IN SEARCH OF
TIMES LOST
When I was young we went ‘up north’ every
year for our summer holidays. My parents had
moved south when I was just about walking. I
remember the holidays as being a long round
of visiting relatives in old, creaky houses
smelling of dust and polish at the same time.
The chairs and sofas were stuffed with
horsehair, uncomfortable and prickly; there
was a harmonium in the parlour at Grandma’s
house, which no-one ever seemed to play. (I
realised later that it was my dad who had
played in his youth.)
It seemed that on alternate days we visited
different branches of the two families, with the
odd trip to the seaside sandwiched in between.
All Mum’s relatives seemed to be named Fred
and Mary or Mary and Fred, all Dad’s were
called Auntie Something, and they were either
maiden aunts who lived together, or widows
who lived with one of their children. I remember
big dribbly black dogs and spiteful cats.
They are all long gone now. This summer we
went ‘up north’ as we often do, but this time, at
Geoff’s suggestion, I took a trip down memory
lane to Silksworth, to see if I recognised any of
the old places. Nana’s house was still there,
exactly matching the picture in my head. When
she moved out to live with my auntie in the
sixties, they found my grandfather’s wooden
leg in the attic, where it had been since his
death in 1947. My earliest memory is of seeing
Grandad in bed after his stroke, with his leg
lying at the foot of the bed. It (I mean the real
one) had been shot off in World War 1. My
uncle took it back to the hospital, but they no
longer needed it, so he put it back in the attic.
The house where I was born was still there, a
narrow end-of-terrace. I Y