happy morning in Caxley Library looking up the history of both families, and was surprised at how quickly the time passed whilst engaged on my simple researches.
Driving home I began to wonder if this sort of gentle activity was what I needed to fill my days in the future. I began to wax quite enthusiastic and wondered if a small book about local history would prove a worthwhile project. It could have maps in it, I thought delightedly. I like maps, and I imagined myself poring over old maps and new ones, and deciding how large an area I would cover, and what scale I should choose for reproducing them.
Caxley itself could provide a wealth of material for a volume of local history, but I decided that other people had done this before me, and in any case I had no intention of burdening myself with trips to the crowded streets of our market town to check facts and figures.
No, I shall concentrate on something simpler, Beech Green, say, or Fairacre. I remembered some of dear Miss Clare's memories of her thatcher father and his work, and of the way of life she had known as a child in the house which was now mine. If only I had written them down at the time!
Such pleasurable musings accompanied me as I went about my daily affairs. When at last I settled down one wet afternoon to write up my notes about the two families commemorated in my parish church, I began to have second thoughts.
This writing business was no joke. Both accounts were much too long. I did some serious cutting and editing, then began to wonder if my predecessor had discovered the same difficulty in describing the earlier tomb, which accounted for his terse advice to visit the Lady Chapel.
I put down my pen and went to make a pot of tea. I needed refreshment. Perhaps it would be better to devote my energies to recording people's memories, as I had first thought, and writing my own diary next year. I was beginning to realize that historical research and, worse still, writing up the results was uncommonly exhausting.
I had a chance to broach the subject of recording memories when Bob Willet arrived with Joe Coggs the next Saturday.
'We've come to split you up,' announced Bob.
I was not as alarmed as one might imagine. Translated it meant that he and Joe were about to divide some hefty clumps of perennials which had been worrying Bob for some time.
They went down the garden bearing forks and chatting cheerfully, while I went indoors to make some telephone calls.
I could hear them at their task. Bob was busy instructing his young assistant on the correct way to divide plants.
'You puts 'em back to back, boy. Back to back. Them forks. Pretty deep. Put your foot on 'em, so's they gets well down. That's it. Now give 'em a heave like.'
I could hear the clinking of metal as the operation got under way, then a yell.
'Well, get your ruddy foot out o' the way, boy! You wants to watch out with tools.'
I hoped I should not be called upon to rush someone to hospital, and was relieved to hear no more yells, just Bob's homely burr as he continued his lesson.
Some time later, their labours over, we all sat down at the kitchen table with mugs of tea before us, and a fruit cake bought from the WI stall in the middle.
My two visitors did justice to it and Bob congratulated me.
'You always was a good hand at cake-making. My Alice said so.'
This was high praise indeed as Mrs Willet is a renowned cook. However, common honesty made me confess that I had not made this particular specimen.
I broached the subject of Bob's early memories, and drew some response.
'Well now, I don't really hold with raking up old times, but there's a lot I could tell you about Maud Pringle in her young days as'd make you sit up.'
The dangers of libel suddenly flashed before me. Perhaps old memories were not going to be as fragrant and rosy as I imagined.
'I wasn't thinking of people so much,' I began carefully, 'as different ways of farming, perhaps, or household methods which have
Driving home I began to wonder if this sort of gentle activity was what I needed to fill my days in the future. I began to wax quite enthusiastic and wondered if a small book about local history would prove a worthwhile project. It could have maps in it, I thought delightedly. I like maps, and I imagined myself poring over old maps and new ones, and deciding how large an area I would cover, and what scale I should choose for reproducing them.
Caxley itself could provide a wealth of material for a volume of local history, but I decided that other people had done this before me, and in any case I had no intention of burdening myself with trips to the crowded streets of our market town to check facts and figures.
No, I shall concentrate on something simpler, Beech Green, say, or Fairacre. I remembered some of dear Miss Clare's memories of her thatcher father and his work, and of the way of life she had known as a child in the house which was now mine. If only I had written them down at the time!
Such pleasurable musings accompanied me as I went about my daily affairs. When at last I settled down one wet afternoon to write up my notes about the two families commemorated in my parish church, I began to have second thoughts.
This writing business was no joke. Both accounts were much too long. I did some serious cutting and editing, then began to wonder if my predecessor had discovered the same difficulty in describing the earlier tomb, which accounted for his terse advice to visit the Lady Chapel.
I put down my pen and went to make a pot of tea. I needed refreshment. Perhaps it would be better to devote my energies to recording people's memories, as I had first thought, and writing my own diary next year. I was beginning to realize that historical research and, worse still, writing up the results was uncommonly exhausting.
I had a chance to broach the subject of recording memories when Bob Willet arrived with Joe Coggs the next Saturday.
'We've come to split you up,' announced Bob.
I was not as alarmed as one might imagine. Translated it meant that he and Joe were about to divide some hefty clumps of perennials which had been worrying Bob for some time.
They went down the garden bearing forks and chatting cheerfully, while I went indoors to make some telephone calls.
I could hear them at their task. Bob was busy instructing his young assistant on the correct way to divide plants.
'You puts 'em back to back, boy. Back to back. Them forks. Pretty deep. Put your foot on 'em, so's they gets well down. That's it. Now give 'em a heave like.'
I could hear the clinking of metal as the operation got under way, then a yell.
'Well, get your ruddy foot out o' the way, boy! You wants to watch out with tools.'
I hoped I should not be called upon to rush someone to hospital, and was relieved to hear no more yells, just Bob's homely burr as he continued his lesson.
Some time later, their labours over, we all sat down at the kitchen table with mugs of tea before us, and a fruit cake bought from the WI stall in the middle.
My two visitors did justice to it and Bob congratulated me.
'You always was a good hand at cake-making. My Alice said so.'
This was high praise indeed as Mrs Willet is a renowned cook. However, common honesty made me confess that I had not made this particular specimen.
I broached the subject of Bob's early memories, and drew some response.
'Well now, I don't really hold with raking up old times, but there's a lot I could tell you about Maud Pringle in her young days as'd make you sit up.'
The dangers of libel suddenly flashed before me. Perhaps old memories were not going to be as fragrant and rosy as I imagined.
'I wasn't thinking of people so much,' I began carefully, 'as different ways of farming, perhaps, or household methods which have
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