Julian writes:
"I was born at Windrush. Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Hubert (they were really great-aunt
and great-uncle) had bought this rambling Georgian
house at Inkpen by the Berkshire downs in the 1920’s as a home for their four
children and five nephews and nieces. The
Aunt had leftish political views.They
lived without ostentation.Somehow the staff, cook, nanny
and a gardener had survived war-time austerity.
As a boy
I remember being picked up at the railway station in the old black
Morris. Pebbles covered the drive into
the house making a memorable scrunching noise
as we pulled up to the front door.The Aunt with her tiny stature and clipped Edwardian
speech greeted us at the entrance.The
two dogs Jeremy and Jonah joined in the welcome.
A handsome staircase
led up from the hall.At
the bottom was a grandfather clock and gong, which was struck to summon the
family to meals. We ate in the dining room leading off the hall.Silver candlesticks adorned the large mahogany table.Breakfast was self-service on the chiffonier under a silver cover:
sausages, eggs and fried bread.I
never ventured into the kitchen behind the green baize door through which cook
brought the food. The book-lined
study where Hubert spent most of his day was another no-go area.Opposite was a drawing room with an open fire and here we spread our toys
on the floor and were tolerated by the grown-ups behind their books and
newspapers. Everything
was comfortable but slightly shabby, with redecoration a rare event.The bath plug was tied to a tennis ball and the brass beds so high that I
had to climb on a suitcase to get in.Warm houses have only become the norm in the present generation.In those days Jack Frost adorned the morning windows with his delicate
patterns.Jug and basin sat on the marble washstand.
Family walks with my mother pushing a pram might be round the lover’s walk,
which surrounded the big front lawn.The tennis courts had been taken down and the concrete lined leaky
fish-pond was drained and empty, a magnet for small children brave enough to
slide down its steep sides. We might perhaps venture into the village and watch
the activities at the saw-mill. Occasionally we would borrow the aunt’s car
for a picnic on the downs under the gibbet.
I was still only eight when, after Hubert had died and the “children” grown up
and gone, Aunt Dorothy sold Windrush and moved to Dorset.My memories are inevitably thin and tinged with rose-tinted
nostalgia".
