Mad Masie

Northwood, Isle of Wight

Wyatts Lane & Oxford Street

Northwood Church

1954

On a fine day, from our tiny scullery window in Kent House I could see clear across the sparkle of the Medina to the jagged green tree lined edge of Northwood. My grandmother had planned to take me on the bus for a visit to her brother Harry and his lifelong friend Bert, their house was on Wyatts Lane not too far from the Horseshoe Inn on Newport Road at Northwood. They had fought in both wars and had always lived together in an old rambling yellow brick house fitted with faded painted wooden shutters and a tangle of red vine almost obscuring the wide front entrance. At the rear was a large walled garden edged in raised flower beds full of roses with cordoned fruit trees surrounding the whole garden. In the centre in neat, raised beds every vegetable imaginable grew in profusion. An arched doorway opened into an adjoining orchard where apple, pear, plum and greengage grew upon a verdant carpet of waving tall grasses and wildflowers. Butterflies flashed and darted from flower to flower whilst birdsong and the industrious drone of honeybees filled the air.

Grandmother Beatrice pushed open the side gate that led into the garden with her heavy basket of homemade treats, calling out Harry’s name loudly she was surprised to see Bert hurrying down the path towards us.

After an initial hug and kiss Bert said ‘Harry has gone over to mad Masie’s and old Aunt Carrie’s place up Oxford Street been a fire or some such, the fires long since out but he’s gone up to see what he can do’. He stood for a moment, hands on hips and raising his eyes to the heavens, ‘silly old buggers the pair of them, burnt the shed down, I understand that…’ ‘Their shed!’ shrieked grandmother. ‘I was just about to go up myself’ said Bert at which point he caught sight of the bulging basket, ‘but as you are here, and their fires out I’ll not bother, come on in Beatie and I’ll make you both a cup of’ …His sentence was cut short by a stern interruption. ‘We will do no such thing Bert; we’ll need to go and help Carrie and Masie as quickly as possible’. Grandmother turned on her heels pushing both Bert and me in front of her, ‘come on boys and be quick about it’ she shrilled.

Wisps of curling blue smoke drifted lightly out onto the street dancing down onto the drooping blood red peonies, until caught in an eddying zephyr it rose over the trees and out to the river. Uncle Harry was in the front garden adding to an already large pile of acrid smelling charred timber as we arrived at Aunt Carrie’s house. ‘I won’t kiss you Beatie I’m covered in soot and muck, besides…’, Harry’s voice trailed off, as the front door opened directly behind him. ‘Don’t think he’ll be finished for a little while yet Beatie’ said a voice that creaked with age from within the dark interior of the open front porch door. The shaky croak belonged to Aunt Carrie who looked and sounded to me as though she was at the very least, a hundred years old, as she stood peering and blinking into the bright sunlight where we were all standing. I had on occasion overheard my grandmother and my mother talk of Aunt Carrie and her spinster daughter Masie and I also knew they lived together at Northwood but other than that I had never seen or met them in my life. I had suspected all along that they were not blood relations, usage of the term Auntie was one of respect, which was commonplace when I was young.

Aunt Carrie was waving her arms wildly beckoning us all to enter being sure to remove our shoes and leave them in the porch. We all did as were bid except for Uncle Harry who had elected to stay in the garden to complete his clearing of the still smouldering shed. We followed Aunt Carrie into a large darkened front room, heavy green velvet drapes were pulled across the windows beneath sweeping swags of the same green velvet edged by gold braid and tassels. The air was damp and musty, age and dust fighting for their rightful place upon every ornament and fixture in the room. The three of us were invited to take a seat so I chose to stay close to my grandmother and we sat in the biggest, most plumptious sofa I had ever seen. It gathered me up into its grey velvetiness sinking ever down and down into the voluminous interior surrounding me with huge damask cushions that smelt of old cat.

My mother and grandmother had always in their conversation related to all things Northwood referred to Carrie as Carrie and Masie as ‘Mad Masie’. I had never inquired as to why this should be, I merely accepted it as an eccentric family description. My perception of what these ladies would look like from the descriptions given by my mother, grandmother and Uncle Donald was so far removed from the reality.

