Repatriation of a prisoner of war

by Gerald Maller

I clambered aboard the Dakota clutching my home made holdall with the few possessions I had managed to hold onto over the years. The memory of the flight is rather vague but I do remember flying unhindered over the Rhine, not realising how many lives had been lost by troops fighting across it. The bomb bays were empty, and there were no windows to wave goodbye from, only belts of ammunition weaving round the fuselage. It must have been a complex operation reloading.

Just as I finished eating my first white bread sandwich for five years, the gunner in the centre turret asked if I would like to see the white cliffs of Dover. I couldn't get up quickly enough. What a sight! My heart turned over. Then, to crown it all, Winston Churchill’s voice came crackling over the radio. with his victory in Europe speech.

After landing at Westcott Airfield near Oxford, we were taken by truck to Beaconsfield , where, once our particulars had been taken, we were off to the clothing store for new uniforms. My old one had lasted over fiv years, so it had lots of memories. Volunteer ladies were on hand to sew on badges. It was lovely to meet smiling faces and to know they were enjoying helping us. We were extremely thankful for their dedication.

Next morning, money in my pocket, train warrant stowed away, I boarded a truck to the station. My memory of the train journey is dim but I do recall walking to the bus stop only to find it had been moved. At that point, I realised that my nerves were in a shocking state. In my brand new uniform I must have looked like a raw recruit. When I asked a lady if this was the right stop for Rodbourne. She said “Yes. Are you on leave?” I said “Yes.”That was the extent of my first conversation in Swindon. I felt embarrassed waiting, but the bus arrived at last. I gave the conductress half a crown and she gave two and six in change. [A half a crown was worth two shillings and sixpence – Ed.] I was too embarrassed to say anything, but found out later that thy did not charge troops.

It was about a quarter of a mile home from the bus stop and it was very eerie seeing that nothing had changed. Walking past a local shop where I used to buy sweets as a boy, I saw a lady I knew and said “Hello”. Whether she remembered me I couldn’t be sure.

At home, the front gate was missing (taken away for the war effort) but Mum heard the front door and flew down the passage, hugged and squeezed me before I could put my bags down. Dad, beaming all over his face but with a quiver in his voice said. “Hello Son”, which covered a hundred words.

My sister called with her four-year-old daughter, who said her party piece perfectly: “Hello Uncle Gerald. Ever so pleased to see you.” We have been good friends ever since.

Gerald and his niece Pauline

Our Mouse Trap

by Colin Maller

The floors of the house, except for the scullery, bathroom and lavatory were covered in linoleum which was kept polished; small carpets or mats were laid in front of the fires and by the side of beds. There were no lights u[stairs and we went to bed by candlelight.

Because of the construction of the terrace it was impossible to control the incursion of mice and insects, which moved under the floors from one house to another. All food was kept in tins and jars and large earthenware basins and lids.  

We always had traps set for mice and when the mice became wary of the traps we made our own out of a ruler projecting from a shelf, some cheese stuck on the end, and a three- quarters full bucket of water underneath. It never failed.

Mother's Home Brew

by Colin Maller

After church on summer evenings the whole family would go for walks through the district. In season we would note where the best wild fruits and flowers were.

Mother made homemade wine out of everything that grew: dandelions, cowslips, rose hips, elder flowers end elder berries, blackberries, sloes, wheat and barley, rhubarb and potatoes, apples, pears and gooseberries. she boiled the fruit, or whatever, in the copper and then ladled it out into a large earthenware container.A piece of yeast from the baker was added and it was left to ferment.

After a while it was strained through a cloth and bottled, but not corked. It continued to 'work' for a long time and the bottles had to be topped up. The dregs from the pan were thrown onto the garden and the sparrows came down to  eat their fill, and became too drunk to fly away.

Mother would sit in the chair and say, "I don't knw what's come over me, I feel quite dizzy."

Mother was against drinking and alcohol, and refused to believe that anything she made was other than a cordial When Father went to the club for a pint of beer, she was displeased, but she would ive us children a small tumbler of her wine to go to bed. I'm sure we had more alcohol in our blood than poor old Dad when he came home

When the bottles were finally corked they were put in the cupboard under the stairs. If they had been corked too early there would be a big bang - usually in the middle of the night -  and we would open the door to find the cupboard spattered with wine and broken glass.

