October 2024 From the author’s desk…
TRUTH IN THE BISCUIT TIN…
“Peek Frean, makers of famous biscuits” said the faded red label on the lid. The tin had rusted in the corners where the label had been worn away by use. Gently he prised the lid off. It was crammed with papers; they were receipts.
He picked out the first, and unfolded it. I was a hire purchase agreement for a bicycle costing nineteen pounds one shilling and ten pence; four pounds as a deposit with weekly repayments at three shillings and four pence. It was dated March 1956. His beloved Raleigh, his mother’s fourteenth birthday present – it had never occurred to him that it had taken her nearly two years to pay for it.
He delved deeper and out came more HP agreements and payment cards going back years. The few sticks of furniture for the cottage at Rowas Grange Estate at half a crown a week for two years. Then a rent book for the house in Mafeking Street at nine pounds and a penny every month. More furniture, on and on it went, everything ‘on tick’. Year after year, the never-never was the only way his mother had survived on her meagre wages.
By now the box was only half full. Next came bundles of receipts for odd payments to Beaconsfield and Pitt College. He had always assumed that his scholarship had covered everything. Dozens of them for odd sums, always in guineas, starting in September 1947, and ending nine years later, that Christmas when he arrived home and discovered her barely alive.
He emptied the last inch and a half of the box and was horrified to discover that every single one of the thirty or so slips were judgements of debt, usually for a few pounds issued by the Bath County Court going back years. In every case his mother had been ordered to pay back a few shillings every week.
Carefully, he sorted them into datal order, each year a separate pile on his bed. The plaintiff’s name for the numerous rent arrears was Lundy, and in most other cases the orders were signed by Colonel John Bradshaw (Registrar).
It was then that he noticed the folded sheet of newspaper almost stuck to the bottom of the tin. He took it out and carefully unfolded the faded front page of the Bath 1942 Chronicle for Wednesday 29th April.
An extract from chapter forty four of – ‘ Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles
September 2024 From the author’s desk…
THE CURSE OF CANCER…
He stared at the crucifix on the wall; it reminded him to take Uncle Sebastian’s Magen David out of his pocket and place it around his neck. He had resumed wearing it when visiting the hospital, as he knew it pleased his mother. Below the crucifix was his mother’s name chalked on the small blackboard showing the ward’s bed positions. Over the last three years she had moved up to occupy pole position.
Sister O’Brien came into the ward office and, unusually, closed the door behind her. He wondered why, as she sat down with the habitual smoothing of her uniform.
“I wanted to see you, Ian, because I’m afraid your mother had a turn for the worse this morning. She’s quite poorly, and you don’t have to leave when you hear the bell at the end of visiting. You can stay as long as you like.”
He nodded slowly.
“Isn’t there any other family at all? Even back in Poland that we could try and contact?”
He shook his head.
“No.” He finally spoke. “There’s only me left.”
The floral curtains were drawn, completely screening his mother’s bed from the others in the ward. He knew that this wasn’t a good sign, but occasionally it had happened before over the last three years, after the numerous operations and setbacks. He was sure Sister would have said something if it was really bad.
They went through the curtains, and he bent down to kiss his mother. The Magen David around his neck brushed her cheek. Her gaunt pinched face was flushed, and she was breathing in short shallow gasps.
Sister took the chair from the head of the bed and placed it behind him before slipping back into the ward. He sat down and clasped his mother’s hand, its back bruised by the continuous punctures from intravenous drips.
Visiting was soon over. The supper trolley came and went. He sat there.
Sister O’Brien gently shook him. He had fallen asleep in the darkened ward.
“The next bed is empty. Why don’t you stretch out on it? I’ll draw the curtain back between the two beds so that you can still see your mum.”
She helped him unlace his shoes and climb onto the adjoining bed. He lay on his side exhausted.
“Goodnight Mum,” he whispered.
An extract from chapter forty two of – ‘ Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles
August 2024 From the author’s desk…
THE FIRST JOB INTERVIEW…
Only after he had left the train and was standing at the bus stop outside Victoria Station did Ian begin to fret. Even though the school secretary had written out the directions for his trip to London, and he had read and re-read these until he knew them by heart, he was nervous that this wasn’t a number seventy three, as he was swept on board the bus by other waiting passengers. He sat down on the bench adjacent to the open platform as the conductress, standing in front of him, with her bosom in his face, pulled the overhead bell cord and the bus moved off.
