immediately and moreover it was ideally placed for us, in one of the oldest, most picturesque streets of Cambridge, Little
St Mary’s Lane, within a hundred yards of Stephen’s department, which had recently moved to the building of the old Pitt Press printing works in Mill Lane.
Since number 11 Little St Mary’s Lane contained not a stick of furniture, we had to grit our teeth, dip deep into our funds, savings and wedding-present money, and go on a rapid spending
spree to buy basic furniture, a bed and an electric ring. While we were waiting for the bed to be delivered, I went out to buy provisions, leaving Stephen propped up against the bare wall of the
living room for want of a seat. To my astonishment, when I returned he was comfortably seated on a blue kitchen chair. He explained that a lady from down the road had come to introduce herself and,
finding him leaning against the wall, had kindly brought him the chair, which we could borrow until we had more furniture. The lady in question was Thelma Thatcher, the wife of the former Censor,
or Master, of Fitzwilliam House, who lived at number 9. Thelma Thatcher was to become one of the most benevolent and most entertaining influences in our lives over the next ten years. That evening
we cooked our supper in the Cornell saucepan on the single electric ring, drank sherry from our crystal glasses and, using a box for a table, ate from our bone china, using our gleaming
stainless-steel cutlery set. Stephen sat on the Thatchers’ kitchen chair while I kneeled on the bare white-tiled floor. No matter that it was somewhat improvised, we celebrated our good luck
in having a roof over our heads for the next three months.
Guarded at its entrance by two churches standing sentinel – the Victorian United Reform Church on the right and the medieval Church of Little St Mary on the left – the lane is hidden
from the public gaze. Tourists discover it only by chance. These days the lane is closed to through-traffic thanks to a campaign by the residents, including Stephen and me, so visitors to the two
big complexes on the river front, the Garden House Hotel and the University Centre, have to gain access via Mill Lane, which is not residential. Number 11 is the last of the main terrace of
three-storeyed cottages on the right-hand side of the street, some of which probably date back to the sixteenth century. When we took up residence in 1965, the house had been recently renovated by
Peterhouse, a college which, unlike Caius, did provide its Research Fellows with accommodation.
Iron railings on the south side of the lane enclose Little St Mary’s churchyard, a wild overgrown garden which, that September, was ablaze with reddening hips and haws and heavy with the
scent of autumn roses. The few gravestones which were still standing were so weather-beaten that their inscriptions had become illegible, despite the spreading branches of the towering sycamore
trees and the gnarled stems of the wisteria which sheltered them from the worst ravages of the elements. Here Nature had gently absorbed the dead of previous centuries back into her bosom,
resurrecting them in a profusion of blossoms which trailed over the railings and reached out to caress the crooked old gas lamp which lit the street at night with its sulphurous glow.
Thelma Thatcher was the self-appointed warden of the lane. She had planted many of the rose bushes in the churchyard, where she exercised Matty, her King Charles spaniel, wrapping each of her
paws in plastic bags in wet weather. As a matter of course, she took it upon herself to keep an eye on the well-being of all her neighbours, whatever their age or circumstances. Scarcely had a week
gone by than she had lent us more chairs, tables, pots and pans, found us a gas cooker to borrow – from Sister Chalmers, the Peterhouse nurse who was moving into a fully equipped college flat
– set about finding us somewhere else to live on the expiry of the present
St Mary’s Lane, within a hundred yards of Stephen’s department, which had recently moved to the building of the old Pitt Press printing works in Mill Lane.
Since number 11 Little St Mary’s Lane contained not a stick of furniture, we had to grit our teeth, dip deep into our funds, savings and wedding-present money, and go on a rapid spending
spree to buy basic furniture, a bed and an electric ring. While we were waiting for the bed to be delivered, I went out to buy provisions, leaving Stephen propped up against the bare wall of the
living room for want of a seat. To my astonishment, when I returned he was comfortably seated on a blue kitchen chair. He explained that a lady from down the road had come to introduce herself and,
finding him leaning against the wall, had kindly brought him the chair, which we could borrow until we had more furniture. The lady in question was Thelma Thatcher, the wife of the former Censor,
or Master, of Fitzwilliam House, who lived at number 9. Thelma Thatcher was to become one of the most benevolent and most entertaining influences in our lives over the next ten years. That evening
we cooked our supper in the Cornell saucepan on the single electric ring, drank sherry from our crystal glasses and, using a box for a table, ate from our bone china, using our gleaming
stainless-steel cutlery set. Stephen sat on the Thatchers’ kitchen chair while I kneeled on the bare white-tiled floor. No matter that it was somewhat improvised, we celebrated our good luck
in having a roof over our heads for the next three months.
Guarded at its entrance by two churches standing sentinel – the Victorian United Reform Church on the right and the medieval Church of Little St Mary on the left – the lane is hidden
from the public gaze. Tourists discover it only by chance. These days the lane is closed to through-traffic thanks to a campaign by the residents, including Stephen and me, so visitors to the two
big complexes on the river front, the Garden House Hotel and the University Centre, have to gain access via Mill Lane, which is not residential. Number 11 is the last of the main terrace of
three-storeyed cottages on the right-hand side of the street, some of which probably date back to the sixteenth century. When we took up residence in 1965, the house had been recently renovated by
Peterhouse, a college which, unlike Caius, did provide its Research Fellows with accommodation.
Iron railings on the south side of the lane enclose Little St Mary’s churchyard, a wild overgrown garden which, that September, was ablaze with reddening hips and haws and heavy with the
scent of autumn roses. The few gravestones which were still standing were so weather-beaten that their inscriptions had become illegible, despite the spreading branches of the towering sycamore
trees and the gnarled stems of the wisteria which sheltered them from the worst ravages of the elements. Here Nature had gently absorbed the dead of previous centuries back into her bosom,
resurrecting them in a profusion of blossoms which trailed over the railings and reached out to caress the crooked old gas lamp which lit the street at night with its sulphurous glow.
Thelma Thatcher was the self-appointed warden of the lane. She had planted many of the rose bushes in the churchyard, where she exercised Matty, her King Charles spaniel, wrapping each of her
paws in plastic bags in wet weather. As a matter of course, she took it upon herself to keep an eye on the well-being of all her neighbours, whatever their age or circumstances. Scarcely had a week
gone by than she had lent us more chairs, tables, pots and pans, found us a gas cooker to borrow – from Sister Chalmers, the Peterhouse nurse who was moving into a fully equipped college flat
– set about finding us somewhere else to live on the expiry of the present
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