Father would say, "That must have been some potent brew, Mother." But Mother would keep her own counsel and just clean up the mess,

                                                                             

Plymouth Keys

by Jane Seale

I’m 52 now, but I still look back fondly on my student days at Plymouth Polytechnic in the mid 80’s. Those days at Poly represented a certain kind of freedom for me- freedom to express my growing self-confidence, freedom to go out and party, freedom to get a Captain Jack burger from the Barbican (best burger joint in town) after a night out in the Quay club ….and so on, I was no different to any other student of my time. Several of my significant Plymouth memories however, do not involve an excess of alcohol or burgers- instead they involve keys.

In my first year at Plymouth Poly I ended up in lodgings, quite a way out of the city, in Plymstock. Being a country girl at heart, I quite liked the fact that I could take a short bus ride from where I lodged down to Wembury beach. It reminded me of home. So it was natural that when mum and John came to visit me, I would take them to Wembury beach too. 

We spent a lovely couple of hours sat on the sand and walking along the shore. When it was time to head back, we strolled back to the car only for mum to innocently ask; “where are my car keys?” For those of you who know mum, you will know that this was not an unusual occurrence! However, normally looking for mum’s keys involved searching around the house. This time, it involved scouring a whole beach. Luckily we were able to re-trace our steps and find the keys buried in the sand where we had been sitting. As always mum was a picture of calm and serenity- somehow assured in her knowledge that we would find the keys. She never ceases to amaze me at how unalarmed she is at the prospect of having to walk back from some remote place she has parked, because she has mislaid her keys. The last time she did this to me, was a few years back, when we were walking up some ancient Dorset hill fort a few miles outside of Blandford. The grass was really long and Sheba was enjoying jumping through it as she chased rabbits. When once again mum announced that she could not find her car keys, she simply turned around and walked unhurriedly back the way she had come. I was busily calculating how long it might take us to walk to the nearest place of habitation. Unbeknown to me, mum was busy calculating where she had stopped along the way to take photographs. Sure enough, at the bottom of the hill, she stops by some field flowers and there, in a clump of tall grass are her keys!

In my second year at Plymouth Poly I shared a flat with two friends, Julie and Kathryn (Ryn for short). Early on in the academic year, Julie had made friends with a chap called Alan who shared a flat with his two mates, Mike and Nevil. The six of us became inseparable on weekends, partying away at the Students Union and one another’s houses. On one occasion, we were at the boys’ house when Julie, Kat and I took it upon ourselves to purloin one of their door keys. It sounds rather childish now, but it gave us weeks of fun at the time. The boys would ask us if we had their key and with straight faces, we would deny all knowledge. Eventually they stopped asking, still puzzled where it had gone, but unable to figure out what had happened to it. That was when we struck. It was Nevil’s 21^st birthday and we were, as usual, all going out to party and celebrate. 

Before we hit the town, we invited the boys around for a drink and sat them down on our sofa with Nevil in the middle and gave him his present. I shall never forget the look of ‘oh you got us’ on Nevil’s and Mike’s face as Nevil unwrapped his key-to-the-door!

Towards the end of my second year, the key came to represent less happy memories. One night, at a nightclub my purse got stolen. It did not have a lot of money in it- but it did have the key to my bedroom in my flat. So I was locked out of my bedroom for a night until I could get a lock-smith to come out and cut me two new ones, one for use and one for spare. Unfortunately, a while later my landlady evicted me because she did not like the fact that Mike spent so much time round my place. Although I was compliant enough to give her one key back, as an act of symbolic defiance, I kept the spare one and took it down to the Hoe late one night and chucked it into the raging sea. What I rebel I was (not!).

In my third year at Plymouth Poly, I shared a flat with Mike and for my 21^st birthday we decided to get engaged. We invited my old school friends from Blandford down for the weekend and planned a big party in the Students Union (classy!). Before we went out for the evening we were all gathered in the flat, chatting, eating and getting ready. There was a knock on the door. Nothing unusual in that. Except when I answered the door, who was standing there, but my adoptive father, Bob, whom I had not seen or heard of in over five years. Since he and mum had got divorced, he had never been very good at being a consistent presence in mine or my brother’s life. Tonight, of all nights he had decided to drive all the way down to Plymouth to surprise me with a birthday card and present (a necklace with a key pendant to represent coming of age at 21). I am afraid I was not very hospitable to my surprise visitor. I gave him a drink and explained that I had a party planned with all these people and so could not spent time with him. Shortly after he left, and I don’t think I ever saw him again. That was 31 years ago. So 29^th November 1986, was the night that one man left my life for good and another man entered it for good. Keys let people in and they shut people out. You have to use them wisely.