“Where to, luv?”
“Park Lane, and can you tell me when to get off please?”
“That’ll be a tanner. Whereabouts are you wanting?” She spun the handle of the aluminium ticket machine hung from around her neck, and it spat out the thin paper ticket which she handed to him.
“Berkeley Square.”
Nervously Ian twisted the ticket between his sweating fingers. What was he doing amongst this crowd of jostling strangers? Less than a month ago, he was among boys he knew, learning and preparing to go up to university. Now he was on his way to see a complete stranger to get a job in property surveying, whatever that might be. Why the mad rush to earn a living?
“Park Lane, for Berkeley Square!” he heard the sing-song voice of the conductress and the bell before the bus slowed down.
He stepped down on the pavement and crossed over Park Lane and headed down Mount Street. He was fascinated by the specialist shops, with their nineteenth-century South American bank notes or rows of un-plucked pheasants, until he came to Berkeley Square, and saw number twenty-three.
The gold lettering of ‘Woods & Parker, Established 1763’ stood proudly above the building’s stone entrance. Ian’s heart was pounding as he climbed the impressive semi-circular flight of steps that led up to a glass revolving door set between a pair of bow windows with odd panes of bottle glass that gave the effect of age.
He pushed at the door. Nothing happened, so he exerted more pressure, but it still didn’t move. A large red-cheeked man standing inside looked at him for a moment then stepped forward and mouthed something. Ian didn’t understand and was on the point of giving up when the man stepped forward and gave the doors a shove.
“The other way, stupid boy!” The doors revolved rapidly and Ian, facing the wrong way, was swept inwards and landed in a heap at the man’s feet.
“Silly bugger.” The man laughed and strolled away into the depths of the building.
“That was a dramatic entry, young sir,” a different voice commented. “I see you’ve met the senior partner’s son. Don’t mind Master Paul, hasn’t been quite right since he was shot out of a tank on D Day.”
Embarrassed, Ian picked himself off the floor and looked up at the large, heavily whiskered Commissionaire in the immaculate black uniform with brass epaulettes and three golden stripes on each sleeve.
“And who might you be?” the voice added.
“Morris, sir.” He wondered why the middle aged man, who had walked away into the building, should be referred to as ‘Master’.
“Not sir, Mr Morris, but Sergeant, Sergeant Baldwin.” He looked down at an open diary on the pedestal desk in front of him
“Ah yeas. You’ve got an interview with Brigadier Sale. I believe he’s running about half an hour late but you can wait in the small client waiting room. Follow me.”
An extract from chapter forty one of – ‘ Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles
July 2024 From the author’s desk…
THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF UNIVERSITY SIXTY YEARS AGO…
Ian gently laid his beloved Raleigh bicycle, gear side up, on the gravel to the left of the front doors of Widcombe House, and pulled off the two bicycle clips securing the bottom of his trousers. He wrapped his hand around the patina of the bell pull and pulled it downwards.
In his study Marcus Rose recalled the critical telephone conversation with Howard Edginton earlier that morning.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive, I’m afraid, the hospital almoner called me last night, no further operations are feasible; the original cancer of the stomach has spread everywhere.”
“How long?”
“The surgeon says certainly not more than twelve months, probably less, she has been weakened by so much surgery.”
“Have you told Ian?”
“No, not yet. Morris still believes she will make a full recovery, and his exams are still a year away.”
Marcus thought about the headstrong teenager.
“Leave it with me, Howard. If nothing else, it’s the least I can do for a very courageous woman. I will call you after our meeting this afternoon – I assume he is still coming?”
“Yes, he should be with you soon after lunch. Thank you, Marcus.”
The colonel decided the drawing room was more suitable for the forthcoming encounter and was still thinking how best to tackle the subject of Ruth’s prognosis when Ian arrived. He rose to greet him, and they both settled, facing each other in the beautiful French chairs, as Jennings left, quietly closing the door after him.
For a moment he regarded the boy in silence and then he came to a decision.
“Ian, I would like to you a very important question.”
The boy did not answer, but grudgingly nodded.
“Following your failure at Hornchurch, the matter of how you propose to earn your living is both relevant and urgent.”
“What do you mean?” There’s ages before I have to think about that. Why worry about a job until after I have graduated from university? That’s another four years away.”
