Dreamscapes
Exterior and interior spaces which brought pleasure to my family
My father grew up by the sea, so wide open spaces were a given for him and his sister. It sounds like he had loads of fun playing out with his friends, games of tag, hide and seek. Playing tennis, cycling everywhere, climbing trees and watching birds — he had quite the ‘boys own’ adventure.
In contrast, my mother lived in London for her early years, but when war came they moved to Exmoor to be safer. Located on a farm, she helped with the dairy cows and chickens. For moving about the countryside she had the use of a pony; she learned to treasure these wide open spaces and harboured a longing to return to this simpler life if she possibly could.
After the war, they both gravitated to London, where they lived and later worked. They met each other at a society party and fell in love, marrying soon after. For their early life together they continued to base themselves in the city, moving from a tiny basement flat to a townhouse as their unit of two became three, then four, then five.
Their love for the countryside nagged at them, so they moved our family out to the suburbs and my younger brother followed shortly after — new house, new baby was true for us! What a beautiful place that was to grow up; we had big bedrooms which we shared two to a room plus a large walled garden.
Our sprawling house provided space for us to play in every conceivable way — its garden was big enough for bike and scooter riding, and race running. There was a crooked tree we used to ride like a horse, a swing and a climbing frame, even a slope for tobogganing, if there was enough snow. From my den in a bush, I would sit and watch my parents pass, confident they couldn’t see me. At the roots of the tall sycamore trees I’d use the carpet of moss to imagine fairy inhabitation, bringing tables and chairs from my doll’s house to make magical visitors comfortable.
The property dated back several centuries, and provided a rich source of hiding places when friends came to play. It boasted cupboards in every nook and cranny, fireplaces big enough to stand in, a winding staircase up to the sloped ceiling attic rooms plus cool, dark steps down to the cellar. Although many of my friends lived in pristine houses which looked like something out of a catalogue, my quirky home was just as popular for its old world charm.
It was a space which sparked my imagination, when daylight faded and curtains were drawn against the cold and dark, I could sense the press of spirits from past inhabitants. Although I never felt menaced, the fear I harboured made it necessary for a grown up to stand at the foot of the stairs and keep me talking if I had to go upstairs. My parents kindly never ridiculed my need for this. Perhaps it’s another reason I didn’t mind sharing a room with my brother.
Once we children were grown, and my father retired from his job in the city, my parents could fulfill their dream of returning to the wide open spaces they’d enjoyed in their youth. A little research was required to settle on a place they could both love; East Anglia fitted the bill so that’s where they bought a traditional pink cottage with a thatch. Living in a county rich with fields, rivers and woodland, my father could follow the country pursuits he enjoyed. My mother had peace and quiet, plus a tranquil view of the nearby church, so was free to write without any of the interruptions imposed by family life.
This cottage had once been a farm and it’s where they lived out their final years, blissfully happy with their reduced pace of life. Surrounded by fields the cottage interior was a space where family and friends were welcome to visit and stay. The layout of the reception rooms — one leading onto the next — made it great for entertaining.
My mother wanted her ashes scattered on their fields, which we did after her memorial, so when my father passed away last year, his choice of resting place was the same. It was an odd feeling, knowing that once we sold the house, they would both rest there, in a location we would not be able to visit. Yet, it was undeniably a space which had brought them happiness and freedom, peace and communion with nature.
East Anglia being a very flat habitat, the sky there seems very big. On the day I finally dropped off the keys with the agent and left their house for the last time, I took a moment to stand in the field. Around me the long grass — soon to become a hay crop — swayed like a green ocean. The sky above was leaden, fast moving clouds threatening rain as I said my goodbyes.
My parents, and this property filled with happy memories, are forever entwined; not trapped, rather anchored in the space that fulfilled their dreams.
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