Written
by Arthur CHAMBERS – born 1907
Arthur’s earliest
recollections were largely of fear, stark raging fear, not in his own home, but
in the cottage of his paternal grandparents at a pleasant spot on the wolds to
the south east of Nottingham, to which he was sent for summer holidays, or at
times of domestic emergency, such as the birth of a brother, when his presence
at home might have been inconvenient.
The cottage was the outer
end of a row of *four that stood tangential to a bend in the road, built of
time-mellowed red brick with white painted window frames, and approached by a
narrow path at the side of the village chapel. A well in the patch of front
gardens provided water for most purposes and into this Arthur often cautiously
peered and thought how impossible the shiny wet polished stones would make
escape if he was unfortunate enough to fall to the patch of light, which he
knew was water, at the bottom. Because of their position at the end of the row
of cottages, his grandparents enjoyed certain advantages over their neighbours.
Their weekly washing billowed luxuriously from an all-the-year wire stretched
from the cottage to a post in an adjacent field, and their hens scratched
contentedly underneath it or explored to the limits of the brook that ran
almost near enough to reach with a well flung stone. Maybe he would reach it
with one when he grew up, Arthur thought, when he did not feel as he so often
did now, always on the fringe of the crowd in the rougher games, easily pushed
aside, or so ready to leave the chasing of a ball to his friends.
The old folk had an
advantage also in extra poultry houses between their garden and the field, with
a man-high wire netted enclosure with a flimsy frame door. A pile of partly
sawn fallen tree branches and a sawing tressle made a convenient vantage point
when he wished to watch for someone coming along the lane or across the field.
He was happy out there in the daylight. The heavy wooden gate leading to the
field was comforting as a means of escape to the side of the brook, where he
could see all around him, away from the shadowy terror of the cottage which
enfolded him while even he was within its walls. The cottage was very ordinary
by most standards. The front door opened into a clean, tidy, living room with a
tall black-leaded and polished steel fire place and oven, built in the right
hand wall, ridged by a high mantelshelf from which two china dogs stared in
perpetual haughtiness across the white-stoned hearth.
The other walls held a
corner cupboard, well out of his reach, a glass encased clock with a large
brassy-looking pendulum, some family photographs, and four or five wire framed
coloured plates in the current fashion. A musical box stood on the sideboard,
to the door, but this did not fascinate him long because it seemed only to play
one tune. He could not remember his grandpa other than sitting in his wooden-slatted
high-backed arm chair near the window with its potted geranium plants standing in
the bottom on cheap white saucers, and the way he generally greeted him on
first arriving. He would say in a hearty voice, “Well! My little man”; then
open the table drawer by which he sat for additional support, bring out a slab
of toffee and a cutlery “steel” and break off a lump or two with a shrewd blow,
and then hand to him.
Most certainly a kind
man, and it did not occur to Arthur to beg, or try and steal, any of the toffee
from this miraculous source. Perhaps he felt that to do so would prejudice his
reception on a future occasion. His grandma merged into the atmosphere of the
house, unobtrusive, taken for granted. She was small, black-clothed, neat and
placid woman with tightly screwed-up grey hair, who had produced, first, a **daughter,
then some round dozen assorted sons, of whom his father was the last, and then
to round off, another daughter who now took physical responsibility for him
under than roof.
It was Aunt Florrie, as
she was named, when she sent him to wash his hands at the shallow brown sink at
the back of the house that things began to trouble him. He knew that the
brush-grained, varnished door at this left side enclosed a dark hole under the
stairs, in which, among other things, hung a wide-meshed string bag holding
bars of scrubbing soap. He had seen this bag many times from a distance, but
averted his eyes when passing the open door. He knew it was soap that hung
there, and he knew that it exuded a malignity that was unaccountably and
dreadfully real to him. He knew that when he saw it again it would have some
monstrous appearance, would seem to be alive, watching hypnotising him with
fears till someone closed the door.
Then there was the curiously
situated tub-lavatory in an unusual kind of tool-shed and poultry food store
under part of the house built to give more bedroom space for a large family.
The place had no lights and so was always in semi-darkness, however wide-open
he left the outer door, and the lavatory was a sentry box affair in the darkest
part. He was torn between fear of what might be lurking in those dark corners and
the ridicule he might incur by asking to be taken to the lavatory, but he was always
sent alone, except for the dark companions of his overworked imagination.
He tried not to think of
night time or of the little square door half way up the narrow stairs, which
gave access to one of those odd places that occur in some buildings, and in which
unwanted household things are stored. Aunt Florrie had often teasingly pressed
him to crawl inside and look around, but the proximity of the dark-hole below,
and the baneful area around it, kept him out. If he should be in there and she
took her face away from the opening, or perhaps shut the door, he would betray
his fear, he was sure he would, so he stayed outside.
And that was why he kept
always to one side, rubbing his shoulder along the opposite wall as they went
by the little square door, and on up the stairs.
Sleep came to him
naturally enough, after the excitement of a journey from home or a day spent
playing in the field and floating twigs in the brook. He was glad to curl up
between the cool sheets when bed-time came, and to go to sleep. Then suddenly,
he was awake again, the terror was there in another form.
Tall, long robed, awe
inspiring figures paraded about the bedroom, showing no sign of his presence,
coming no nearer, getting no further away. Only one place he could feel safe – “Aunt
Florrie! Aunt Florrie!”
“What now! What now
child?”
“I’m frightened. Can I
sleep with you?”
“Yes, if you keep quiet.”
End of extract.
*
As you can see, this block – to the left of the picture – is only a pair of cottages, not a block of four, as Arthur recalls.
**
He was wrong on another score too – there was
in fact one more child in this family; one he didn’t know about, until I –
clever dickey that I am – found him. Albert was his name. He was born before
Walter & Mary got married. Now whether he was Walter’s child or not, we
will probably never really find out, but I like to think that he was.
Mary SCRIMSHAW, was a member of a long and established family
living in Cotgrave – a village a couple of miles away from Normanton on the
Wolds. I can well imagine that for her to be pregnant with an Ag. Lab. of all
people, would have been quite a shock to her family. She was sent into Nottingham
to deliver the child.
However, Albert was not destined to be on this earth long – he died
at the age of 12 from meningitis. This is where I really had to play detective,
but I did eventually manage to fit things together. Albert was birth registered
as Albert SCRIMSHAW – I have his birth certificate. Mary – who, despite
attending Sunday School (I have a certificate for this ), says that she could not read or write – registered his
death as Walter CHAMBERS – I have the death certificate naming Walter as the
father ------ but ------ he was buried in Plumtree churchyard (the local church
for Normanton on the Wolds), as Albert CHAMBERS – from church registers … This
is why I like to think of Walter, Mary’s hubby, as poor old Albert’s father,
but having said that, Albert’s name does not appear in the family bible. Sad
but true…
CHAMBERS’s lot – approx. 1887
Walter Junior – sitting on his Dad’s knee - was Arthur’s
father – note the dress !
Some of the CHAMBERS’S BOYS –
standing on the bridge mentioned by Arthur
This photograph, I am told, was taken earlier than 1906
***((This photograph,
I am told, was taken in 1906
Notice Florrie’s
very slender waist !
I wondered if
this was taken on the occasion of Florrie’s wedding ?
Incidently, my
Great Grandfather, also an Arthur CHAMBERS, had been dead for 4 years when this
photograph was taken. He died from Tuberculosis in Birmingham, England.