Back to Front

By Janet Ollerenshaw

Old Bess, young Bess, Elizabeth, Lizzie... are we at the beginning or the end? In a Back to Front and roundabout way, Bess tells the story of how her paths have crossed and sometimes run alongside those of the people she has been sent to guide and support.
As her personal story unfolds we learn that she has not just one path but many and that chronological time is irrelevant when it comes to spiritual guidance and purpose.
Although Back to Front can be read alone, through Bess’ story we are able to ‘join up the dots’ with some of the characters that peopled Inside Out and Upside Down

Bess is the swan sailing serenely across the water, while her coronet wings protect her young charges and her webbed feet paddle furiously beneath the surface.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AG Books
• Release date: May 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9781785388965

Book preview

back.

Chapter One

She was no ugly duckling! But then neither was she any great beauty. ‘Plain as a pikestaff’ was the most usual way her father affectionately described his youngest daughter. Emily Amelia was the seventh child and fifth daughter and although her sisters, Julia, Sarah, Susanna and Ursula, always insisted she should have been the second and Susanna (or Sarah) last, they were not! It became a family joke and in every ancient, sepia photograph of the five girls that I ever saw; irrespective of age, height or demeanour, they stood in the same order. Grinning and pointing at their female siblings, their brothers, Christopher and Gabriel, like protective guardian angels, would stand one on either side of the row of girls. The ‘holy horrors’, as they were dubbed by their decidedly un-angelic brothers, were, in my humble opinion, neither holy nor horrible.

Perhaps it was entirely coincidental. Perhaps it was some slightly twisted joke played on them by their parents or maybe it was purely by chance that their initials spelled out that name. The family were not overtly religious. Oh they claimed to be CofE on all documents requesting such information, and they attended services often enough to be considered ‘proper’ but there was little devotion to the church and apart from obligatory attendances at fetes and festivals, the entire family avoided any form of declaration of faith. The children were not baptised, despite it being ‘expected’ at that time and it was quite apparent, from my observation of the reactions of other villagers, that they were considered to be somewhat heathen and bohemian in their behaviours.

There was much whispering behind hands cupped round gossiping mouths whenever one of the girls passed through the village; muslin covered wicker basket swinging gently on a bare arm, with dusty shoeless feet and a flimsy frock floating about her bare brown legs in the summer breeze. Or, in winter, boots, several sizes too big and unlaced, flapped against woollen stockinged stick-like legs and an overlarge cloak, its hood pulled down close over flowing curly locks, was wrapped around a too thin body. They were not poor; they simply didn’t see the need to conform to society’s expectations of fine clothes, good food and empty manners. They were respectful and polite, educated and intelligent; they spoke quietly and listened genuinely with obvious interest. They were kindness itself and were always prepared to help anyone who was brave, or desperate, enough to come to them for assistance. Nevertheless, the villagers, wary of the unconventional, largely left them to their own devices and they, in turn, remained on the outskirts of society much as their rambling old home was situated on the outskirts of Minchington village.

Christopher and Gabriel were the eldest and second children of Marion and Arthur Morgan; both were born prior to WW1 and were respectively eight and six years older than their sisters who were born in five successive years soon after their father returned from the front line. The handsome boys were wild and inclined to be wayward and headstrong; a consequence of their often absentee father and an over-indulgent mother who, despite her maternal responsibilities, was inclined to take long rambling walks across the countryside, collecting herbs and flower, to daydream and to read books when she might perhaps have better spent her time disciplining her sons.

Emily Amelia was my best friend. Actually she was more than that; she was my saviour and my soul mate. Now I don’t mean that in any soppy romantic sense because the truth is that we were only about three years old when she first saved me.

* * *

Perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself; I suppose I should begin at the beginning although, to be honest, I’m not very sure where the beginning is. Sometimes it seems that there is no beginning and no end; only timeless in-betweens...

Locked away in the deep recesses of my mind there are memories of a time before time, where shapes, sounds and senses are indistinct. Feelings are softened and there is an overall air of well-being and comfortable nothingness. Remote figures come and go, busying themselves with vague yet seemingly necessary tasks that power the perpetual motion of a wordless routine wherein nothing is set and yet all happens just as ordained. A mighty machine made up of many parts, connected and yet unattached, intrinsic and yet separate, vital and yet insignificant. And, above all, the omnipresence, the driving force, the great magician who holds all together in the palm of an invisible hand which, whilst the other turns the mighty wheel of inevitable providence, fends against the ever intrusive and inevitable interferences of chance and chaos.

