The Village on the Hill

By EO Brown

The Village on the Hill is a collection of short stories about growing up in the English countryside.
Often humorous, sometimes poignant, occasionally sad, always delightful.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Parkrow Publishing
• Release date: Mar 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476247045

Book preview

The Village On The Hill

Stories of childhood in an English fenland

By E.O.Brown

Published by Parkrow Publishing at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 E.O.Brown

Portions of this book were previously published in

People`s Friend Magazine

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

1-Sunrise

2-cartwheels

3-Friends

4-A Bicycle Built by Two

5- Uncle Randall’s Rabbit

6-Respect

7-Walnut Tree

8-Swimming Pig

9-Snowballs

10-Camping

11-Pets

12-Brylcream Boy

13-Fire in my Heart

14-Rats and Dogs

15-Sunset

Sunrise

The guard’s van of the train wasn’t cold but it was drafty. The wind came in around the door and blew up dust from the wooden floor. I was sitting on a seat beside the metal stove which the conductor checked from time to time and fed with coal a few lumps at a time. Every time he came back from his walk up and down the train he asked me if I was alright. I didn’t really know whether I was alright or not. Mum had printed my name and destination on a paper label and pinned it to the lapel of my coat before she handed me over to the conductor at Liverpool Street station.

You be a good boy, and behave properly for Uncle and Auntie, she said. I’ll see you in about two week’s time. You’ll be alright until then, you’ll see.

I wasn’t sure that she felt that way herself as I could see a tear in the corner of her eye. She grabbed a handkerchief from the pocket of her raincoat and blew her nose. She kissed me again and turned to the conductor.

He’s got a sandwich in his bag if he gets hungry, she said.

Don’t you worry, Missus, I’ll look after him. I have children on the train all the time. I have plenty of milk so I shall see he doesn’t go thirsty. I know the porter up at Ely station and he’s a good man. You be on your way and we’ll be leaving in just a minute or two.

Mum had stroked my cheek with her hand and then turned away and left without saying anything more. I felt the tears running down my cheeks but I didn’t call after her. I just hoped she knew what was best for us.

As the train ran out of London through the suburbs, I turned and looked through the grimy window behind me at the rows and rows of houses stretching as far as I could see. This city had been my home for as long as I could remember and even the gaps and heaps of rubble in the streets were familiar. I had never known anything other than war and the bombed out houses were part of a normal landscape as far as I was concerned. People were saying that the fighting would be over soon but the bombers still came over from time to time, although nothing like they used to. The anti-aircraft gun wasn’t towed into its spot in the middle of the road by our front door any more and the nights were no longer shattered by its ear-splitting roar. Before I had been taken ill we had begun to sleep in our beds on some nights, instead of in the steel cage known as a Morrison shelter that doubled as a table in our dining room. The Anderson shelter, dug deep into the back garden and covered in corrugated iron and sand bags, had filled with water and Mum had left it for my uncles to deal with when they came home. My father wouldn’t be coming home ever again. I didn’t remember him at all.

The train slowed down and came to a halt. I could see that we were in a station, but I had no idea where it was. I had pretty well lost my ability to read so I probably couldn’t have read the sign anyway. The conductor and porter were loading and unloading boxes and parcels and sacks of mail and then a whistle blew and we were going once more. The conductor asked me again if I was alright, and then said he would be back soon and to stay where I was. When he had gone I knelt on the bench and looked out of the window again. It was afternoon and the light was fading but I could still see the streets so I knew that we hadn’t left all of London behind. I missed them already, the dusty footpaths and old cobbled streets that were everywhere, mixed in with the tarmac of the busier roads. Before I had got sick I had spent most of my waking hours playing in streets just like these, rolling marbles along the gutters and riding my tricycle up and down the roads. It was wartime but there was no danger in the daylight, unless you were unlucky and were underneath a flying bomb when its motor stopped and it came down in a silent dive. When we heard one coming I would stand with Grandad in the doorway of his corner grocery shop and we would scan the sky for it. If it was coming straight toward us Grandad would shepherd me and the customers into the living room behind the shop and make us all get under the old oak table until it had droned past.

The houses were thinning out now and we were passing some open fields and clumps of trees. Mum had said that we were going to live ‘in the country’ but I didn’t know what that would be like. I supposed it would be like the pictures in the books that we had read at school. She said that we were all going to the country, including Grandad and Grandma, once they had sold the shop in Wimbledon. Grandad talked about living in Cambridgeshire when he was young so I supposed that was where we were going. Out of the window I saw a big stone building with a long drive leading to it. It reminded me of the isolation hospital where I had been taken when I got sick and the doctor said I had Scarlet Fever. It had a stone gateway like that building out there and was next to a railway line as well, which made it a target for the bombers.

The six weeks I spent in that hospital were a jumble of images in my mind. There was no glass left in the tall windows of the wards, just canvas curtains and strips of wood to keep out the wind and rain and coal smoke. When the sirens sounded for an air raid the nurses would rush in and put us under the steel cots on spare mattresses with our pillow and blankets. We were all very sick and I must have been delirious a lot of the time as I could only remember bits and pieces of things that happened. I know none of us saw our parents the whole time we were in there and Mum told me afterwards that she used to go to the gate every day to read the list of those children who had died. When I recovered enough to go home I was dressed and taken to a small room at the end of the hospital away from the wards and Mum collected me from there. I was just skin and bones, she said, and what on earth had happened to my legs. The disease had left me a mess. I was pigeon toed and could hardly walk and Mum had to have special shoes made for me. I stuttered and had a nervous tic, which got more noticeable when I was upset. What was even worse, as far as I was concerned, was that I had lost the ability to read. Mum said I was lucky to be alive, and thank goodness my sister hadn’t caught it as well.