“You are sixteen?”
“Sixteen and a half. I will be sitting A-Levels next year and then go on to Cambridge to read Physics.”
“And how on earth are you going to afford living in a Cambridge College, where is the money coming from?” Rose was becoming impatient with the boy’s lack of reality.
“Oh, I hope to get a scholarship, and I can always work in the holidays.”
“And then what?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I haven’t really given it any thought, but there must be plenty of good research jobs around for someone with a Cambridge physics degree.”
“And what about your mother while you study and earn nothing over the next four years?”
“No problem, the Lady Almoner has spoken to the St John’s Charitable Trust in Bath, and they will find us a small rent-free flat when she leaves hospital. There is the money from the Employment Exchange until she goes back to work, and her widow’s pension. That will be about £2 per week.”
The silence was broken as the small brass carriage clock on the mantel piece over the fireplace chimed the quarter. Marcus Rose trod carefully.
“What do you think are your chances of getting a Science Scholarship to Cambridge?”
“Pretty good, I reckon.” Ian blushed. “I’ve always managed scholarship exams before.”
“Young man, for your own good, stop daydreaming!” Rose had lost patience with the boy. “Firstly, you stand very little chance of getting into Cambridge, and secondly, there is absolutely no way you could get a scholarship. Cambridge isn’t an English public school, but perhaps the finest university in the world.”
An extract from chapter forty of – ‘ Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles
June 2024 From the author’s desk…
From the author’s desk…
The late, great queen mother…
‘It now gives me great pleasure to declare this magnificent new classroom annexe, built for the Hope Venture by the boys of Pitt College, officially open.’
Her Royal Highness, Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother, picked up the pair of gold-plated scissors from the crimson cushion and cut the coloured ribbon, which Ian had fixed across the front entrance two hours earlier. She walked along the red carpet and into the building: at one end the college quartet was singing sea shanties.
Standing in a line along the side of the carpet were Mr and Mrs Edgington, Bradshaw, now head prefect, and Ian Morris. Next to Ian was a very attractive sixteen-year-old Polish refugee, who was introduced to him as Katrina. She was the resident representing the Hope Venture. Ian was aware of her watching him as they waited their turn. He had never seen her before so she must have only recently moved in, because all of the girls, even the unattractive ones, were the subject of endless dormitory fantasies by the boys of Pitt College.
The Queen Mother’s aide, the Lord Lieutenant of the County, Malcolm Austwick, first presented the Edgingtons to Her Majesty and then the two schoolboys, explaining Ian’s role as Labour Organiser. The Queen Mother paused in front of him and, as he raised his head from the bow, he noticed that the Lord Lieutenant was speaking quietly into her ear.
‘Ah yes, I remember,’ she said, nodded and turned to him.
‘My aide has reminded me that you come from this City of Bath and the quite extraordinary circumstances surrounding your birth during the bombing in 1942.’
‘Ma’am?’ Ian replied hesitantly, puzzled by the reference to his birth.
‘How is your mother, she was so very brave?’
‘Not very well ma’am, she is in hospital.’
‘I am sorry to hear that, I do hope she gets well soon.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ And then she was gone, addressing the Polish girl next to him.
An extract from chapter thirty nine of – ‘ Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles
May 2024 From the author’s desk…
The Coronation, no not last year but the one before in 1953…
Ruth had secured two seats in the hospital lounge where Uncle Isaac used to work – she had actually won them in the hospital’s Coronation sweepstake.
Later on, led by his mother, he crossed through the crowded canteen, full of people holding glasses, cigarettes or both and all talking very loudly, even shouting. They all seemed to have red cheeks and many had a sheen of perspiration on their pallid foreheads. He was the only child present and felt trapped in the forest of white medical coats and nurses’ uniforms towering over him.
Being on the domestic staff, Ruth didn’t know anyone and so was greeted by no one as they threaded their way through the dens canopy of smoke and noise, into the staff lounge. All the sofas and armchairs had been removed, replaced by rows of canteen chairs with very little room between each. Those as the front were already occupied, so they took two at the back.
Facing them stood the television, placed on a pyramid of canteen tables stacked on top of each other. The first thing that struck Yann was how small the set was, it was tiny, much smaller than the one in the Liberman house. He wondered how he would see anything, before realising a large square magnifying lens had been fixed in front of its screen.
