From gate to doors
The house where I was born, I have no memory of my time there during my first two years of my childhood. In the continuing debate of long term and short-term memories of today and yesterday, I have found that my memories of my early life become more vivid each day. The experts say watch out, watch out, there is Alzheimer’s about.
The following is a day-to-day adventure in my home, as well as the surrounding garden and countryside. The garden was surrounded by a high stone wall, the house, one of the last private manor types in Swansea Town as it was known.
The garden held so many secrets for a young child, tall trees to climb and explore, apple and other assorted fruit trees to explore, along with a vegetable garden that fed the family.
Chickens for meat and eggs, along with prize bantams used for showing, as my Father called it. Two wells existed on the property, neither of them shared the views of what existed in their darkness. Water could be seen in one, the bottom of the other could not be seen. I would drop stones into the well and listen to the sound as they reached the bottom, there was no splash, it was abviously dry.
The entry gate made from cast iron stood tall and proud, It served as a swing, I stood on the gate frame and pushed it back and forth, enjoying every moment.
The concrete steps leading to the top of the front garden numbered 74 in all, the front doorway was still another 20 metres away. This was a challenge for me in the darkness of night, I would stand and wait for some people to pass, then run up the steps with the imagination of the devil at my back. No time to ever look back, just sprint as fast as my legs would let me.
The front door was guarded by a creepy alcove two metres in depth and three metres high, the front door stood there massive and unfriendly guarding the entrance to my home. The door was always locked you had to knock, Mother would come eventually, the key to the front door would do the Tower of London justice. No spare key here, that was fact, my Mother kept it in her apron sack. Aprons had a pocket where mothers kept all their bits and pieces.
A large hallway you did enter that served no purpose at all, except to greet visitors and hang coats on hangers attached to the wall of this room.
All doorways in the home appeared to be oversized in height and width, pointing to the time that it was built, for those knowledgeable enough about how Houses were designed in previous centuries. Inquisitive minds (Me) decided one day to open each door and peek inside, from the hall you had a choice of three doors, one in front others to the left and right.
To the left there was the main living area, to the right a large front room, the door in front led to the stairwell and the rear of the house.
The living area included the kitchen and cooking oven and magnificent open fireplace. I occasionally watched my Mother weaving her cooking skills at this fireplace and its ovens, I imagined seeing the Three Witches at play with their cooking spells, so sorry Mother.
There were French windows either side of the front entrance to the home, they allowed for quick access in or out. The kitchen was the room where my Mother sat in the darkness, in dreadful silence, when asked about the darkness Mam would greet you with silence. My Mother Elizabeth was a listener rather than a gossiper. Her skill of seeming to know the answers to my questions before I asked always amazed me.
There was also a walk-in pantry that was too large for my fancy, lots of shelves and cupboards for storing day to day items on and in. The pantry floor was slate in construction, as were many of the other rooms.
The front room had no furnishings at all, an open space where I played ball games. The French windows had magnificent bi fold timber shutters. The door in front led to the stairs that twisted round and round, the upstairs landing led to several doors, which one to choose first? Give this adventure upstairs a miss for today.
Walk past the stairs and a creepy entrance to a cellar, concrete steps leading down to goodness knows where. The steps held a fascination for me as to where they led, I always passed the door as quickly as I could, without a glance or enough bravery to enter the darkness.
More doors to my left and one straight on, the left door led out the enclosed cobbled surfaced backyard. There were two entry exits, one a large gate and the other a plain door. The upper level of the backyard was where a garage existed, this is where my Father and myself stored our motor bikes.
There was also an above ground cellar, as dark as dark can be, it was at least several metres in depth, obviously used for storage. The backyard domain was where I honed my sporting skills in private, bouncing a sponge ball off the house walls, bouncing unevenly on the cobbled surface, the ball must never get past me, my only thoughts, until Mother’s shout to stop that noise.
Back to the door that lay straight ahead, the door led to a scullery, the floor was once again large slabs of slate. I can remember my Mother mopping this large slate covered floor a couple of times a week. Cast iron ovens and open fireplace greeted once again, these were much larger than the one in the kitchen. Secret rooms scattered here and there, one room had a row of bells hanging from the wall, these bells held a fascination as to what they were used for.
In another large hooks hanging from the ceiling, they were used to hang the meat was the explanation from my Father. As my adventure continued, I would go to my Fathers shed in the front garden and ask him questions about my findings, he must have got fed up with question after question. The home was originally inhabited by a well to do family, as this Family left for greener pastures, the Lady of the home could no longer manage its upkeep. During this period my Father had the opportunity to move into the home and keep it in good repair. The Scullery was where the house keeping staff would look after their day-to-day duties. This became evident as my adventures continued.
As I went from room to room, I discovered little switches, If the switch was operated a bell would ring in the scullery, each bell was linked to a particular room in the house. I eventually found which room was attached to which bell. On occasions I would hear my Mother shout, Stop playing with those bells at once or you can just watch out. I chuckled at that saying, “watch out”, for what I thought to myself.
The Scullery was also the room where my Father played his musical instruments, he played a guitar as well as a ukulele, he also played a piano accordion, a magnificent looking musical instrument, then out would come what he called a squeeze box, he sang sea shanty’s as he played, memories of his sea going days. The floor covered with large slate tiles made this a cold room, except when the fire glowed. My Father loved to roast chestnuts on the hob of the fireplace, he taught me how to stop them exploding. I sometimes sat and enjoyed his tunes as he winked at me and played and played for hours, singing and playing tunes he knew, smiling to himself as he enjoyed his memory sounds.
The room was long and narrow with a door accessed by a couple of concrete steps, this led to the room where the clothes washing was done, it included a large mangle, I watched in amazement as my mother used what was called a washing board. I helped my Mother with the clothes washing by turning the mangle for her, when she turned her back, I played with the mangle. How much pain could I stand as I squashed my fingers between the rollers.
Another door, this was the main back door, it was seldom used, it led from the laundry out to the mysteries of Kilvey hill. This was my magic kingdom where I roamed and dreamed of nonsense, I miss you so my Hill of dreams. As night set in a Mother’s voice would call and be obeyed. Night-time was always a challenge, not every room had electricity, Candle time, off to bed, and hope the wind was having a rest.
Another day beckons for my door adventure, I Retrace my steps and climb upstairs, a large landing with nine doorways in all awaits me. My own bedroom snug and warm, views of the garden looking winter forlorn, onward I go with lots of good intention.
Next, a room where two creepy Uncles, my Father’s younger Brothers, lived. Philip and David are their names, always keep themselves to themselves without any murmurs.
Next another bedroom for Brother or Sister, this one was next to creepy Uncles, not for me without question. Then a room always dark and dreary, only one window to let in light, this window was where I spied Kilvey Hill to see if friends were about.
This room for me was always a challenge, my Grandfather, my Father’s Father lived and slept in. for several years. When a Teenager I had, an experience unexplained, a ghostly figure appeared in the corner of the room. There were no sounds other than the creak of the house, silence as never experienced, I felt coldness as never before, I headed for the door, I turned as I closed the door to see what seemed to be mist, the shape of a figure had disappeared.
Went to my Father to tell of the happenings, my Father listened intently, he stood, walking with me to the dark of this room, It all seemed much lighter now as we stood inside, my Father quite quiet as he looked around. He stood quietly in deep thought in the centre of the room, I just watched I did not know what to do or say. He put his hand on my shoulder and led me away, his face stained with tears on this very sad day. He sat me down, struggling to tell me that this room was where his Father had passed away.
I will continue my doors adventure on another day.
My adventures now continue. Back upstairs to where I had finished my adventures the previous day. Just outside my Grandfather’s room, A set of three stairs led to another upstairs level, a passageway led to an oversized bathroom with separate toilet.
Mirror hanging on one wall looked like no other ever seen before, a large ornate frame surrounded the mirror. The bath was free standing, its size amazed me, decorated taps sat there in their pride of place. The bath was much deeper than the baths of today. A bay window let light into the room, the view was of Kilvey Hill, and the back garden.
The house no longer stands today, road construction got in the way. A road now stands on my memory ground, what waste, what destruction to confound.
I visited this hallowed ground on one of my many visits back to my Country of birth. Standing there I am almost overcome with the memories floating there. My Darling Jackie, she held me and led me from the memories that will live in me forever.
Please forgive me, while I return to a day I stood before the cellar door, that still haunts my dreams. The latch was an old-fashioned type, press down raise up. Something called me to the door, standing, stopping before my childhood nightmares, no feelings of dread or fright as I struggled to come to explanation. I pressed the latch, with a loud click, followed by a clang as it dropped back into place. The door opened without a hitch, other than the creepy sound of unused door hinges.
Darkness never experienced before stood before me, I could not see the floor, Steps of the concrete kind inviting me inside, I cannot explain what made me enter this darkness of a cellar. Always afraid of the dark as child, I entered slowly with nothing in mind, step by step, darkness engulfed me. Cold so cold it made me shudder, but still I went into this darkness, reached the bottom of the steps, darkness was my only enemy.
Suddenly, a fearful weight pressed upon my shoulders, I turned and stumbled up several of the steps with the weight on my shoulders slowing me down. Afraid to look back I stumbled, afraid of what, but do not look backwards. The silence of the darkness was holding me, I could not talk or even shout out loud. A breeze appeared, from who knows where, a split-second choice to get out of there. I fell out of the door, and stood and closed the latch, the click appeared definite.
My Father appeared and seemed to know, wait there he said, off he went to get a torch. He opened the door and shone the torch to show a row of some twelve concrete steps.
Down we went into a concrete room, used for what, not even my Father knew, maybe a wine cellar, just a guess. To this day, it lives in my nightmares, I awake soaking in sweat on certain evenings.
For a child afraid of the dark, I now enjoy darkness as a friend.
I was there!
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