One Young Fool in Dorset (6 page)

“Chesil beach, here we come!” we shouted over the
engine noise as Ivy bucked away, farting exhaust fumes along
Dorset’s country lanes.

Chesil beach has always fascinated me. It has been
the scene of many a shipwreck and was a favourite port for
smugglers, perhaps because of a unique feature. The shingle at the
north-west end is pea-sized, but as one walks to the south-east
end, the shingle gradually grows in size, until it is the size of
oranges. It is said that smugglers who arrived in the dead of night
without lights knew exactly where they were, just by the size of
the shingle.

The beach is famous now, thanks to the 2007 novel,
On Chesil Beach,
but was also named by Thomas Hardy as ‘Dead
Man’s Bay’ because shipwrecks claimed so many lives.

We collected stones from the beach, and it turned
out to be much less fun than we thought it would be. My mother was
picky, and every stone we offered her had to pass the quality
test.

“
Ach,
none of these stones are right!” she
complained. “They are too round and lumpy, not flat enough. I do
not think Chesil beach was the right place to come after all. Kids,
we’re going home.”

As far as I can remember, we eventually found enough
stones that were the right shape and size, and flat enough to paint
on, not at Chesil, but at some other beach. Before long, the stones
were washed and my mother painted a Cerne Abbas giant, with all his
splendour on every one. The naked giants lay in long rows on our
kitchen table, side by side, as my mother waited for them to dry.
Next came a coat of varnish, and they were ready to sell.

Did my mother make a fortune selling her stones? I’m
afraid not. I think she sold a few, but the remainder were returned
to her by the tourist shops who were unable to sell them. She
refused to dispose of them.

“What? Waste all that work?” she exclaimed.

So we shared our childhoods with these naked giants.
They were used as paperweights, set into plant pots, lined up on
windowsills, and given to anybody who visited the house.

The long summer days shortened and all too soon it
was time to prepare for school again.

“
Ach,
your hair is far too long,” said my
mother peering at my brother.

My brother had spent the summer sticking together
Airfix kits and model airplanes hung everywhere from his bedroom
ceiling. When he had no more planes to assemble or paint, he
devoted himself to dismantling things. My father had made him
worktops which were crammed with stripped down toasters and radios.
Whenever he put these things back together again, there always
seemed to be bits left over.

“Sit on this stool, and I will cut your hair,” said
my mother.

My brother blinked at her, then perched obediently
on a high kitchen stool and waited.

“
Ja,
this is what I need,” she said, pulling
a pudding basin from a cupboard and trying it on his head for
size.

Out came the scissors and my brother’s sun-bleached
hair fell to the floor in clumps as she snipped around the edge of
the bowl. Then she took off the bowl to admire her handiwork.

“Hmm… Perhaps some more off the top,” she said,
snipping thoughtfully.

“
Ach
, now the sides don’t match…”

Snip-snip, went the scissors and my brother’s hair
dropped in clumps.

The result was no work of art. In fact, it looked as
though my brother had been attacked by some particularly hungry
caterpillars.

“
Ach,
it will do,” she said and put the
pudding basin and scissors away.

I wasn’t looking forward to going back to school.
Every day, my sister and I had to walk the mile and a half to
Wareham station. The train steamed in, stopping at the platform
with much puffing and blowing. We climbed aboard, bound for
Dorchester. It seems strange now, but I don’t ever remember being
supervised. We just knew we mustn’t stick our heads out of the
window while the train was in motion or our heads would get chopped
off.

On the first day back at school, Mrs Pellow, the
headmistress, visited each classroom.

“Now children,” she said, “do you remember what I
asked you to do over the holidays?”

A forest of hands shot up into the air.

“Lucinda?”

“Miss, you said that we should write a composition
about what we did in the holidays.”

“Well done, Lucinda. That’s right. And what did I
say about these compositions?”

The forest of hands sprung up again.

“David?”

“Miss, you said the best one will win a prize.”