I heard her long before I was able to see her, due to my being trapped within the bowels of the sofa, both of my legs pointing upward toward the ornate plastered ceiling rose. Her voice sweet and pretty, each word landing gently upon the ear light and beautiful as a butterfly. ‘Oh, what a wonderful surprise. How lovely to see you Auntie Beatie it’s been an absolute age…’, peering over my still upturned shoes she looked down at me with a very amused look upon her face.… and who may this handsome young man be?’ Grandmother suddenly pulling me forward quipped, ‘I really don’t know why he’s acting so silly, Iain sit up and stop showing off, you silly boy, wherever are your manners’? Grandmother’s admonishments were whirling like a storm inside my head until I heard words that clearly said. ‘Now go and give both your aunties a hug and kiss and say hello, I don’t think they have ever met you before, so introduce yourself properly’. At that moment there was very little of me that wasn’t burning, my tongue was unable to form any audible sound, let alone properly formed words and struggling to break free from the sofa I was finally able to stand before both ladies like a captured prisoner.

The next few moments of my life were sheer giddy gobbledegook, a pitifully inadequate explanation of who I was, and questions related to the whereabouts of where I lived with my mother. I could still taste Auntie Carrie’s soft paper cheek where a dusting of powder puff and rouge that smelt like grandmother’s bedroom, was still tickling my nose. The very next moment Masie had clutched me to her bosom, holding me tight for what felt like a lifetime until finally releasing me by kissing me loudly on my forehead.

Masie was standing before me one hand on her hip the other elegantly holding a long cigarette holder. She wore shoulder length auburn hair in a curly bob glistening in folds and waves like fire. Unbelievably, I had never seen a woman dressed in trousers. She was wearing trousers in a Prince of Wales check pattern together with a pink silk shirt and dangling cuff links, the ensemble complimented with a loosely knotted black tie. She looked stunning to my very young naïve eyes, she looked like a film star that had just walked out from a poster on the Royalty Cinema in Cowes.

‘Beatie you will all stay for luncheon?’, asked Aunt Carrie, pausing for a second for an acceptance. ‘That’ll be lovely, interjected Bert, save us from having to do a roast’. Aunt Carrie turned to face Bert with a look that could have soured milk. ‘No! I’m afraid that will not be possible Bert,Masie will make sandwiches and hot tea for you and Harry which can be eaten in the garden whilst you both complete the clearing up’.

Masie meanwhile was blowing the most perfect smoke rings into the air. I watched fascinated as the rings followed each other spiralling one way and then another coming to a smoky rest across the ceiling. She was lazed in a large comfy armchair, her long legs stretched out in front of her resting on a leather-bound footstool. ‘Ham and cheese, do you both Bert with some of my home-made apple chutney?’ shouted Masie. Bert nodded an agreement, his disconsolate expression broke into half a smile as he rose slowly from the comfort of the sofa, clearly in no hurry to tell Harry the news that they would be enjoying a working lunch of sandwiches and tea in the garden.

I had noted with interest that Aunt Carrie had referred to lunch as Luncheon, which seemed to imply a formality and procedure the manner of which I knew not. I was just aware that I was trepidatious, Aunt Carrie did not look at all like a lady who would take (‘Oh, No I’m sorry I don’t like that). I prayed that whatever was to be set before us to eat was within my limited range of acceptable food.

Eventually with help from grandmother, Masie and Aunt Carrie announced that luncheon was served, it had been arranged upon the largest dining table I had ever seen. There was a large china tureen of Gazpacho soup, salad, smoked salmon, cold cooked salmon en croute, a bowl of buttered new potatoes, fresh home-produced asparagus, a large platter of crusty home-made bread together with an assortment of olives and various cheeses in balsamic. A bottle of Riesling complimented the setting, I was offered a fizzing glass of American Soda. So far, my young life’s experiences of basic food were at very best limited, I had no knowledge whatsoever or experience of most the food upon the table. Spaghetti in tomato sauce from a tin served hot from a saucepan and placed on a piece of buttered toast was the only adventure into the world of gourmet I had ever undertaken. Moments later we had all taken our seats at the table and to my everlasting gratitude Masie had decided to sit beside me and immediately sensed my ineptitude, from my first sight of the odd looking cutlery to hearing that not only did the soup have a strange name, a name that sounded foreign, but it was to be served cold. My grandmother was not one who suffered fools gladly nor was she one to be embarrassed by children especially when she was in the company of her acquaintances, insisting in a very strict tone that I was to show my manners and to ensure that I would try a little of everything. The array of food and patterned china set before me began to blur, everything on the table began dancing and my mind was swimming as my ineptitude took hold. Suddenly I was aware of a sweet gentle voice breaking through the fog of blind panic which had such a tight grip me. ‘This afternoon, Masie whispered loudly so all could hear, ‘after of course we have all finished eating, and if your grandmother has no objections, how would you like to accompany me and go for a ride on my motor bike’? ‘Sandown perhaps or …

