Writelink Arena

On the 'normal' Arena also. Reduced from 1700 to 1200 words to meet publishers'guidelines.

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The house of grey Portland stone and roof of Collyweston slate still retains its old character. I remember it in the 1940s and 1950s when the front had a grey wooden fence, a garden gate and a double gate across the drive at the left. It was fun to swing over them from one side to the other.

On either side of a concrete path to the front door were lawns each with diamond-shaped flower beds in their centre. At nine or ten, I had to cut the edges and woe betide me if I snipped off any flowers. They were in more danger from flailing sticks used to swat bumble bees attracted by the asters.

A rambling rose covered the head-high, wire fence between the lawn and drive. A small gate from the drive near the house opened onto a stone path crossing the front to the lawns and flower beds. Right of the house was a short path from the pavement into the garden of the landlord; he kept a beady eye on us especially as our Airedale, Punch, had killed his cat when it trespassed on ‘his’ lawn.

The drive, up the left continued to the back boundary fence, and contained a gate through which you could enter a stonemason’s yard – but only if he wasn’t there; he wasn’t keen on kids pinching his apples and plums from trees covered in the dust from the monuments and gravestones he made.

Beyond the back of the house on the right were outhouses with double doors used as garages for the cars of the landlord’s spinster daughters. Between the garages and the house were two smaller outhouses - one for Dad’s tools where the dog had its kennel, and one for coal, the fuel that provided heating and hot water. Behind the coal house was the toilet. No plumbing or drainage; it was equipped with a big wooden seat, and beneath the hole, an open bucket emptied once a week; unheated and with very little light, it wasn’t a nice place at night

Behind that unpleasant place, down one step was the stone-flagged washhouse, where bikes and a workbench were stored against one wall. In pride of place was the large coal-fired copper in which washing was boiled up and which provided, each weekend, water for a proper wash in a large tin bath. If it was exceptionally cold I was allowed to fill the bath in front of the kitchen’s hot black-leaded range. This was better because the curtains could be closed. Those in the washhouse did not screen the large window which, at ground level, was in line with the spinsters’ kitchen window next door.

Outside, at the back corner of the house, was a cold water tap, which froze in winter, having to be thawed by water from the boiler in the kitchen. This was the source of water for washing and cooking. An elevated galvanised tank collected rainwater from the roof, the overflow feeding a wooden water butt in which swam minnows or tadpoles collected from village steams.

Stone steps led down into a lobby outside the back door. Kindling for starting fires with old newspapers was stacked against the house wall to keep it dry. Inside a short passage led to storage space under the stairs. To the right a door took you down two steps into the long pantry with wooden storage shelves; down two further steps in the coldest part of the house the meat was kept in a wire-mesh fronted safe. A single electric bulb provided light; the small window in the back wall of the house over the water butt and, and at the meat-safe end a ground-level smaller window did not let in much light. We would shiver there on nights during the war when German bombers were trying to find the local Lancaster bases. The windows were so small that blackout precautions were easily met.

The door opposite the pantry opened into the kitchen with its black iron grate and red-leaded hearth. A coal fire burned during the day to heat the oven and the water tank. A home made, sacking-backed rug pegged from dyed scraps of old clothes in front of the grate, was the only covering on the stone flag floor and a favourite place for the dogs; each flag about two feet square separated by rough filled mortar was worn down where feet often trod.

The furniture consisted of a bare wooden table that seated six if two chairs were squeezed down the longer sides. Four spindle backed wooden chairs matched the armchair at the window end with a chair with a wickerwork seat in one corner.

To the left of the black-leaded range was an alcove with two levels of bare-wood cupboards up to the ceiling. Crockery, pots and pans filled the upper cupboard, shoes, boots and cleaning materials occupied the lower. A small hole in the middle of the bottom door was the entry for the mice which the dogs would chase round the floor.

In the alcove to the right was a narrow table with water jug and enamel bowl, and a bucket of cold water underneath. This was for washing – you were lucky if you were allowed to warm it up from the hot water tank. A shaving mirror hung on the wall between the two windows that looked out onto the landlord’s garden. Dad shaved at this every morning in his vest. My brothers left home before I was old enough to shave.

The second room down the passage from the back door was the sitting room, what we would now call a lounge. It had a large round table which at a pinch could seat ten. It also contained a dresser for the best crockery and silverware, a desk, a set of drawers, with the wireless on top, and three upholstered armchairs. In front of the open fire was a brass fender, the length of the hearth, with a set of equally long brass tongues inside. A metal mesh fire guard protected a cloth rug larger than the one in the kitchen from any sparks. Smoke blew back down the chimney whenever the wind was stronger than a breeze.

The best room came into its own when we took in RAF crewmen and their wives during the war. It was reached from the sitting room by two doors, one into the front hall, about four feet square just inside the front door. That best room was through a second door opposite the sitting room and was used at Christmas for the tree, whatever presents we could afford or a spare bed when the house was full of visitors. As the ‘courting room’ it could tell a tale or two.

Three bedrooms and a box room occupied the upper floor; all had sloping ceilings formed by the roof with beds placed under the slope, to avoid you banging you head.

Now the wooden fences have gone to be replaced by stonewalls. There are no gates. A nameplate proclaims it to be ‘Saddlers Cottage’. My father’s family were saddlers before the motorcar came along.