I was sitting next to Nigel Harding. We looked at
each other and pulled faces. I guessed he hadn’t written a
composition about what he did in the holidays either.

“Yes, David,” said Mrs Pellow, “that’s exactly what
I said, well done. But I have a wonderful surprise for you all. Not
just the child who has written the best composition, but
everybody
who has written a composition is going to be given
a
splendid
surprise!”

The class gasped. I gasped too, and so did Nigel
Harding, but ours were gasps of horror. We hadn’t written
compositions so we’d get no splendid surprise.

One by one, our classmates handed over their
compositions, and Mrs Pellow gave each child a beaming smile and a
splendid surprise. Nigel Harding’s face was long, probably a
reflection of mine.

“No composition?” asked Mrs Pellow as she reached
us, her eyebrows raised in question.

“No, Miss.”

“No, Miss.”

“What a pity,” said Mrs Pellow shaking her head
sadly and passing by.

When our classmates opened their splendid surprises,
our hearts were heavy. Each child was now the proud owner of a
gyroscope. I pretended not to care, but I did.

A lot.

When I mentioned it at home, I got no sympathy. My
big sister hardly looked up from playing with her gyroscope.

“
Ach,
you should have written your
composition,” said my mother.

I slouched off to see Timmy the tortoise.

I was too lazy, too much of a daydreamer and had my
head stuck in a book too often to do well at school. The fact that
my sister did so well academically made my lack of effort appear
even worse. As far as I was concerned, if it wasn’t reading, art,
or animals, I wasn’t interested.

* * *

School Report

Reading:
Victoria’s reading
is good for her age.

Writing:
Victoria needs to
be more careful.

Oral Composition:
Rarely
takes part, too busy daydreaming.

Written Composition:
Good
ideas but too slow getting them onto paper.

Arithmetic:
Victoria
struggles with this subject.

Nature Study:
Keen.

* * *

Leaves were beginning to redden and drift from the
trees. Summer was truly over and our uniform changed from striped
cotton dresses to long-sleeved white shirts, long grey socks and
grey pinafore dresses.

My father made a box for Timmy to hibernate in. He
filled it with straw and popped him in for the winter.
Unfortunately, poor Timmy perished very early on. In those days,
little was known about tortoise care, and the majority of pet
tortoises died during their first hibernation. Happily, the import
of tortoises into the UK for the pet trade is now illegal.

Of course I cried buckets of tears, and began to
badger my mother for another pet. What I really wanted was a puppy
I could take for walks on a lead, but I knew that would be out of
the question.

“Please,
please
can I have a pet?”

My pleas were ignored.

“Why can’t I have a guinea pig?”

“I told you, no more pets.”

“What about a bird? A bird wouldn’t be any
trouble.”

“
Ach,
you can have a bird but only if you
catch one yourself.”

She was joking, but I didn’t know that. I clutched
at the straw.

“Can I? Can I really? How do I catch one?”

“You have to put salt on its tail.”

“Salt?”

“Yes, salt. That’s how the rhyme goes:

He went to catch a dicky bird,

And thought he could not fail,

Because he’d got a little salt,

To put upon his tail.”

“Salt? Is that how you catch a bird?”

“
Ach,
yes! Of course! Put some salt on his
tail, and the bird will stand still. Then you can catch him and
keep him as a pet.”

I tried. I really tried. I stole salt from the
larder and filled my pockets. I crept up behind birds as they
landed on the lawn. But they always saw me coming and flew away
with a whirr of wings before I had a chance to drop the salt on
their tails.

“Does the salt work with any animals?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, just drop salt on their tails.”

I began to plot.

Both my parents enjoyed sport. I’m told they first
met at a tennis club. Later, we children were given tennis coaching
as our parents felt that playing tennis would help us ‘get on in
life’. My mother was also a very good skier and used to ski a lot
in her native Austria. My father could ski but his favourite sport
was squash, and he was beginning to teach my sister the game.

I used to tag along, but
not
because I liked
squash. On the contrary, I hated the smell of sweat at the courts,
and the grunts that the players made, and the deafening thwack of
the ball hitting the wall.