Both my Grandmother and Aunt Carrie immediately began to protest, interrupting each other as they did so. Masie bid them to desist by placing her forefinger to her lips. I’m sure this young man is going to be the very model of a good boy in order to win an afternoon on a motor bike and if you are very good and please both Beatie and my dear mother I may even show you how to ride a motor bike safely around the paddock and will be more than happy to finish up as soon as he can, now Iain what can I tempt you with’. Smiling she winked at me and began lightly spreading Brussels Pate onto a piece of crusty bread and then overlaid it with a slice of smoked salmon placing it upon a side plate with capers and pickles and a thin slice of cheddar cheese. She then cut an equally thin slice of the Salmon en Croute. ‘I’m going to have exactly the same as you’. She quickly served the same food once again onto another plate, ‘and if I finish before you manage to finish I’m going to stay in this afternoon and knit but should you finish before me then and only then will we go for a short ride over the Downs on the motorbike’. ‘If I finish before you’, I blurted, my mouth already full of bread and pickle, ‘can I still have a ride on your motor bike in the paddock and will you still show me how to ride it’. Nodding in agreement, and with a wave of her hand signalling me to get on with matter in hand she began to eat heartily and with obvious intent to win her bet. ‘Oh, I almost forgot, afters, we have to eat a slice of Beatie’s apple pie which she has kindly given us’. She winked at my grandmother who was shaking her head in head in amusement, ‘and not forgetting a big dollop of custard’. It was almost as though she knew I loathed custard, but not today, today I shall overcome.

Masie continued her encouragement by gently teasing and coaxing me through the Luncheon and after a few faltering stumbles, coughs and splutters I managed to reach the dessert course not forgetting of course the thick gelatinous dollops of custard, unbelievably the meal was at an end. My grandmother had agreed that I had been both well-mannered and had eaten a sufficiency which had both pleased her and our hosts. She then gave me dubious leave of the table and told me to go into the garden and talk to my uncles whilst the ladies wanted to discuss something urgent and important with Maisie.

After all she wasn’t called Mad for nothing…

Both of my uncles had enjoyed their ham and cheese sandwiches and Maisie had also taken out apple pie to them, but they were still grumbling about their lot in life. ‘Not bloody good enough to eat at Lady Mucks table, we’re just the bloody Hoi Polloi only good enough to clear up after bloody Barmy Drawers finished burning down half of Northwood, Uncle Harry hissed under his breath, she could have burnt the whole ruddy street down and that’s a fact’. Bert nodded in agreement between mouthfuls of apple pie as Harry threw down another heap of charred timber in a clatter onto the ground, shaking his head in despair he said, ‘she’s going to kill herself one day if she’s not ruddy careful’. Do you know Bert she was by all accounts dancing around the bloody garden last night in her night dress it was about bloody midnight before they realised the ruddy shed was ablaze’? ‘What started the fire off Harry do we know’? ‘She kept a spare Jerry can of petrol in there for her bloody motor bike or some such , then she only goes and leaves a fag burning on the bench in that bloody fancy cigarette holder thingy she uses, next bloody minute whoompff..’ Bert sighed deeply and then took a last long swig of tea and began rubbing his chin thoughtfully before saying, ‘she reminds me of that mad dancer girl, you know what’s her name, the mad bugger who got herself killed when her bloody scarf got caught up in the car’s wheel’. ‘That was Isadora Duncan said Harry, you’re right there Bert she was as mad as a hatter too. They all come out of the same box, daft as bloody March Hares the whole lot of them. Bert I’ve told you before they’re what they call the bloody Crème de la Crème’. ‘Oh, I do love it when you speak in French Harry’ said Bert beforebursting into a peel of camp laughter.