The room hushed as a man formally advanced from the front row and witched on the set as though it was the start of a magic show. The tiny screen lit up with a greenish light and the commentator’s reverential tones overlaid the images.
‘…and as I look at this vast throng of Her loyal subject from the four corners of this United Kingdom, her Commonwealth, and indeed, the world who have flocked to pay homage to their beautiful young Queen. The whole might of British industry is here, short stocky coalminers from deep below the South Wales valleys, alongside burly ship builders from the great yards on the Tyne, used to hammering white-hot rivets into steel plate of our mighty Navy. The tough men from Sheffield who made this steel. All standing shoulder to should with our colonial cousins, spanning a third of the globe. Australia, New Zealand, India, Pakistan…’
Why did they always mention these countries in the same order? Perhaps it was because of the test matches and the cricket.
‘Class and rank forgotten on such great State occasions…All men are equal, master, servant, professional, shopkeeper, labourer…’
What nonsense, Yann thought, to suggest that anyone ever forgot their class in England.
An extract from chapter thirty one of – ‘ Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles
April 2024 From the author’s desk…
Never far from the headlines, Housing – 70 years ago – just three miles from Bath…
The bus dropped them off at the main gates and Yann was lulled into complacency by the imposing entranceway and long drive up to and past the main house. Then they reached the neglected cottage. An idyll in the summer when surrounded by wild flowers and roses rambling over the doorway, it looked drab and unwelcoming in the freezing drizzle of a dull December afternoon. Ruth leant her weight against the front door to coax the warped wood across the uneven threshold and Yann followed her into the gloomy front room.
Even to the child’s inexperienced eyes in the dark interior, it was apparent that as little as possible had been spent on fitting out and furnishing the cottage. He started to wonder if there was even electricity until he saw his mother reach up to a metal box by the front door and push some coins into it. Then, a bare overhead bulb glowed yellow above a few shabby items of furniture. He rightly assumed that the brightly patterned curtains hanging at the window had been made by his mother because they were so incongruously cheery in the dingy setting. He swallowed hard and did his best to conceal the growing horror he felt, as his mother showed him around the hovel that was now their home.
They managed to manoeuvre his school suitcase up the narrow staircase and into the cupboard-sized bedroom. There was just enough space for it to stand on its end and Yann wondered how they would manage in the summertime when his whole trunk would need to be accommodated.
Then there was the lavatory, or rather the lack of one. The tin Elson chemical bucket was in a small garden shed behind the cottage. Ruth quickly explained that it had to be emptied each week, but didn’t dwell on what that meant.
An extract from chapter twenty six of – ‘ Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles
March 2024 From the author’s desk…
The Film makers will soon be returning to Bath…
After an excellent lunch, which Johnson insisted on paying for, Isaac headed away from the Circus, towards the Royal Crescent.
There was a great deal of commotion in the Crescent and he remembered the Chronicle headlines. Alexander Korda’s The Elusive Pimpernel was being filmed there. He halted beside a stack of inappropriate street lamp posts, which had been temporarily removed from the roadside – no effort had been spared to turn the clock back to the eighteenth century. He saw David Niven and Margaret Leighton emerge in splendour from one of the houses into the fierce arc lights of the film company and boarded a horse-drawn carriage.
“Another land of make-believe,” he said aloud as he turned away and walked back to the city through the Botanical Gardens.
An extract from chapter twenty three of – ‘ Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles
February 2024 From the author’s desk…
Our children have returned to school, and was ever thus, but for a privileged few different…
The Beaconsfield Special, a steam train with four carriages and three guard’s vans, was drawn up alongside Platform Twelve of Waterloo Station.
Wide eyed and holding tightly to his mother’s hand, Yann followed the porter and the two-wheeled trolley carrying his school trunk into the mayhem; Naomi and Isaac were just behind them. The porter unloaded the large brown ribbed case, on which had been painted Y MORRIS in bold black letters onto the pile of other trunks stacked by the guard’s vans, ready for loading.
Clutching his mother’s hand tightly, Yann froze, suddenly frightened, and caused her to stop. Everyone he loved – his mother, Auntie Naomi and Uncle Isaac – had done their best. Told him how luck he was, but he didn’t want to go. He couldn’t understand why they were sending him so far away, to be with people he had never met. What had he done wrong? Was it because of Uncle Sebastian/s terribly accident on his way back from his new school? He didn’t understand why his mother didn’t love him any more, it made him feel very unhappy. He promised no more tears, but his eyes started to prickle.
