Tomorrow we are back up in the North East to say goodbye to my Aunty Esther who passed away last week. Esther Jervis, nee Campbell was the only daughter of five children and I've been thinking about her a lot the past few days. I realised that most of my early memories are of her and Uncle Jack and holidays we had on the farm in Northumberland where they lived for a large chunk of their working life.
None of the family were well off when we were growing up, mostly council estate tenants. Uncle Jack would come and pick us all up from Newcastle and take us the 30 miles to the farm in Broomhill which seemed like a huge journey to little me back then. As me and my sisters got older and he couldn't fit five of us into the car, Dad would go on the bus, although I remember getting the bus with me Mam at some point too, but that might have been for other reasons.
Aunty Esther was the strongest woman I knew. Not in the way she was built or even physically strong, she was quite petite, she just had this inner strength and air of competence and just got on with stuff. Life on the farm must have been hard at times though. Uncle Jack would be up at the crack of dawn to let the cows out into the fields, and retired to bed at the same time as us kids. One of Aunty Esther's jobs was to clean the milk churns and the milking equipment. I see her now in the shed with her rubber gloves on elbow deep in the huge stainless steel sinks, the smell of milk hanging in the air. The big tankers would come and collect the milk from the tanks on the other side of the shed. They were quite idyllic times and there are lots of family photos from back then.
As well as the farm work, Aunty Esther was very much a home maker. She always put on a huge spread at tea time for us all, buffet style. I remember watching her baking in the kitchen, and the way she hummed along to the radio whilst she was busy. Plates of scones, and rock buns, salad and ham.
Most folks of a certain age know where they were when England won the World Cup back in 1966, and depite being five, and not really into football, I know too. We were in Aunty Esther & Uncle Jack's front room, all sat around watching their telly. I only have flitting memories of it though but assume there would have been lots of jubilation at the end.
There was an upright piano in the room, and like my sisters, if I woke early on a Sunday morning, I would sneak downstairs, carefully open the lid, and try to depress the ivory keys quietly. I never managed it, and I would quickly be followed by one of my parents coming down and shushing me. It drew all of us kids I think with a kind of magical fascination. Aunty Esther was the pianist, I don't know when she learned to play, whether it was growing up or after she left home, but she was good. I have memories of her playing some classical piece. I guess it was probably my Uncle Jack who taught us how to play chopsticks though, that's the memory I have.
I don't have many memories of my cousins being around. I think John, the eldest had already left home, and Linda, was a typical teenager, off out enjoying herself. If Sylvia were still here, she would have more memories of my cousins than I do. Mick, the youngest I remember hung around the farm a bit, he seemed quiet and we didn't really interact.
I loved the front garden, which always seemed to be full of pansies when we were there. It was the first time I had seen pansies, and my memory is that they filled a bed at the corner of the garden, and a bed down in front of the living room window.
It was in the garden that I met Minty, the golden labrador who lived up at the big farm house. I used sit in the garden with my arms around his neck telling him my secrets. Not that I had many, more my angst and worries.
I remember games of hide and seek with my sisters and some of the kids who lived on the farm, Sandra and her brother David. My two favourite places to hide were either behind the huge milk barrell, my eyes peeking over the top of its cream topped rim, or in the hay loft where the sun worked its way through the slats of the roof casting intrusive rays into the dry half light. Those of us who were a little more adventurous hid behind the farm and up the track into the ruins of a small tower, whose original purpose may have been a war time lookout, but to our young imaginations it was the turret of a castle long lost to the midst of time.
When we'd had enough of playing outside, or if we'd fallen out with each other, one or all of us would make our way back into the house and the front room where the grown ups would be sitting having a chat. It was very much a case of sit there and be quiet if we stayed there, and I remember Aunty Esther's friend from down the road, who would come and read her and Mam's tea leaves whilst catching up local gossip.
I think I was quite a mardy child looking back. I know I was quiet and lost in my own little world most of the time, frightened to say boo to a goose, although me and Sandra did become friends and wrote to each other for a wee while once I moved back home. There were lots of family photos taken up at the farm. I must get copies from Eileen next time I'm back uphome. Most of the family photos I have my tongue stuck out, so I was probably a little horror really. I remember whoever was taking the photo would implore me not to stick my tongue out, and I really never intended to, until right just before the shutter clicked, when the temptation became just too much for me, and the evidence is there in the photos for all to see. What a horror!!
During one of the last trips that we made to the farm, I must have been in a teenage mood and everyone else had gone out, so was by myself. There was a knock at the door and there stood some deshevelled hippy looking couple. They were campaigners for nuclear disarmament and they left me with some of those bright yellow 'nuclear power, no thanks' stickers, and an information leaflet. It was a complete revelation to me and the first time I remember engaging with anything at all political. I came home and joined Friends of the Earth and read as much as I could get my hands on about green politics.
That's my memories of the farm. The last time we visited Aunty Esther and Uncle Jack was after Sylvia was diagnosed and we went with her to visit all the family. There's a lovely picture of the females of the family all sat together outside the bungalow, my aunty and uncle's farming days having been left far behind. The last time I saw Aunty Esther was back in December last year at the unexpected funeral of our cousin Linda. As we waited in the little room before the funeral, I was looking for Aunty Esther and Uncle Jack and at first didn't see them. I didn't recognise the frail, bird-like woman who was sat in a wheelchair, and it was only recognising Uncle Jack stood behind the chair that I realised who it was. There's more about that in the post before this one. It's sad and distressing the way dementia devastates families and I'm know it would have been difficult and heartbreaking for my uncle and cousins during Aunty Esther's last few months and days. I know it's easier for me to remember the better times as they are my memories, and that's the way I will remember her. With gratitude for the holidays she gave us, the way she made us welcome in her home, in lovely surroudings, her time and hospitality and the love that she showed us.
We drove onwards to Seaham Hall Beach and took the steps down to the pebbled area. There were a few scattered groups of folks sat on the pebbles, armed with buckets and trowels, looking for the infamous sea glass. I'd remembered to bring a container for my spoils, but as we were visiting on our way up to Newcastle, weren't planning on spending a whole lot of time there. At first it was hard to spot the sea glass, you really had to bend down and ferret amongst the pebbles, but we managed to come away with a nice little selection which may find their way into a mosaic piece. It's a lovely little pastime, and very relaxing, and I can see myself heading off up that way regularly for a day or afternoon in the not too distant future.