Standing at the open French Window Masie was waving excitedly calling out to me to come in quickly. Shouting goodbye, I left my uncles and ran as fast as I could towards the house and looking quickly back, I gave my uncles a last wave. Bert was busying himself filling his pipe whilst Harry resigned himself once again to his task of clearing up the fire damage.

I followed Masie who was dressed in motorcyclist black leathers, through the house where we found my grandmother and Aunt Carrie standing inside the open garage doors both looking with distain at a shiny black motorcycle which was stood at a jaunty angle upon its stand. ‘It’s a Douglas Dragonfly said Maisie proudly, it’s marvellous and so very nippy and… Her words were cut off by her mother who warned her once again of excessive and needless speed and to be very much aware that she was responsible for the care, the very special care, of her pillion passenger, she repeated her warnings again and again, paying deference to my grandmother who was stood beside her, she tapped her arm reassuringly. My grandmother looked on and began wringing her hands and twitching a nervous smile of agreement at Carrie. ‘Beatie please be assured said Aunt Carrie, sounding not unlike Jean Brodie, Masie will not, I repeat will not be taking Iain to Sandown or Newport or any other such place but instead she will be going only a mile or so down the road to Northwood Church.’ ‘She is going to lay some flowers from the garden on sweet Ernest’s grave’ and gripping my grandmother’s hand, who was wiping away a tear, she smiled kindly, ‘a special place you know well and love Beatie.’

Masie , as well as finding me a large of pair goggles had found me an extra warm jumper it was mustard coloured with black stripes, a tight bright yellow woolly hat and I had wound around my neck her cosy black knitted scarf. I must have looked reminiscent of a rather large bumble bee when finally I was seated pillion behind Masie holding a bunch of flowers that she had given me to hold until we reached the church and were intended to be laid upon the grave of my grandfather. Moments later Masie kicked the machine roaring, spitting angrily, noisily firing into life. Standing astride of the motorcycle for balance and turning her head back she shouted at me over the noise of the engine, ‘hang on tight to me sweetheart and remember to lean over when I lean, I’ve promised mother and your gran we will go to Northwood Church but there’s nothing stopping us going the long way on the way back, it’ll be fun.’ Less than one minute later we were roaring loudly over the Newport Road until we had reached Church Road and heading for The Church of St John the Baptist at Northwood.

A cold blustering squall had blown up somewhere out over the Solent darkening the summer sky with curtains of lashing rain. It was of little comfort that I was dressed in woollen clothes from head to foot as they were soaked through by the rainstorm, even my goggles had, after a short while, filled with rainwater. Masie had slewed us to a standstill and leaned her motorbike irreverently beside the Lych gate that opened into the small, garlanded cemetery with its numerous weathered headstones and memoriam standing every which way. Although it had only taken minutes from leaving Oxford Street to arriving at Northwood Church, we were nonetheless desperate to fulfil our mission of laying our bunch of flowers against the headstone of my Grandfather Ernest Samuel Ralfs. I had kept tight hold of the bunch of flowers, given to me by Masie for safekeeping, beneath my jumper as we journeyed to the church, unfortunately due to the wind and rain and my enthusiastic safekeeping, sadly there was very little left of the floral bouquet when I extracted the dejected and broken stems, petals and leaves from beneath my jumper. ‘Oh, my good God, exclaimed Masie, clasping her hand over her mouth, I think you’ve buggered the posy of flowers and that’s a fact’. We immediately exchanged a glance one to another and then back to the heap of broken foliage that I was endeavouring to give some semblance of acceptability by attempting to reassemble the carnage of floribunda into some sort of acceptable bouquet that would be worthy of being laid up against the gravestone of my grandfather as a mark of reverential respect. Shock, rain, and graveyards are possibly still until this day a guaranteed recipe for laughter. As I stood on the church path holding no more than a handful of drooping stalks whilst Masie almost in hysterics was leaning for support against a stone archangel, his arms outstretched to heaven as though to escape our disrespectful behaviour. By now the rain was relentless and we both ran towards the church taking shelter beneath the front portico entrance that led into the church. Within this arched portal upon all the stained glass windowsills were as many as six vases full of beautiful flowers the colour of these lovely bouquets matching every bit that of the stunning colours that shone through from the stained glass windows. ‘My mother and father were married here at this church’ said Masie. ‘When was that’? I asked.