Sheba's Story - The Friendly Enemy

by Jenny Galuschka

My new Lady was OK.  I’d got fond of her quite quickly.  That was all down to the walks, of course.  In the first days when I lived with her, there would be breakfast, and then walk.  Then came my midday dental chew and walk. Later there was my evening meal, followed by a walk.

As time went on, other things were introduced. Sometimes I had to be a Good Girl through meetings. Once I even found myself in a place called a vestry! When I got bored with that, I trotted out onto the nice red carpet, where I lay down in comfort, and watched the Lady and the other people standing up, sitting down, and singing.  They were all very obedient.  I thought they did well.

So life was pretty relaxed for me, until Lily came.  Can you imagine? Another bitch, younger than me, smaller than me, and on my territory! I was very angry, and let her know it.  My Lady and Lily’s Lady made us walk up and down together, They insisted we sniff each other. Not my idea of fun, I assure you! Then they expected me to allow Lily to sit in my kitchen!

Of course, there was no way I could tolerate that.  I attacked as soon as Lily sat down. As I was on my lead, we were soon pulled apart, to the sound of some very cross words from my Lady.  Finally, the two Ladies made a line of chairs to divide the kitchen into two, with Lily on one side, and me on the other.  It looked like this:

                                                            Chair

                                                            Lady                       Me

                 Lily                                     Chair

                                                       Lady Table

I lay on my tartan bed and sulked.  Lily curled up in her round brown bed, and lay still.  Slowly, her scent permeated the kitchen. To my amazement there was no fear in it, no aggression. That was one relaxed, calm little bitch!

We were fed on either side of the chair-line that evening. Then Lily disappeared to go upstairs with her Lady. I relaxed, and I too slept. Maybe, just maybe, I could make friends with this peaceable, curly-haired little schnauzer. Maybe we could hunt together. I could show her the best smelling-places. We could form a pack.

I dreamt of a hunt and a teamwork kill; crunching bones between my teeth, play fights and chasing games.

Blea Tarn

by Pat Holt

Have you ever watched Countryfile – the BBC’s long-running TV series about the British countryside?If so, you will know that the programme usually opens with a breathtaking sequence of aerial shots, mostly taken in the Lake District. Alan and I used to watch this each Sunday, and I invariably gasped at the sight of a lone swimmer making his way across a beautiful lake. There were no other people to be seen; no boats, no buildings, just a perfectly unspoilt tarn, surrounded by mountains.

Every week, I said how wonderful it would be to swim in this glittering expanse of calm water. Each time, Alan nodded patiently, knowing how much I love wild swimming.

Early in 2014, in response to viewers’ requests, the Countryfile team decided to reveal the names of the locations used for the opening credits. So at last we knew the name of the lake: Blea Tarn, in a remote area just off the Langdale Valley.

Fast forward to 30 June 2014, and we were in the Lake District, staying at Rosthwaite in Borrowdale.

With some difficulty, Alan had planned a visit to Blea Tarn.

We were up at 5am and by 6.45 we were on our way by taxi to Keswick, where we caught a bus to Grasmere. There we met another taxi driver, who took us along miles of steep, narrow, winding lanes. He remembered the crew making the Countryfile film sequence and knew the area in detail, so he was able to leave us at the roadside in an out-of-the-way spot, quite close to the tarn.

It was still early in the morning and there was no-one else around. Bees were buzzing among the wild flowers, in the warm sunshine. Blea Tarn was still, quiet and even more lovely than on TV. We were both delighted.

Hastily, I changed into my swimwear, and struggled barefoot across the sharp shingle at the water’s edge. Before long, I was swimming out to the middle of the lake. I could hardly believe this was really happening. Alan was laughing, taking pictures and movies too.

The water was cool and the gleaming surface held a perfect reflection of the Langdale crags and the blue sky. The only ripples were the ones I made myself.

Alan had literally made my dream come true! This is one of the most wonderful gifts I have ever been given.

We were reluctant to leave this gorgeous place, but eventually we headed back to Borrowdale, crossing Stake Pass and walking along Langstrath Dale – an energetic walk of about ten miles.

I will always look back at this day as one of the best of my life.