No, I had a hidden agenda. I had another reason for
accompanying them to the squash courts.

5
Snowy and Snow

“
W
hy do you want to come with us to squash?”
asked my sister curiously. “Do you want to learn to play?”

“No, I’ll just wait for you outside.”

“Wouldn’t you rather stay at home?” asked my father.
“There’s nothing to do there.”

“That’s okay, I’ll play outside.”

My father shook his head, baffled. I felt in my
pocket. I had the salt cellar that I’d borrowed from the
dining-room table, and a piece of string to use as a collar and
leash. Now, which rabbit hole should I wait at?

The squash courts at Bovington Army Camp were
surrounded by trees growing on banks. Dug into the banks and
between the tree roots were numerous rabbit holes. I chose one and
settled down to wait, the salt cellar poised ready to sprinkle on
an unsuspecting bunny’s tail.

I waited.

And waited.

Birds forgot I was there and settled quite close to
me, scratching among the autumn leaves in search of something juicy
for dinner. There were plenty of birds, but rabbits? I didn’t see
one.

In the distance I could hear the balls slamming
against the squash court walls.

Thwack, thwack.

I still had time. I moved my cold, cramped legs and
tried another rabbit hole.

Eventually the
thwacks
stopped and my father
and sister emerged, hot and red-faced with exertion, to find me
miserable and rabbitless.

“What on earth are you doing?” asked my father. “And
why have you got your mother’s best silver salt cellar?”

“I was trying to catch a rabbit to take home.”

My sister rolled her eyes, but my father said
nothing more as we drove home.

I imagine he felt sorry for me, because somehow he
managed to persuade my mother that I could have a rabbit in the new
year. It was decided that the space next to the proposed new
workshop would be set aside for my rabbit.

Unfortunately, nothing happened until late the
following spring. Although the old workshop was falling down, it
couldn’t be dismantled because a pair of robins were busily
building their nest on a shelf.

I climbed on a stool and sneaked a peek at the nest.
It looked very cosy, made from grass, leaves and lined with animal
hair and moss.

I loved watching the mother sit on her little blue
eggs. I watched her, and she watched me with her black beady
eye.

“I’m pleased you are going to have a family,” I told
her, “but I wish you’d hurry up. I can’t have my rabbit until your
family is grown up.”

One day, I visited the nest and there were four
little orange gaping mouths in there. Mum and Dad were kept busy,
arriving at regular intervals with beaks stuffed with caterpillars
and other delicacies. My mother’s passion for gardening meant they
reaped the benefits of her vegetable garden and she frequently
unearthed juicy worms for them.

“You are very cute,” I told the baby birds, “but I
wish you’d hurry up and grow and leave home.”

At last the babies fledged, and the old workshop
fell silent again. Now I had to wait for it to be pulled down and a
new workshop to be erected. Adults were so slowwww.

While I waited, I had an idea. I would make myself a
woodlouse sanctuary! I’d played with woodlice a lot, but I’d never
tried keeping them as pets in my bedroom. I’d always liked woodlice
and admired their ability to roll into shiny balls when alarmed. I
had a nice shoebox with a tight-fitting lid; that would do
perfectly! I decided not to tell the rest of the family about my
plan as I was pretty sure they didn’t share my fondness for
woodlice. So I secretly went hunting in the garden and found plenty
of the little creatures. I popped them into my box with old leaves,
soil and included rotten wood for them to eat.

I’m not sure what I did wrong, but within a few
days, every single woodlouse was dead. I still feel rather guilty
about it.

“Why do you have a shoebox with earth and wood in it
in your bedroom?” my mother asked.

“Oh, just something for art,” I replied, relieved
she hadn’t noticed the corpses of my little pets.

The old workshop was pulled down, and a new one was
built on the same site. My father constructed a hutch with
compartments for both day and night, and the whole area was
enclosed to make a run for the rabbit. My mother planted
honeysuckle to make the area look more attractive.