Ahead were dozens of boys and parents clustered around two schoolmasters clad in black gowns.
He had never seen so many boys, most of them much older and bigger than him. Soon enough they reached the crowd and one of the schoolmasters pushed through towards them. He had a clipboard in his hand.
“Name?” He asked, look at the adults.
“Morris.” Isaac answered.
“Ah yes the little lad from Bath,” the master said pleasantly, finding the name and ticking it off. Then he looked down at Yann and held his hand out. “My name is Martin Kohn, I shall be your housemaster in Galsworthy. Now let me see,” he looked at his list again, “just stand by me for a moment and I will find one of the deputy prefects to look after you until we reach school.”
He looked up to the three adults again. “Best to say your goodbyes here and now. Short and quick I think is always best don’t you?” In a second he had turned to someone else.
Naomi bent down and kissed him on the forehead. Isaac just squeezed his arm.
“Good luck Yann and don’t forget your promise to write to your mother each week.”
Ruth knelt down, so that her head was level with Yann’s and hugged him so tightly that he was frightened she would crease his new blazer. “Remember that Mummy loves you more than anything in the whole world and you make me so proud. Goodbye, my beautiful little brave boy.”
“I am sorry about making Uncle Sebastian die, Mummy.” He hoped she wouldn’t start to cry, because it looked like she could and then that would make him want to cry too. But she breathed in heavily and quickly stood up.
He gave a small wave with a half raised arm, as he watched all three of them retreat down the platform. No one looked back.
The next think he knew, Mr Kohn had grasped him by the shoulder. He turned round and saw a large boy hovering next to him.
“Morris, this is Freeman. He is in Galsworthy too and will settle you into the train.” He turned to the boy. “Remember that you are responsible for delivering him to the Dame.”
Yann clambered into the carriage and Freeman motioned him to the corner seat by the door, with “A new sprog, Morris” as an introduction to the other senior boys. None acknowledged him. Unnoticed, he sat stiffly erect and unblinking. He had never been on a train and was with complete strangers. He wished he was by a window so that he could catch one last glance of his mother, uncle and aunt.
With a final flurry and whistle blast, the train lurched, lurched again and jerkily moved off, gathering speed. Freeman stood back against the closed door to the corridor, preventing anyone from entering; all three corridor window blinds were down.
Throughout the journey, Yann sat on his hands and looked down at his neatly laced shoes as he listened to the group of boys swapping stories about their summer holiday. He felt very conscious of his new purple blazer, with its bright crest and gleaming yellow piping, unlike the other boys’ dull and faded jackets.
Yann wept himself to sleep in the bleak dormitory that first night and for many that followed. To his shame and embarrassment, often he woke up in a wet bed the following morning. The Dame never said anything.
An extract from chapter twenty one of – ‘ Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles
January 2024 From the author’s desk…
As our loved ones depart after the family Christmas festivities…
As she was undressing, Ruth noticed the thin book where Naomi had left it open on her bedside table. She turned on the bedside light.
‘And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said,
Speake to us of Children.
And he said:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
Which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may stive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backwards nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
And He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the Archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
So He loves also the bow that is stable.’
Ruth turned to the cover – The Prophet by Khalil Gibrain.
Twice she read it before switching off the lamp. She didn’t sleep, with her mind turning over and over.
She couldn’t bear the idea of Yann being taken away from her; the whole reason for her existence gone. Waking up each day without him. His lovely laughing face was even more treasured now that Jancek was dead. The tears came back when she thought of her difficult husband and the emptiness he had left behind, along with their wonderful son.
She turned the bedside lamp on again and reached for the book. This time she spoke the lines aloud, slowly. It said so much and she kept coming back to the one line that caused her to reconsider.
‘…And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you…’
Yes she loved him so much but…
‘…their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
Which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams…’
She had to think of her little boy first. What was best for him, no matter the sorrow it would cause her, was most important. He came first, he was the reason for her life.
Exhausted when the dawn arrived, she put on her dressing gown and went down to the kitchen. Naomi was already there and they sat in silence sipping hot tea.
“You are right, Yann must go.”
Naomi rose and pulled the tearful Ruth to her.
An extract from chapter eighteen of –‘ Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles