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OLD MAUDIES PLACE The first dwelling in Oak Lane was
Mrs Turnbulls boarding house. Being out of
town and close to a lovely park, it was a popular establishment. At the beginning of the year,
Rosie Hudson moved into Mrs Turnbulls small front bed-sit. Although the rent was very
reasonable, Rosie found her room rather cramped. Another
drawback was that its window overlooked the graveyard of St Mary’s Church. After a while, Rosie got used to
seeing the weeping public beside their loved ones graves, but in her heart, she knew, she
would have to find somewhere else to live.
Mrs Turnbull was not the kind of person one could make friends
with. Her prickly arrogant ways and
mood-swings often upset her boarders. Apart
from Fridays when the rent was due, Rose did her best to avoid her landlady. Being a country lover, Rosie often
wandered down Oak Lane to walk in the park. Here,
she would feed different water birds on the lake. Not
far from its entrance gates, in a secluded setting, a lathe and plaster cottage stood
empty. It looked a picture postcard sort of
place. Due to neglect, its small garden was
dreadfully overgrown. Fallen acorns from a
nearby Oak tree had accumulated on its path. A
sign on the little wooden gate named the cottage ‘Wits End’. Rosie smiled, she had never heard it called that
before. It had always been referred to as
‘Old Maudies Place’. Just as she reached the park
gates, heavy rain fell, sending her hurrying for cover to the parks newly built shelter. In a corner a young couple held hands. Racing for cover, two small boys ran inside the
shelter, followed by a playful Jack Russell puppy. Flopping
down on the seat beside Rosie, they grinned at her, their grubby hankies did little to
wipe away the rain running down their faces. Calming
their fear best she could, Rosie comforted the lads until the storm was over. Suddenly, as if by magic, the rain stopped. Patches of blue sky appeared and the sun came out
once more. The older boy grabbed the little
fellows hand, ‘Come on Jamie or we’ll get into trouble’. Snatching his hand away, Jamie took a bag from his
torn jacket pocket, and offered Rosie a sticky sweet.
‘Mind the puddles lady’ he quipped.
‘Thank you, I will’, Rosie replied.
Smiling to herself, Rosie watched the boys scamper to a corner of the park.
Here, arched windows of an old Georgian house could be seen over a wall. Only recently, this old place had been restored,
it was now a children’s home. Walking back up the lane, Rosie
stopped to look at the empty cottage. Leaning
on it’s gate, she had sudden thought. If only she could live here, life would be so much
happier. In the quietness of her lonely
room, Rosie spent the evening thinking things over. Asking
around the next morning, she was told that ‘old Maudie’ had always lived alone. Dying of old age, two years previous. The cottage was then left to a distant nephew, now
living in Cheshire. It was still up for sale. Early the next day, Rosie went
along to ‘Morris and Mills’, the
estate agents in New Street. Mr Mills
explained that although the property was very reasonably priced, it would need to be
modernised. One thing in her favour, was that
it had new wiring and new upstairs floorboards. ‘Anyway’ Mr Mills suggested
‘why not go along and see the property for yourself, here are the keys, return them
when you are ready’. Overjoyed, Rosie caught the next bus back. Getting off at the
church, she lost no time in getting to ‘Old Maudies Place’. From the moment she let herself in
the front door, she felt it was the place for her. In
the kitchen, a few cupboards and a lick of paint was all it really needed. The window above the sink looked over a ploughed
field with oak trees at its edge. Collecting
acorns would encourage the Jays from the park into the garden. Plenty of hard work was
needed to get the place looking the way she wanted. A blue door opened into a walk-in
larder. A few shelves would have to be replaced. On
the floor, behind a discarded breadbin, chewed paper and dried leaves had been made into a
nest. Snuggled inside were four baby mice. Thankful at having found the cause of the nasty
smell in the kitchen, she took the nest outside and left it under a hedge. A bottle of disinfectant was a priority. Instead of the ghastly brown-leaf wallpaper in the
front room, she preferred lemon emulsion. Despite
her age, she was no idiot at DIY jobs. A bay window on one side of the
room, gave a view of the lake. It was very
pleasant to look at. The small bedroom would
be kept as a workroom for her dressmaking and other hobbies. Tapestries she had made, would adorn many of the
rooms. On the Acacia tree in the garden she
would hang a bird feeder and fill it with nuts. All
this planning was making her breathless. ‘Slow
down girl, take things easy’ she told herself. While the negotiations were going
on at the Estate Agents, Rosie purchased a single bed, a wardrobe, and a small wicker
table from the second-hand shop in Back Row. Any
breakable items were carefully wrapped and put in boxes, which was then stored in a garage
owned by Eric, a local chap, and friend of the Vicar.
Eric even offered to help her move. By
the end of the month, Rosie was the proud owner of ‘Wits End’. On a grey rain-becoming day, just
before Remembrance Sunday, Rosie moved into her new home.
Eric turned up early as promised with his small van. It
didn’t take long to unload the few bits of furniture she had acquired. Quite unexpected, Eric even offered to help tidy
the garden at weekends. On Sunday, Rosie went
to church like she always did. On her coat
she attached a ‘Remembrance Poppy’. Thinking
of her husband who had been killed on active service in the way, she glanced around the
congregation. Apart from the Vicar, there was
no-one else she knew. Outside the wind blew
and Rosie turned up her collar. Eric’s help was greatly
appreciated, within the month, countless jobs had been accomplished. When the window frames had been painted, frilly
net curtains were hung. Even the front room,
seemed so much larger painted a delicate lemon. Warmed
by a log fire, Rosie’s home soon became very cosy.
On nights when the moon shone, the parks frozen lake would shimmer. Just before Christmas, the Vicar
called round to see how she was settling in. Appreciating
his visit, a pot of tea was made. While
chatting to the Vicar, she hadn’t noticed the fire had nearly gone out. To her dismay, the log box was empty. A further supply meant she had to go outside. Unfortunately, she slipped on the icy path. Though in pain and discomfort, Rosie somehow
managed to drag herself indoors. Only last
week a phone had been installed. She rang the
surgery for help. Sue Wilde, the District
Nurse, answered the call, and lost no time in coming. Briefly examining Rosie, she was
told, not only had she damaged her shoulder, but the nasty cut on her leg would need
stitches. She would have to go to hospital
for treatment and further tests. With
Christmas just around the corner, Rosies heart sank.
The first thing she must do was to inform Eric, he would take care of
things. On arrival at Wyvern Hospital,
Rosie was taken to ward four on the third level. She
was given the bed nearest the window. From
here she could watch the comings and goings in the car park below. Sitting on the bed, she look around the ward. Of the six beds, only two were occupied. In the bed opposite, a lady lay asleep. Printed on a card above her bed was her name, Myra
Bridges. Under the temporary bandage, her leg
throbbed, her arm was very painful too. A
nurse came into the ward. Giving Rosie a
painkilling tablet, she was asked to get into bed, as Doctor Sayer was on his rounds. Doctor Sayer. A man in his
mid-forties, studied the chart at the foot of Rosies bed.
As well as her leg injury, she needed a small operation on her arm. ‘Its possible we can fit you in later
tonight, we’ll keep you informed,. It shouldn’t take long. Then in a day or so, you should be well enough to
go home’., The phone rang on the nurses
desk in the corridor. Unanswered, it finally
stopped. Time dragged. For the umpteenth time, Rosie straightened her
bed, she even tried to read. If only she
could sleep, but with the phone constantly ringing, it was going to be difficult. A different nurse brought her yet another tablet.
It wasn’t long before Rosie slept. Hearing distant voices Rosie
stirred. The tea lady had arrived with the
early morning tea trolley. On the day sift
nurses checked Rosies pulse. Her operation
over, she was allowed a cup of year. To check
the time Rosie looked at the clock above the nurse desk. It pointed to 7.15. Dayshift personnel were just arriving. Myra sat up in bed to drink her tea. Noticing Rosie, she smiled. The morning passed exceptionally quiet. After lunch, Myra’s three small daughters
came to visit their mother. Each child had
crayoned a picture. At four o’clock the
girls were collected by a man in a navy suit. The children were taken for a meal in the
downstairs restaurant. Tea was served in the
ward, but Rosie only picked at her food. Once
the tea was over, Myra’s little family returned.
The man remained with them. Rosie
tried to sleep. She knew there would be no
visitors for her. Early the next day, everywhere
started with a buzz of excitement. It was Christmas Eve.
Myra had been told she could go home that evening. Having packed her case in readiness, she came over
to speak to Rosie. Propping herself up with
an extra pillow, Rosie listened as she was told hold Myra had left her unkind husband
years ago, taking the girls to live in another part of town. Escorting the children to school, there were times
she stopped for a drink in the corner café. It
was here she met Peter. Whilst recovering
from a nasty motor cycle accident, he learnt he had also lost his job. Time passed and their friendship blossomed. When
it was known that Myra had to go into hospital, it was Peter who offered to look after the
girls. During the wait for Myra to be
admitted to hospital, the couple got married. Further down the road from where
they lived, a little boy was always seen playing in a tiny garden. Every day Myra made it her business to speak to
the little lad. Then something unforeseen
happened. When a week had passed with no sign
of the boy, Myra thought he must be ill. She
knocked on the door of his house to enquire. The door was opened by a woman with her hair
still in curlers, and a fag-end on her lips. ‘Yus’ she said sourly. The woman’s slovenly appearance gave Myra
quite a shock. Composing herself, she asked
‘is your little boy ill, only I haven’t seen him playing outside for ages?’ ‘We couldn’t keep him, there ain’t
enough to live on as it is, he’s better orf in the kids ‘ome’. Saddened and shocked by the woman’s
remarks, Myra turned away. Her heat told her
what she had to do next. Visiting the
Children’s home, she was allowed to see the boy. He ran to her with outstretched
arms, ‘I thought you’d never come’ he cried.
It was obvious Myra had grown to love the child. Talking things over with Peter, they both agreed
to try and adopt the unwanted lad. Talks and
paperwork seemed endless, the months dragged on, then Myra had to come into hospital. The two ladies conversation was
interrupted when tea was served. Sandwiches,
fruit salad, together with a slice of Christmas cake was available to every patient. From a television switched on in the next ward,
came the singing of carols. As patients left for home the
wards became quieter. Unused lights were
switched off. Rosie felt sad. No festive decorations had been put up in her
home, not even a sprig of holly. Peter
arrived with the girls, bubbling with excitement, they rushed to their mother’s
bedside. Coming into the ward, Peter collided
with a nurses. Grasping the hand of a small
boy, Peter waved a large envelope in the air. ‘He’s
ours my love, he’s ours!’ The
adoption papers had come through, just in time for Christmas. Overwhelmed with joy Myra threw her arms around her little son. On their departure, the Bridges family turned and
waved. It wasn’t until the boy spoke,
that Rosie remembered the little fellow in the park she had comforted in the storm. ‘Bye lady, Happy Christmas!’ Then he was
gone. Almost in tears, Rosie closed her eyes,
meeting the Bridges family would always remain special to her. A hand touched her arm, ‘Get
dressed Rosie, Eric is coming to take you home for Christmas’. Opening her yes, Rosie
saw the nurse waiting to help her get dressed. Arriving
home, a lovely surprise awaited her. Someone
had left a bunch of flowers on the doorstep. With no idea who had sent them, Eric arranged
the flowers in a vase and stood them on the wicker table. It may seem strange, but as the
years went by, Rosie often remembered Jamie Bridges.
As the days warmed, while tidying her garden one day, Rosie found a gift tag
blown under the hedge in the wind. Its words
simply said ‘Happy Christmas from Jamie’. Many years later, when answering a
knock on the door, a familiar voice said ‘Hello lady, remember me’. Recognising the smart young man, now in uniform,
Rosie smiled. |
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