‘T’was in the dawn of time my dear, she mused when all the world was lovely, and all the skies were blue. T’was when all the beasts could sing my dear they could sing as sweet as any bird’…her words trailed off as she suddenly reached up her arm outstretched snatching a bunch of flowers from a vase she launched spinning out onto the stone pathway leaping and dancing into the open graveyard.

‘Hello, can I be of any help, are you wishing to visit the church?’ ‘I’m afraid there is no one here at the moment besides the Vicar …the lady stopped for a moment mid-sentence and watched Masie take yet another mighty Grand Jete. The quivering voice belonged to a rather frail looking lady dressed in a grey plastic Pac a Mac and a bright multi coloured headscarf struggling to carry a basket of flowers over her arm. Masie froze mid-flight coming to a standstill between the grey headstones she was immediately the personification of calm and control it was almost as though a second or so prior the ballet in the rain had not happened. ‘Good afternoon, said Masie smiling sweetly at the lady, ‘We, Masie gestured a sweeping arm movement in my direction, …we are looking for Ernest Samuel Ralfs’. ‘I’m sorry said the Lady I’m not sure I can help, there’s no one here but me… ’Mr Ernest Samuel Ralfs is in the ground, here, at Northwood Church clipped Masie, he is laid amongst all these other souls at rest’. Lowering her head demurely she said quietly, ‘and we so wish to find him so that we may lay these flowers against his graveside’. ‘He was my grandfather, I exclaimed, beaming at the lady who was clearly flummoxed, he fought in the First World War and got wounded and medals.’ ’Oh, I think I know what you need there is a register here somewhere abouts’, said the lady and began searching through the dusty piles of hymn books and other church paraphernalia that was packed away in boxes in the corner of the dark vestry floor. It had stopped raining, the squall had followed the river down to Newport leaving the old cemetery glistening and bejewelled. The lady emerged blinking into sunshine waving a red ledger above her head, ‘I think well find who you are looking for in here,’ she shouted triumphantly. Peering at us over her gold wire spectacles she asked, ‘what year was he interned’? I slowly shook my head, I had no idea. What great strides regarding my own family’s knowledge I had made, I did not know, until today, that my Grandfather was buried here at Northwood Church. ‘Oh, Golly, so sorry we have really no idea, said Masie ruefully. The lady had introduced herself as Mrs Turner, she was the vicar’s wife and after a brief search of her ledger she was able to identify the burial plot’s position and after a short walk up and down rows of headstones we duly arrived at the one that had the correct inscription into the stone. It was so overgrown and weathered it was difficult to read. Mrs Turner said a short prayer over my grandfather’s grave as we laid our purloined flowers reverently beside the headstone.

‘I bet you did not know that your grandmother Beatie and your grandfather Ernest were married here at Northwood Church too.’ said Masie as she was struggling to kick the bike into life. ‘What! I exclaimed, I had only just found out this very day that my very own grandfather was buried at Northwood Church and now I discover that my grandmother and grandfather were married here. Masie cupped one hand to the side of her mouth as though she was about tell me a secret, ‘That’s not all, whispered Masie, my eyes were by now wide agog, Ernest Samuel had been married a year or so before to some other woman, here at the same church.’ My mouth was by now wide agape how much more to know of my family could there be?

