The Ripponden War

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Now I never remembered the cottage where I stayed but in my diary I describe it so vividly I can almost imagine the little thatched cottage next to the village post office and next door to the park. I think I can’t remember it because I didn’t want to accept my new home. For those years to come I didn’t want to accept it as my home. But I must have been so excited on my first day that if felt the need to recount every inch of the house in breath taking detail…….

The house. Oh my sweet lord the house! To many it wouldn’t be anything special especially  country folk but to me as a city lass through and through it was like one of the wonders of world. I had been living in the same place all my life, a dirty, grimy terraced street, in the backstreets of London. The cobbles were covered in grime and there was washing hanging over head. This bright open country square was like a foreign country to me. The massive open space between each house, the village green in the centre. My house was lovely.  It was a cottage, not too big or too small, with honeysuckle all up the edge of the door and a rose archway over the gate. It was like something from a fairy-tale. I couldn’t believe this was my home now. I wondered where Tom was. I hadn’t had the chance to see him before I left. He had been taken by farmers though. That was all I knew. Why they chose him I have no clue. Scrawny little thing like him would do them no good. I feel bad saying that but it just is unlikely for someone like him instead of a muscly boy. 

I wondered where the farm was. It can’t be far. I saw a wood on the way up. Maybe it is behind them. Anyway back to the house. We got there and they took my bags in. The front garden had a water feature with a cherub on top and a few garden gnomes dotted here and there. There was millions of plant life and many birds gathered around an ornate bird table. The twinkling ripples of the fountain hitting the pool at the bottom was so relaxing it made you want to fall asleep. They hurried me inside and closed the oak front door.

The warm hall way was lit with a dim glow. The warm yellow light showed me a pine wood corridor with millions of shelves of books and a threadbare carpet. It was beautiful. I hadn’t seen anything like it ever. My hallway at home was lit by a crude neon light.  I must have looked so stupid just standing there gawking because their faces creased into laughter. Hushing themselves they showed me the kitchen, a cosy little room with a massive aga and a roughly put together wooden table. There was a pantry in a little alcove in the wall and a dog curled up by the fire. It was warm and homely. The living room was the same, low ceilinged and cosy. There was a roaring fire and a massive radio a the centrepiece of the room.

They showed me upstairs and were briefer with the bedrooms. That was perfectly understandable. Who would want a stranger living in their house let alone going near their things? They opened a hatch in the roof to reveal a ladder which emerged from the ceiling like a snake slithering from a cave.

“Right here we go!” I wasn’t sure what to say next. I just answered,

“Thank you very much for the tour of the house Mrs Brokman”

“Oh please call me Mum”

“No, I think I will stick with Mrs Brokman thank you” I could see the hurt on her face but I didn’t care. It was too soon to be calling her Mum. Mum was a name reserved for a lady in London, who I will see again. I will, I kept telling myself, I will, I will, I will.

They left after that. I didn’t want any trouble and to be honest I just wanted to be alone. I looked at the ladder, and took a step up into the blackness. I nearly fell off in awe. My old bedroom in home had been a small room with a bed and a wardrobe and that was it.  This was different. It was an attic room with a sloping roof. It was quite small but to me it was huge. It had light blue wall paper with white patterns. There was a cut crystal vase with a selection of violets and bluebells on the flimsy white bedside table. The pinewood bed was settled in the far corner with a blue and cream patchwork quilt and cream wool blanket folded at the end. There was a flowered night gown folded at the top of the bed and blue slippers at the foot of the bed. But the most amazing feature of the room far better than all the laid out goods was the window by the bed. It was rounded at the top and had a wide windowsill that you could sit on jutting out the outside. It had a view of the massive back yard with the Anderson shelter and the pool of crystal clear water at the bottom with the lily pads. You could see the hills and the woods and a little babbling brook.

I sat down on my bed and started to cry. I don’t know what for, maybe I was upset about mother or father, or homesickness or just because I needed to let it all out. I don’t know how long I cried but when I opened my eyes the room was filled with rippling golden light. I looked up and saw my window glowing dark orange. I squinted and saw the hills and saw the sun like a ball of flame setting in the dip between the hills. I climbed out onto my windowsill with my blanket wrapped around me. I curled up my toes and stared into the ball of light. Suddenly I realised life here might not be as bad as I originally thought.