Chapter 1: The cottage

Don rested his red post office bike against the grass verge that edged the narrow country lane he'd been cycling along. He was ready for a break. He'd been up since half four.

His country postal round was a 10-mile cycle ride from his home in Walton.The early start, on a grey and drizzly spring morning, had caught up with him.

Here, surrounded by fields rather than chimneys spewing smoke, Don could see blue sky as the sun broke through the mist that often shrouds the Lancashire Plain first thing in the morning.

The bike’s frame sank into the deep grass. The wood sage and red dead-nettle gave way. Don picked a flower and breathed in, holding each lungful before letting the air out with a long sigh.

He spread his post office waterproof cape on the grass and eased himself down. His body sank deeper into the natural bedding of wild flowers and grasses.

Don loved wild flowers. He was learning about them in his spare time as part of a correspondence course. Botany was one of three A-levels he needed in order to secure a college place; his dream was to become a teacher.

He picked a stem. The ruby-red flower gave off a pungent, almost repulsive scent.

Don reached in his jacket pocket for his small jewellers’ magnifying glass and put it to his eye. He studied the delicate head of the plant, and moved the petals aside to identify the elements.

Don mouthed the words he’d learnt from the course - the stamen, pistil, and sepals. “Lamium purpureum” he muttered as he thumbed through his weather-beaten botany reference book.

He rubbed one of the leaves between his fingers, cupped his hands and inhaled the fragrance. Don found the smell almost intoxicating. He lay back into the grass verge. His hands relaxed.

He took a stubby pencil out of his jacket pocket, moistened the tip in his mouth, and made a few scribbled notes alongside the entry before placing the flower between the pages then closing the book.

***

The bag of post he’d been holding fell open. Six letters spilled out. They’d been fastened together, but one had come loose. It was addressed to Mr K Ditchfield, Hawthorn Cottage. The other five were for Mr Courtney-Jones at Eldon Hall Farm.

Don gathered the letters for Eldon Hall Farm together, but kept the letter for Hawthorn Cottage to one side. He stood up, walked over to the cottage and tried to post it, but the letter box was jammed. It had either been sealed or something was blocking it.

He tried to slip the letter under the door, but a thick object, probably a draught excluder, he thought, was in the way.

He knocked on the front door but there was no answer. Then he walked round to the kitchen door, but there was no sign of life there either.

All the curtains were drawn closed. They were the thick blackout type used in Liverpool during the blitz to block the light in an attempt to avoid houses being spotted by bomber pilots flying overhead.

Don had been given instructions by the postmistress, Mrs Pendleton, to return any mail that he was unable to delivered or leave with a “trustworthy neighbour”.

He had no idea who might be trustworthy, seeing as this was his first day on the job, so he planned to take the letter back. He checked the address again. It read Mr K Ditchfield, Hawthorne Cottage, Ormskirk Road, Aughton. He looked at the postmark. It had been posted in Parbold.

Don knew where Parbold was. He’d looked it up on his Ordnance Survey map when he was preparing for his interview for the Aughton job. It was about 10 miles away to the north-east of Ormskirk.

Don was almost at the half-way point on his round and ahead of schedule. He reckoned he had about ten minutes to spare before he needed to set off back to the post office to collect the second delivery.

He unfolded Mrs Pendleton’s route map, took out his pencil, looked at the pocket watch his dad had given him for his twenty-first birthday, and jotted down the time below those she had set for the deliveries.

Don knew he could afford a few minutes rest. He was aiming to arrive back at the Town Green post office five minutes before the time set by Mrs Pendleton. He’d then stand somewhere out of sight until one minute before the set arrival time, then move into view. He was determined to be bang on time.

Mrs Pendleton’s map had every house marked. It appeared that she had studied the entire sackful of mail, because she told Don who he’d be delivering the mail to and had given him a brief biography of the ‘important’ people along with a slice of gossip about anyone else who was about to receive a letter delivered by their new postman.

“This letter is for Father Flynn. It was posted in Lancaster. It’ll be from the archdiocese. See the special frank mark? Very important.”

“This one is for Cynthia Marsh, she’s a live-in barmaid and cleaner at The Red Lion. She sleeps in the converted stables at the back. She has a toddler. She lives alone, you know. Not a local girl. I’ve heard she came from Wigan. She often gets letters from Wigan.”

“Now, pay close attention, I’ve tied these six letters together to keep them safe. They're for Mr Courtney-Jones at Eldon Hall Farm. Very important. One is from London, and there is another from Chester, one from Parbold, whatever you do….”

But Don had stopped listening. He really wasn’t interested in who the letters were for, he was more focused on learning the route.

***

The sorting room was behind the post office. An hour before Don arrived a van had dropped off two sacks of mail.

Mrs Pendleton had been grouping the letters, brochures, and small packages by location.

She’d separated them into piles for Grubbs Lane, Ormskirk Road, Baker Lane, Rocky Lane, Westfield Lane, and Tollgate Lane. A lot of work had gone into preparing the mail for Don’s first round. Mrs Pendleton clearly didn’t want anything to go wrong. Her reputation depended on Don doing a good job.

She’d explained that his round was a five-mile circular route serving mainly farms, three pubs, half a dozen rural cottages, some "posh houses” in Granville Park, a school, the parish church, and the catholic church.

Mrs Pendleton had drawn arrows on the map showing which roads to take and which footpaths and farm tracks Don could use to save time.

“From here cross the railway bridge and then take the track over the fields past the Tattis Crisp factory and along a footpath to Grubbs Lane. That will save you having to cycle down Rocky Lane; you can do that on your return. There’s nothing for Rocky Lane today, so you can miss that out. But it could all be different tomorrow, so don’t ….”

Again Don’s mind had drifted. All these roads and lanes were new to him. The more Mrs Pendleton told him the less he was taking in.

Don’s thoughts were far away in Aden, Sudan and Burma. He was a wireless operator again with the Royal Air Force tapping out morse code, taking instructions, jotting down notes, swatting away mosquitos.

He thought it strange how, when he was in the forces, he was always dreaming of home, and now he was home he was often dreaming of being overseas again.

The day dreams about the places where he’d been stationed in the RAF contained some disturbing memories. He’d seen things that he felt he must keep inside. They were to be confined to dreams and must never be let out.

Don had a fear that the memories could take on a life of their own and get out of control. He was genuinely terrified that they could possess him and make him do something to harm himself or others. They were a part of a pent up force of horror and pain.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, yes, sorry Mrs Pendleton, just trying to remember the route. Thanks for the map. I am sure I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I won’t get lost. I’d better be off.”

“Good, well I’ll see you back here at eleven. Not a minute later. There’s a lot of work today before the second delivery. And I might need your help on the counter for an hour or so, I have some errands to run.”

***

Don had met Mrs Pendleton for the first time a month earlier when he was given the job. She’d struck him as a no-nonsense sort of person; someone who likes things done a certain way. She appeared business-like and a bit cold.

She was a thin woman with a mouth etched with tobacco-stained creases, the result of always having a Woodbine dangling from her lips. It was a hard, puckered and pointed mouth.

Her thinning hair was pinned back in a bun revealing an etched face with a firm jaw. She wore half-rimmed reading glasses on the bridge of her nose.When she spoke she peered over the top of her glasses.

Her eyes, too, were creased in a permanent squint caused, most likely, by trying to avoid cigarette smoke.

She was a widow and was dressed head to toe in black. On her chest she wore a gleaming postmaster badge which had belonged to her husband, Malcolm, who ran the post office until his death five years earlier.

Working for Mrs Pendleton felt like being in the forces again, but without the stress of worrying about stray bullets or mines.

Don supposed she had to be firm in order to manage such an important job. Being the village postmistress was no small task, especially as the post office also doubled up as the corner shop.

A week earlier Don was working as a counter clerk at the Walton Breck Road post office on the outskirts of Liverpool. "Dog Shit Creek" he called it. He hated the place.

He'd taken the job to escape his old postal round which involved tramping the streets of Bootle and Walton. But it had been a mistake; Don wasn’t suited for office work. He needed space. He longed for fresh air.

He couldn’t spend his life stuck behind a counter with a metal grill. His desk was the last in a row of six. There was little natural light. Customers would come in smoking, then cough and splutter as they ordered their stamps and postal orders. The air was stale and thick.

At times Don tried to hold his breath when serving particularly bronchial or smelly customers, but this would leave him gasping for air and then taking in large gulps when they had gone.

Don had three breaks during the day. Fifteen minutes in the morning and again in the afternoon, with half an hour at lunchtime.

During these short breaks he would go ‘out the back’ where the other male postal workers lit up their Woodbines, Capstans, or Players Navy Cut cigarettes and took deep, long drags before coughing, clearing their throats, and spitting in the grid below the kitchen window.

Inside, a tea urn stood on a dirty draining board. It was always on, meaning there was a constant supply of hot, strong tea.

Half a dozen stained and cracked mugs were placed upside down on a tea towel spread over a small table next to a pint bottle of milk and a bowl of tea-stained sugar. There was no fridge.

Just to the right of the tea urn was a large mirror and below it a small shelf with an assortment of combs, brushes and lipsticks.

Counter staff took their breaks at set times to ensure the office had at least three clerks on duty at all times.

Don’s breaks coincided with those of Sid and Ernie, two people with whom he had absolutely nothing in common.

Both were brash ‘teddy boys’ who dressed to impress, spending most of their breaks talking about the girls they were chasing, while combing their Brylcreem-sculpted quiffs. Don would spend most of his breaks as far away as he could from Sid and Ernie.

The women, Ethel and Kate, kept to themselves. They never sat outside with the men. They preferred to go out for their breaks and visit the tea shop on the corner.

Don discovered that there was a railway cutting nearby, less than two minutes walk away. A gap in the fence gave him access to the weed-covered embankment. An old railway sleeper served as a bench.

Don knew that, if he moved fast, he could have 10 minutes of solitude.The embankment became an escape from elements of his life that he was growing to hate.

Over time he realised he was living for three things in life: his tea and lunch breaks, clocking off time, and escaping from everything that Bootle, Walton and Liverpool had to offer in order to start a new life with Margie.

***

Taking the local postman job in Aughton was a backwards career step. But now, as Don lay in a deserted hedgerow, listening to skylarks hovering overhead, he knew he’d made the right choice.

And he had other plans. This release from the post office counter job in Walton was just the start of a new journey. It was a journey that had no known destination, a route none of his friends or family had taken before him.

Each step was going to be exciting and fresh, and Don was determined to enjoy every experience to the fullest. ‘Live for the moment’ was to be Don’s motto, and this moment was wonderful.

Don closed his eyes. The sounds around him seemed to grow louder. They were beautiful sounds, not the sounds of Bootle. They were the sounds of bees and birds, of wind blowing through the trees, and of grasses and reeds brushing against each other.

In Bootle the sounds were of old men coughing up phlegm, of cars being cranked and revved, of people shouting, dogs barking, cats fighting, doors banging, fog horns on the Mersey honking, factory whistles blowing - all the noises that makes up the cacophony of city life, and all totally different sounds from those he was immersed in now.

Those were the sounds Don had grown up with as a lad in Emery Street, Walton. But now he was soaking up new sounds and the clean, sweet smells that surrounded him. The sun was now shining on his face. The day was warming up.This was the first day of spring 1950.

And the war was over. He was home. Only memories remained, and he was sure they would fade over time. He knew there was still a darkness lurking behind his eye sockets in a place where events were etched and which he was unable to flush clear. But there was also a surge of optimism in his chest. Don could sense he was smiling. He'd been on his round for a little more than two hours.

He looked at his watch. He had plenty of time before he was due to deliver the five letters to Eldon Hall Farm and figure out what to do about the letter he’d been unable to deliver to Hawthorn Cottage.

Don closed his eyes and drifted into a shallow sleep.

***

Hawthorn Cottage stood behind a large hedge which was covering a crumbling brick wall. To the left were trees mixed with brambles, honeysuckle, and wild dog rose.

At the front was a sheltered open porch with benches on both sides. Under the benches was an assortment of old boots.

There were two windows to the left of the door and one to the right. There were four windows upstairs. The cottage had been painted white, but the rendering was beginning to crack.

Don tried to imagine the layout inside. He was used to a three-bedroomed terraced house with one front window downstairs and one upstairs, with the front door opening onto the street.

This cottage had a front garden facing east, a south-facing garden on the shorter side, a farm track on the north side, and fields stretching as far as the eye could see on the west side.

Don had no idea what it would be like inside, but he let his imagination run wild. There would be a cosy living room with an open fire.The kitchen door would lead to a vegetable patch. There would be fruit bushes and trees. Raspberries, strawberries and, perhaps, an apple tree or a pear tree.

Back home in Walton the backyard was paved. The only greenery was that provided by the weeds and rosebay willowherb poking through the cracks between in the paving stones.

At the bottom of the Walton backyard was an outside toilet. Beyond that a gate that led to the communal alleyway, known locally as ‘the entry’.The entry was littered with rubbish, broken bikes, old mattresses, and dog shit.

Don stared at the cottage. As he did, he began to dream. He imagined that he and Margie were living there. There were chickens in the garden laying eggs with orange yolks. Margie was inside baking apple pie made from bramley apples picked from their own tree. Perhaps she’d throw a few raspberries in; that would be nice. That would be lovely. Don would like that.

Don dreamed and, as he did, the sun grew warmer on his face. He felt himself sinking deeper into the hedgerow.

A voice broke his rest. 

“Better get a move on lad, You won’t want to be late with the post for Eldon Hall Farm. Mr Courtney-Jones won’t like that.”

Don opened his eyes. Standing over him was a tall, young man who appeared to be in his mid-twenties. He was dressed in a baggy sports jacked and was wearing wellingtons.

Surrounding him were a dozen cows. Some had come over to graze on the grass where Don was lying. Don stood up quickly, he’d never been this close to cattle.

“Don’t worry, they won’t hurt you,” the young man said as he moved the cows away. He then pointed towards a track that led to two large gates framing the way to an impressive-looking farmhouse set well back from the main road.

“The farmhouse is down the lane, better get moving because I am heading that way with the cattle and once they’re on the lane you’ll never get past.”

Don got to his feet and scrambled to pick up his bag of post. He had no idea who the young man was, but he presumed he worked on the farm.

Don took out his pocket watch. It had just gone half eight. He’d been asleep for half an hour. He didn’t want any complaints being passed back to head office, especially on his first day.

He pulled his bike up from the hedgerow, steadied it, fastened his cycle clips to the cuffs of his trousers, straightened his uniform, adjusted his tie, put his peaked cap on, then turned to ride off towards Eldon Hall Farm. Before he did, he turned back to the young man.

“I have a letter addressed to Mr Ditchfield at the cottage,” he said, pointing at the house on the other side of the lane. “But I was unable to post it because something seems to be blocking the letter box and there doesn’t seem to be anyone living here.”

“No,” replied the young man, sounding slightly agitated. “They moved on.”

“Mrs Pendleton, the postmistress, told me I could leave any undelivered letters with a trustworthy person, but I am new to the round,” Don said.

“You can give it to the housekeeper when you call at the farm. Hawthorn Cottage belongs to Eldon Hall.”

Don took another look at the cottage. Vacant, he thought. Perfect. His mind was made up. He was going to ask about the cottage when he called at the farm.

***

At the start of the lane to Eldon Hall Farm was a sign that read. “PRIVATE - NO ENTRY”. Don cycled on, presuming that the notice didn’t apply to delivery services.

When he got to the large sandstone pillars that supported the gate to the hall he noticed two pull chains. One was marked “Deliveries”, the other was marked “Visitors”. Don pulled the chain marked “Deliveries”.

There was a long pause. Don was about to pull the chain again when a middle-aged woman appeared. "You’re late, where have you been?”.

“I am sorry, it’s my first day,” Don replied.“Just getting to know the route.”

“Well, make sure it doesn’t happen again. Mr Courtney-Jones is not accustomed to being kept waiting. He likes to read his mail as he takes his breakfast. He doesn’t like having his routine changed. If you are late again he’ll be having words with Mrs Pendleton.”

“No, no, sorry, no,” Don stammered as he rummaged in his bag, “it won’t happen again.”

There were five pieces of mail for Eldon Hall Farm, bound together with a brown elastic band. Don handed them to the woman. She began to turn away.

“Oh, excuse me. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I met a young man outside the cottage back there,” Don turned and pointed as he spoke. “He said I should give you this letter for Mr Ditchfield at Hawthorn Cottage.”

The woman’s eyes squinted as she moved her head to one side as if trying to take in what Don had just said. He also sensed that she looked slightly shaken.

“Ditchfield? Hawthorn Cottage?” she repeated. “You’d better give it to me, I’ll deal with it,” she said, and started to turn away.

“Is the cottage vacant?” Don asked. “Because, if it is, I would like to rent it.”

The woman stopped, turned and looked Don up and down, staring at his eyes, then down to his boots and up again. Don felt a strange feeling of exposure and vulnerability sweep over him. She stared at him for less than ten seconds, but it seemed like an hour.

“You’d better go round to the scullery door and wait there,” she said.

Don did as he was told.

***

The back of the farmhouse wasn’t as impressive as the front. In fact it was a mess.

Two large dogs were chained to the wall, bouncing and barking around their kennels. Don was glad they were held with chains. They didn’t sound friendly.

A massive hay barn was heaving to overflowing. The wall on one side had collapsed, and was supported by an assortment of wooden planks.

There was a cowshed on the left that stunk in the morning sunshine. It didn’t look as if it had been cleaned for months.

Chickens ran freely in the yard. Some were being attacked by the other hens. They had bare patches on their backs and heads where they had been pecked.

Don felt uneasy.

The top half of the scullery door opened, then the bottom half. A stocky man with grey sideburns, breaches with straps, a thick leather belt, and large brown riding boots walked out.

“What’s this I hear about you wanting the cottage,” he asked in a voice that appeared accustomed to giving orders. 

Don started to open his mouth, but the man kept talking.

“It’s not for rent. It’s for my farm labourers. You look like a postal lad, not a farm hand. Are you able to work on the farm?”

Don tried to speak but was lost for words. Instead he shook his head.

"Hold your hands out."

Don did as he was told.

"No, not that way, palms up."

The old farmer inspected Don's hands. 

"As I thought, never done a days hard graft in your life. Be off with you and stop wasting my time,” Courtney-Jones barked.

Don sensed the opportunity slipping away. The scullery door was closing.

“Sorry, no, I mean, yes, I would like the cottage, and no, I don’t want to work on the farm, but my wife-to-be is an excellent farm worker. She knows how to plant, harvest, tend animals, even drive tractors.”

Courtney-Jones turned back. “She can do all that?”

“Yes, she worked as a land girl during the war, and she’s could start next month,” Don spluttered.

“Next month, eh. April. Busy month. There'll be a lot of muck spreading to do. Good she knows how to drive a tractor. And there are two fields of potatoes to plant. It's an important month.”

“But you said ‘wife-to-be’, so you are not married yet? I’m not having anyone living out of wedlock on my land.”

“We get married at Bootle Register Office in a fortnight. The wedding is on Saturday morning April the first. Her name is Margie,” Don replied.

Courtney-Jones smiled. “April Fools Day, eh!” he laughed, “are you sure that’s a good idea! Are you sure she meant it when she said yes?” 

By now Courtney-Jones was turning red in the face with laughter. For some reason he thought he’d cracked a really funny joke, but this was far too important for Don to see the funny side.

“Stay there, lad, I’ll get the key.” Courtney-Jones said once he’d composed himself.

Five minutes later the farmer emerged from the farmhouse still chuckling. He put his arm on Don’s shoulder and pulled him close before pressing a large brass key in his hand.

“Don’t lose that, it’s the only spare I have. The last occupant took his key away with him. I’ll get another cut for your wife,” he said as he nudged Don and winked.

“Tell your Margie that she’s to be here at eight o’clock on Monday the third of April. She’ll need stout clothing, strong boots, and the strength of two men, understood?”

“Oh, and as for the cottage, you can move in anytime. But it’s up to you to clean the place. And there’s no furniture, so you will have to bring your own. I’ll get one of the farmhands to take the boards down next week.”

Boards? Don didn’t remember any boards. But that didn’t bother him. “Thank you, sir, I will tell my wife when I get home tonight.”

But Courtney-Jones hadn't heard him. He was already heading back inside the house.

***

As Don cycled away from the farm he noticed a footpath on the left just behind the cottage. He figured he had enough time for a quick explore to see his future home from another perspective.

He wheeled his bike along the footpath that led from the farm lane to a large yard. 

There were three barns, a hen coop, two pig pens, a collection of outhouses, a water pump, and what looked like two smaller cottages attached to the back of the Hawthorne Cottage. One looked empty and was boarded up, the other had a light shining in one of the rooms and the door was ajar.

Don wheeled his bike round to the front and felt for the key which he’d put in his trouser pocket. He tried the key in the door, but it didn’t move. He tried again. Still no response. Perhaps he’d been given the wrong key?

He looked at his watch. It was getting late and he was behind schedule already. There was no time to return to the farm. He assessed his options. He could return in three hours and call at the farm to check whether he’d been given the right key, or he could save exploring the cottage as a treat to be shared with Margie at the weekend.

He tried the key once more. Nothing happened. Don stepped back. He still had the second round to deliver, and, after that, the long cycle ride back home to Walton.

Don went back to the road, picked up his bike, and set off for the post office at Town Green, thinking about the cottage and the future. It was a great opportunity for a new start. A new life with Margie.

And that was when he decided that they would explore the house together the following Saturday, move in a week later after the wedding, and Margie would start work on the farm the following Monday.

Don took a deep breath. It was all happening so quickly. It was as if he was being swept along by events. He’d had this feeling before, but, this time, he felt in control.

He had a few things to deal with first, and some difficult conversations with both sets of parents.

***