There were only scattered houses passing outside the window now as the train rushed on, the smoke and steam making its way into the carriage. London was always smoky and steamy and I was sad again to be leaving it behind.

The conductor came back into the van and shut the door behind him. He poured himself some tea from a thermos flask and asked me if I would like some milk. He poured some from a bottle into an enamel cup and handed it to me. I drank it and took the sandwich from my bag and ate it while he sat on a box and drank his tea.

Two more stops before we get to Ely, he said. Are you going to stay with relatives then?

Yes, I think they are relatives, I replied, not being too sure myself. Mum had said that I knew them but I didn’t remember.

Well, no doubt the country air will do you good, he said, looking me over carefully.

I didn’t know what to say to that so I kept quiet.

The train was slowing again and he started sorting out parcels ready for the next stop. It was almost full dark now and the people on the platform were just dark figures. The gaslights hung up under the station roof didn’t throw much light, and it was brighter in the train.

Mum had brought a suitcase full of clothes for me and I checked to see that it was still on the rack. The conductor saw me looking at it.

Don’t worry about your case, son, he said, I’ll make sure it gets off when you do.

Alright, I said, and there being nothing to see from the window I made myself as comfortable as I could and listened to the sound of the wheels, trying to make words out of the clackety-clack as we went over the joints in the rail

How is it that you weren’t evacuated from London? asked the guard.

We were once, to Liverpool, I said, and a few days after we got there the Germans bombed it. Mum said if we were going to get killed it might as well be in our own home, so we packed up and went back to London.

Well, I can’t blame your Mum for that, he said.

I must have dropped off to sleep and the next thing I saw was the conductor’s face as he gave me a shake.

We’ll be there in a few minutes, he said. Would you like some milk while we have time?

No, thank you, I replied. The train was slowing again and we were rattling over some points that made the carriage sway a bit. The brakes were squealing a little now and soon we were in the station. When the door was opened we were opposite a big station sign. The letters said ‘ELY’ and I wasn’t sure that I was reading it right, but the porter on the platform shouted ‘Eelee’ and I knew that I had. Still, it seemed a very strange name to me.

Come along, my boy, said the conductor, picking up my bag and plucking the suitcase from the rack, Let’s go and make sure that somebody is here to meet you.

We walked along the platform, following the people who were heading to the exit.

Hello there, Les, called the conductor, I have a young fellow here for you.

A porter turned around from the conversation he was having with a short stocky man standing by the barrier and came to meet us. He shone his torch at the label on my coat and bent down to read it.

Yes, right, he said, we’ve been expecting him. Someone is here to pick him up.

Goodbye, said the conductor, putting down my bags and turning back to the train.

Goodbye. Thank you, I called after him, but he just waved and hurried on down the platform.

The stocky man picked up my suitcase and gave me the bag to carry.

Come on, son, let’s get you in the car and we’ll be on our way.

He led the way out of the station and across to an old car by the curb. Putting the case in the back he opened the passenger door for me.

Climb in there, he said. It was very dark and I couldn’t make out the surroundings.

There didn’t seem to be anybody about. I found this very strange after the continuous hustle and bustle of London.

Where is everybody? I asked the man, who was sliding his bulk into the driver’s seat.

Why, having their supper I expect, he replied. There’s no need to be about down here in the dark.

He started the car and swung it around and out of the car park. I expect your Auntie will have some supper ready for you as well, he said, peering ahead.

We were going up a steep hill, the hooded headlights only just strong enough to make the cat’s eyes in the middle of the road light up. As we crested the hill and turned left I could see the bulk of a huge building outlined against the stars.

What is this place? I asked.

That’s the cathedral, he replied, some call it the Queen of the Fens.

I didn’t know what the fens were.

I call it the mother hen of the fens, he continued, because you can see it for miles and it looks like a broody old hen sitting on her eggs, stuck up on the top of the hill like that. He chuckled to himself.

I turned round in the seat to get another glimpse of it but it had disappeared into the dark. I couldn’t know how that massive old building was going to be so much a part of my life in the years to come.

We were out of the town now and driving along a road that seemed full of gentle curves and ups and downs. We were the only thing moving on the road and the cat’s eyes were the only thing to be seen. I hoped that ‘the country’ wasn’t all like this.

The car smelled of old leather and chickens and rubber boots and some other things that I didn’t recognize. The man was wearing a thick tweed jacket and a tweed cap and I could see that he had a waistcoat on with a silver watch chain across his wide stomach. I thought that some of the smell was coming from his coat and wondered if he had been holding a wet dog.

Is it very far? I asked.

Oh, no, we’ll be there in a minute or two, he replied, and pressing my face against the window I could see that we were passing some houses, a chink of light showed from the curtains of one of them. We stopped and the man rolled down his window and peered along the road.

I’ll be glad when we can turn the lights on again, he said, I’m fed up with this messing about in the dark.

I tried to imagine what it would be like with lights in the streets after dark. Torches were all we had ever had to find our way around at night and you had to be extra careful crossing the road as drivers couldn’t see you.

We turned right and went slowly onwards. There were no cat’s eyes now.

This is the High Street, my boy, he said. We’re nearly there now.

He turned left and I knew we were on a steep hill as the nose of the car dipped sharply down. We only went a few more yards and then came to a stop and the man pulled hard on the handbrake.

Get on out, he said. We’re here. I managed to find the door handle and scrambled out with my bag. I could see a pair of gateposts and a path leading off to the side. Then a door opened and some pale yellow light swept towards us.

Here you are then, lad, safe and sound.

It was a tall, gaunt woman who spoke. I could see her silvery grey hair shining in the light from the doorway.

No trouble was there, Reg? she asked the driver.

"No trouble, missus, the train were on