Our house, the garden, the village, and the country for a mile
or two thereabouts — this was my world, for it was all I had
known, until that last summer when a new one opened before
me at Hougham. And now that I seek an image for the
undertaking I am embarked upon, I recall a glorious afternoon
during that summer when — still unaware that I was to leave
so soon — I escaped from the confinement under which I had
long chafed and lay, exulting not so much in my freedom as
in my having stolen it, on the bank of the stream that ran
through Mortsey-wood and on to the forbidden land towards
the north.
Forgetful alike of my reasons for escaping and the precious
minutes that were slipping by, I gazed, entranced, into the
limpid depths. For there I glimpsed strange creatures that flitted
away so quickly when I looked at them that I wondered if
they were merely shadows — effects of the sunlight through
the water upon the weeds and the dappled, pebble-strewn bed
that vanished when I moved my head. And then in the
attempt to see more, I poked the weed and pebbles with a
stick, and only raised a dark cloud that obscured everything.
And though it seems to me that the recollection is like that
clear runlet, yet I have set myself to search back into my
memory. And now that I clutch at my first reminiscences I
recall only the sun, the warm breeze, and the garden. I
remember no darkness or sunlessness or shade from that
earliest time when the outlying cottages of the village marked
the furthest limits of my world.
It may be that we are aware only of the warmth and the
daylight and the sun at that most fortunate age, and that if
there are moments of darkness and cold they pass over us
like a dreamless slumber, leaving no memory behind them. Or
it may be that it is only the first touch of the cold and the
dark that wakes us from our earliest sleep.
The first moment that separates itself from what had come
before is late on an afternoon of cloudless sunshine when the
shadows were beginning to lengthen. Tired after my play, I was
swinging on the gate into the lane that ran along the side of
the garden. From the topmost lawn at the back of the house
where we were now, a series of terraced lawns descended,
linked by a gravelled path and steps and surrounded by a
high red-brick wall with espaliered apricot-trees against it. On
each terrace the walnut and mulberry-trees extended their long
thin arms protectively over the encircling flower-beds, in one of
which Mr Pimlott was now at work some distance below us.
And almost out of sight at the bottom of the garden, was the
tangle of stunted trees and thick bushes we called the
“Wilderness”
I recall the rough feel of the gate as I clasped its top in my
hands to hold myself steady for each swing. The metal spikes
were hot in the sunlight and the rust and black paint came
flaking off in my fingers. With my feet thrust between the
uprights of the gate and my frocks pressed against the frame,
I pushed off from the jamb-post bending my body one way
and then the other so that the gate swung out to its fullest
reach and then fell back under its own weight, gathering speed
as the ground sped past until it crashed home with a loud
clang. I knew I wasn’t supposed to do this, of course, and my
mother had already reproved me as she sat on a garden seat
at her work a few paces away.
Backwards and forwards I swung, lulled by the rhythm of the
squeaking hinge, with the sun warm on my face, and the soft
breeze carrying to me the scent of flowers and the smell of
freshly-cut grass. I would close my eyes to listen to the loud
buzzing of bees, then open them to gaze upwards at the blue
sky and fleecy clouds that circled dizzily over my head as the
gate hurtled downwards.