It is only with hindsight that I can, albeit poorly, describe these memories. I offer no explanation; that is for you to discover if you so choose, I merely set out to tell my tale and if perchance it resonates with you, let us simply rejoice in our mutual acceptance of what is.

* * *

In my most vivid recollections, I was an inquisitive child. The world I found myself in was full of mystery and wonder. As soon as I was mobile, I would crawl out into the meadow-like garden that surrounded my parents’ country home. At the time, having nothing with which to make comparisons, I did not know how fortunate I was to live in such relative luxury. The house was a large, stone built farm house with a stable yard and associated outbuildings. There were paddocks and barns, chicken runs and rabbit hutches, all in various states of disrepair, and there were many cats and dogs, both working and house pets. Blackie, the pet sheep, lived in the kitchen and the geese who were supposed to be guarding the driveway, often crept into the scullery to cool themselves in summer or, in winter, to seek warmth in the bottom oven of an ancient kitchen stove.

Positioned on the edge of the moor and well away from the nearest village, it was a chaotic, disorganised jumble of people and animals in which we revelled without concerning ourselves with health and safety or routine. We were well fed, adequately clothed, warm and relatively comfortable and above all we were loved. We had time and space in abundance and the world was our schoolroom. We children were encouraged to learn to read the plethora of scruffy and well thumbed books that were housed in what was fondly referred to as our library but which was, in truth, nothing more than a collection of overflowing, mismatched bookcases lining the walls of the hall and landing. Nevertheless, there was a wide range of styles, genres, eras, interests and information available to us and as we also learned to write, we added our own stories and diaries to the motley and eclectic collection. Most of our education came from experience and from questioning the world about us.

No doubt it was this somewhat wild and unconventional setting for my childhood that led to my connection with Emily Amelia.

For some reason, unfathomable to everyone else, my mother decided that I should attend the village nursery school. Being the youngest of four, and the others old enough to help out with the daily tasks on the farm, I expect I was more often than not ‘in the way’ and so it was that she enrolled me there when I was just three and a quarter. At that tender age, armed with nothing more than a spare pair of knickers (just in case) and an apple for my lunch, I was frogmarched, by Daniel, my next eldest brother, the three miles to Minchington Village Hall.

Chapter Two

It was the noise that first assailed my senses, closely followed by the smell. The high ceilinged village hall, with its wooden floor and tall, narrow, dusty sash windows that let in streams of opaque sunlight which never quite reached the tops of our heads and whose little warmth was soon dissipated in the murk and gloom of the brown panelled space, was a tremendous shock to my young self who had only ever known the ramshackle comfort of the farmhouse and the light airiness of the great outdoors. There was an all pervading smell of boiled cabbage and onions. There may have been a hint of meat or gravy but this was obscured by the aroma of wet nappies and talcum powder. It was a sickly sweet smell which made my nose wrinkle and my eyes run.

The clamour was overwhelming; crying, shouting, laughing and shrieks of both terror and delight filled the hall and I was utterly petrified. Children, babies, parents, siblings and teachers all swirled about me, each individual indistinguishable from the mass. I stood; bolt upright, my back against the wide wooden door post. I held my breath and gazed, through saucer-like eyes and with utter disbelief, on the chaotic scene. My arms were clamped to my sides and my hands clenched tightly around the handle of the raffia bag containing my knickers and apple. Daniel gave a little push in the curved small of my back, and since my feet were nailed to the spot and could not move for love nor money, I fell, face first onto the harsh coarseness of the coir matting intended to protect the floor. I screamed...

* * *

There was no way in heaven or earth I was going back into that hell house! It was the epitome of all horrors for my innocent and sheltered self. I longed to run home, to the hills and lanes, the moor and the lake; to Mother and to the haven of our library and her soft voice soothing my rankled nerves.

Of course it didn’t happen that way. Poor Daniel, only a few years my senior, was flummoxed and had no idea what he should do with me next. His mission, after having delivered me, was to collect some important items from the hardware store and to hurry back to Pa so that the farm work could continue smoothly. Accordingly, and assuming that he would have to take me home again, he took out a grubby handkerchief and roughly, but not unkindly, smeared my snotty tears over my cheeks giving me the appearance of a somewhat mournful glazed doughnut. He sat me down on the corner of a low wall outside the village hall and instructed me to stay there to wait while he went on to the shop which was another half a mile towards the big town and away from home.

