March 1951

Dear Diary,

The Sunday School are planning a trip to Wicksteed Park in the summer holidays and I’m going with my mum and my auntie. They went there as children as well because the Park has been open since 1921. I hope we take a picnic. There are swings, very big slides, huge see-saws that hold about 10 or 12 people, a little train called Lady of the Lake and a water chute where you climb up steep steps to the little hut where the boat is kept, you get 3 drops and end up soaking wet.

Another favourite outing is to Wellingborough Zoo to see lions, tigers and bears. They also have a goldfish pond, an elephant and a giant tortoise. Mum has a little Sunday morning job delivering papers. They come by car from Weedon and she goes to all the houses in Furnace Lane carrying a heavy bag full. I go with her sometimes but everybody wants a chat so it can take a long time and I get bored. If I go to Sunday school instead of delivering papers with mum, she takes me and lets me walk home with the other kids. We try and find a stick so that when we walk through the jitty we can drag it along the railings, making a great sound.

Later today, because the sun is out, we are going for a walk to Bugbrooke. No doubt we’ll see snowdrops and daffodils along the hedgerow and we shall pass the little lane about half way that mum and dad call ‘Lovers Lane’. They tell me lots of people use it but I can’t think why, it’s just a little lane with a hedge both sides and the canal at the top. We shall walk as far as The Five Bells pub and I might get a bottle of pop and packet of crisps with a little blue bag of salt inside.

Next weekend I shall go to church because it will be Mothering Sunday and all us children are given a little bunch of flowers to give to our mothers. Three weeks later it will be Easter so I’m hoping to get an Easter Egg, especially if it has chocolate buttons inside. I better be good for a few days.

Polly

Letter published in The Prattler – March 2020

February 1950

Dear Diary,

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.

Polly

Letter published in The Prattler – February 2020