What fun. When I opened my curtains this morning I saw the fields all covered in snow. It was like looking at a late Christmas card. In February 1947 it almost reached the tops of the telegraph poles and they had to dig their way out of the houses.
After breakfast I walked down the village with Mum to see Nan. Her house is draughty and the windows get iced up in the bathroom; not that she ever has a bath because it’s full of apples from Pap’s orchard put there to last through until next autumn. She should stay in the living room where she has a Rayburn.
We went to the shop down Church Street, not the little thatched post office which they talk about pulling down. I love looking at the rows of sweets in jars in the window. Sometimes Nan buys me two penn’oth but she hasn’t got enough change left today. Next time maybe. ‘Course, it could be that she hasn’t forgiven me for taking the pig for a walk down the street last week. She followed me, banging on the bucket which holds the pig swill, trying to persuade the pig home for tea. His, not ours.
Somebody’s in the phone box by the green. It must be an emergency like doctor or fire brigade. Well, who else would you call – nobody I know has a phone. Let’s hope they get a reply. Still, if nobody answers they can push button B and get their money back. I bet the boys will be in there later just to check, Well, tuppence is tuppence.
The snow soon melted. Good job because I can see the men putting up the goal posts ready for a football match this afternoon. They keep them in a shed at The Foresters Arms. They can’t really leave them on the green or the boys would be swinging on them. Perhaps we’ll come and watch. I like to hear the money rattling in the collection tin that someone brings round at half time. Most of the village turn out to watch and it can be a fun afternoon.
Nan isn’t very well. We could ask the doctor to call when he does his morning rounds but she says she’s not that ill, or, as it’s Saturday she could go and see him when he comes to a house in Close Road. She won’t go though because she says everybody gets to know your business there. I’m not keen on going either because you have to sit in a lady’s kitchen and wait your turn, then go into her front room to see him. By that time either somebody has decided how to cure your illness or they’ve had it themselves.
I brought a note home from school last week asking who would be interested in a
day trip to Hunstanton in the summer and mum and dad are going to talk about it
tonight. It says we would leave at 7 o’clock in the morning and get home very late. I’d love to go to the seaside, my first trip ever, and I’m 5.
We’re going home now to light the fire for when dad comes home for dinner. I can play with my colouring book while mum cooks the sausages she bought at the butchers. I hope she makes an apple pie for pudding with some of pap’s apples. Blimey, my tummy’s rumbling.
Letter published in The Prattler – February 2020