At first, so traumatised was I that I sat as instructed, unmoving and still tearful, but as time went by I became bored with my own sorrow and inactivity. Having exhausted the fun in baulking a column of ants intent on crossing it, I began to kick my heels against the dry-stone wall. There was a satisfying clunk as leather hit stone and this was soon added to by the shimmying trickle of dust and rubble as the facia of the ancient stone began to crumble.

After a few minutes I hopped down from the wall and scrutinised the small dent I had produced. It was quite satisfying; not so big as to cause upset and not so small as to be missed. I crouched on my heels and using a grubby forefinger, idly stirred the discard pile. I wrote my name, B E S S, and was so engrossed in carefully forming the letters that I didn’t notice the shadow that fell over my hunched back until it completely obliterated my writings. I spun round in alarm; jumping to my feet and scattering the rubble pile as I did so.

Emily Amelia surveyed me solemnly. Her long curly hair was covered by the hood of a voluminous cloak and on her arm she carried a wicker basket. Her face was thin, grubby and fascinating and her eyes were deep pools of navy blue. She didn’t speak, she simply held out her hand and after the briefest of moments I picked up my own small bag and placed my hand in hers. She led me back to the doorway to ‘hell’ and I went, willingly, all my trust placed in her small palm which held mine in a firm but friendly grasp. Still she did not speak as the door was opened and we stepped inside. She showed me where to hang my bag and jacket, she led me across the huge room to a corner which was furnished with a rug and with many cushions scattered about. We sat and she gazed at me whilst I looked all around and wondered at the quietness and sense of purpose and focus that now permeated the whole room. I would have been her slave for ever; I would have lain down and died for this wonderful saviour who, to me, was beautiful, kind and who knew exactly how I felt inside. She sat beside me for almost two hours until the big door flew open and my mother whooshed into the room bringing panic, relief, laughter, more tears and a most awful smell of cow-manure. She wrapped me in her arms and hugged me so tight I thought I should suffocate and then, abruptly, she gave me a hearty whack on the backside. Of course I wailed again. Daniel appeared from behind Mother’s skirts and took my hand. He too gave me a clip around the ear and I knew I was in trouble.

I didn’t see Emily Amelia again for a long time. Although I was obliged to continue to suffer the awfulness of nursery three mornings a week, I never saw her there again. No one spoke of her and no one acknowledged that anyone had brought me back on that first terrible day. But I knew. And I knew that she was Emily Amelia. I don’t know how I knew; I just did. I also knew that I would see her again...

* * *

If this story had an obvious beginning and a conclusive end, then I would know how to present it to you. The thing is, as I have already suggested, there is no beginning and maybe there is also no end. The scenes I present to you are memories of mine; I have many, many memories. Some are vague and impressionistic, whereas others are vivid with clarity of detail. I’m sure that some of the memories are not even mine but are those that have been embedded in my mind through constant repetition by others, so that they feel like my memories but are not. I also know things; things that I could not have known such as Emily Amelia’s name. No one had told me her name, I had not asked. We had not exchanged any verbal greeting or communication. Perhaps she had seen my childish letters in the dirt and could know my name - but there is no way that I could have learned hers. Nevertheless, I knew her and she knew me.

Later that evening, after I had been thoroughly chastised for frightening both my brother and my mother, after I had been roughly scrubbed in the old tin bath and after I had eaten my meagre supper; after I had sought forgiveness, all the while sobbing out my heart rent apologies, Mother took me onto her knee and held me close. She breathed into my hair and whispered sweet nothings in my ear until I calmed and my sobs subsided into occasional shuddering indrawn sniffs and juddering exhalations. She told me I was precious to her and that her anger was born of her fear of losing me. She had been surprised when a desperate Daniel had eventually returned home saying I had run away and that he couldn’t find me. Once she had finished her essential morning chores, safely penned the geese and secured Blackie the sheep, she had hurried back to the village hall intending to ask others to help her search for me. Of course, when she arrived, she found me there; safe and sound...

As she tucked me into my trundle bed in the corner of my parents’ bedchamber, she leant close and kissed my cheek, "Sleep well my little angel. You do not know