waver and stir. It was hot and sunny outside but it felt dank and chill in there.

On the floor of the chancel there was a very old grave slab with what looked like a crusader's sword incised upon it; its history was a mystery lost in the mists of time. The Skelton family vault stood within the brass altar rails where the two Roberts, father and son, had been rectors. They had moved into the Hall soon after it was built in 1792 and had extensively rebuilt the church to the glory of God in the year 1802. Their memorial hatchments could be seen on the stout stone walls on either side of the rounded Saxon arch that separated the nave from the chancel and altar. We were glad to get out of the gloom of that dusty old place and, emerging into the balmy air, we were dazzled by the sun's blinding rays. Bees buzzed busily, green grasshoppers chirred cheerfully, jumping away as we tried in vain to catch them as the scent of wild flowers filled the air.

Full of exuberance and the joy of life we skipped and raced around on the yielding springy turf. On such brilliant and heavenly summer days as these we seemed to be imbued with endless vitality. In the fields next to the station the farmhands followed the flailing wooden blades that pushed the heads of corn into the horse-drawn cutter and self-binder. The scene was reminiscent of gulls flocking behind a paddle steamer as the reaper-binder swept through a sea of golden corn leaving a swath of stubble in its wake. As the twine-bound sheaves were thrown out at regular intervals, they were propped up against each other to form pyramid-shaped stooks that allowed the air to circulate.

The days were long and lovely and I experienced moments of dreamlike rapture and a quickening of the senses. I was enjoying a free and open way of life and seeing the natural world at close quarters was giving me some conception of the interdependence of all living things. We were so lucky to be growing up in such idyllic surroundings and my soul was nourished and lifted by it. Although unaware of it, I was getting some inkling of the kindredness and balance of all natural things and experiencing the full gamut of emotions, from love, joy and wonder to fear, guilt and helplessness. I was starting to appreciate the sheer godlike beauty, power and majesty of nature and to realise that I was just a tiny part in the great interlocking pattern of things. I watched and learned as the days came and went, and the harsh realities of the war scarcely touched us in our sheltered world.

We heard the tinny clatter of gunfire more and more often. Once the army training camp became established at Keldy Castle the peace and quiet of the Newtondale valley was never quite the same, as soldiers charged around in battledress taking part in military exercises and mock battles. They were being trained for combat prior to being posted to one of the war zones, and we often saw soldiers crouched and running with their rifles in the trail position with their silhouettes clearly outlined against the skyline. The distant machine-gun fire from up on the moors sounded like tearing cloth and we felt the earth-shaking crump of the shells against our eardrums. They sent up plumes of black smoke that drifted away on the wind, and the deep thud of the powerful guns was accompanied by the metallic clattering of caterpillar tracks. Tanks, heavy-armoured vehicles and Bren gun carriers rattling by added to the general cacophony.

The sudden roar of a train as it thundered through drowned it all out and we would sometimes come across soldiers in woollen hats, their faces blackened with burnt cork. They held their rifles in front of them as they crawled across the fields on their elbows and sometimes we would see them lying on their bellies under the hedgerows with their Enfield .303 rifles poking through the gaps. As our little column passed we tried to keep in step as the soldiers did, and Kitty said, ‘You must never pick anything up, especially shrapnel and spent bullets, no matter how interesting it might seem.' It all seemed so exciting to us.

Before the army arrived most of the country sounds had emanated from the birds and the farm animals, although, at harvest time, the chugging of the steam traction engine and the slapping belt of the threshing machine could be heard as they were taken from farm to farm in rotation. The placid, lumbering cart-horses had clip-clopped along these quiet lanes for generations, and the magnificent draught animals trundled their loaded wagons down to the station and carted goods up from it and we would hear the ponderous rumbling of their heavy, metal-shod wheels. The contrast between the military din and the soothing, age-old country sounds was stark but in the evenings the peace and quiet returned.

Mam came to visit us again without Dad as the threat of invasion was very real and all leave had been cancelled. She told us that in mid-August large numbers of German planes based in Scandinavia had crossed the north-east coast to bomb our airfields. The sirens sounded night after night and she had spent most of her time in the underground shelters on The Common where people made tea, had singsongs, and played cards to pass the time. Dad got a forty-eight hour pass and told her that he had been kept really busy firing at the German bombers. He said, ‘You should have seen the strings of red and orange flak as it snaked up into the night sky. It was an awe-inspiring sight and sometimes it formed an S-shape as we swung our long gun barrels round. Even if we didn't hit the blighters it made them fly higher making their bombing less accurate.'