We set off in a flurry of fury as the Douglas Dragonfly zoomed out from the hallowed portal of the lychgate from where Masie had kicked life into its noisy 350cc engine. We appeared from a skid through a plume of muddy water up to the main Newport Road, I don’t think I could have been any wetter if I had swum. Masie true to her word had decided she most definitely was going to take the longest way home. Cowes and Gurnard blurred past us as I clung on to Masie for dear life leaning one way and then another as rain like cold bullets peppered me from head to foot. We hurtled toward Thorness down the straight Old Rew Street onto Hillis Corner until we reached Forest Road past Porchfield then finally heading back home as we sped up Newport Road from Hunny Hill. I was somewhat relieved to say the least when we finally arrived screeching to a standstill outside of the garden gate of Masie’s home. Oh, the joy to be once again in the quiet sanctuary of Oxford Street. I was however proud of the fact that I had completed my baptism of fire by motorcycle, riding pillion with Mad Masie as she raced the Douglas Dragonfly through squalling rain, wind and storm, yes indeed Mad Masie was without a doubt my new best friend and as far as my own family was concerned the font of all knowledge. Grandmother and Aunt Carrie were both delighted and no doubt relieved to see us both as they sat together in the dimly lit front room enjoying tea and cake. Both my old uncles had completed their tasks in the garden and were now by way of a reward reading the papers and enjoying a small measure of whisky as they sat relaxing comfortably in large cushioned rattan chairs in the bright conservatory. My alighting from the pillion seat of the motor bike and straddle, waddle walking to the house must have been a sight for sore eyes. Woollen clothes for motor cyclists in the rain is not to be recommended, what had been reminiscent of a happy bumble bee now resembled a very wet and unhappy caterpillar. My grandmother had borrowed some very odd items of dry clothing from Aunt Carrie which smelt of Camphor and Must. Aunt Carrie insisting that they once belonged to a young nephew of hers that had no further need of them as he had died of diphtheria some years previous. ‘They will do until we get home this evening’, grandmother hissed under her breath and be sure you give yourself a good rub down. The small hand towel was as rough as tree bark and once again imbued with the strange unpleasant odour of Camphor and Must.

‘Oh my, oh goodness’… said Masie partially smiling as she quickly placed a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle,

…’you look the very image of Little Lord Fauntleroy.’ This time her stifled giggle had burst free developing into what can only be best described as a belly laugh. She saw my look of ignorant disbelieving, I neither knew what I looked like or for that matter who Little Lord Fauntleroy was. ‘Where on earth did those clothes come from?’ Did mother give them to you?

‘Oh, good God in Heaven’, Masie cried out, almost in shocked horror, ‘she has only gifted you poor dead Derek’s Sunday best, he died of diphtheria do you know, when I was just a little girl. He died, they say he was in a bit of state, bless him, here at this house in my bedroom’ she said, pointing her finger to the ceiling, ‘poor thing. He had always been a very unlucky child, so my mother tells me, evidently, he was my second cousin as indeed was his sister Hettie of course, she died in Switzerland, of consumption.’ The early evening watery sunlight beamed through the windows of the comfortable tumble of the family room in long dusty shafts as we sat talking together. I had never in my life had a grown-up friend, but I believed I had found such a one in Masie as well as being mad Masie was so interesting and profound. I could hang on her every word for ever.

‘I am so awfully sorry lovie, I know that I promised but it seems we have no time for your motorbike lesson, besides the weather is so foul and the grass in the paddock is so very wet and so very slippery’. I told her not to worry, ensuring her that today’s experience had left a lasting impression on me, a chill ran down my spine as I brought to mind some of the twists and turns on her motorbike at what felt well over a million miles an hour although I didn’t go into the detail pertaining to the fact it was highly unlikely that I would ever forget my first experience on a motorbike. She smiled down at me sweetly saying that she was sure there would be other times and opportunities. ‘Yes indeed’, I nodded a lie, I knew at that moment that motorcycles and myself would never grow to be the very truest of alliances. Many years later after I had purchased my first and last motorcycle, a Yamaha 250cc, when I wasn’t flying through the air spinning through hedge backs I am certain in the knowledge that I pushed it back home as many miles as I ever rode it. I recalled watching Masie dancing in the rain, gracefully floating between the grey sombre head stones in the cemetery, she went on to explain that she has sudden impulses that demand she frees her spirit and endeavours to vie with nature and all elements. It’s the same with writing and poetry she went on, she asked me if I was interested in reading and poetry. I enthusiastically nodded another lie. ‘Then tell me, she said sweetly smiling broadly down into my face, who is your most favoured poet and what is your most treasured book’? I wondered if she were able to feel the intense heat from my cheeks, I most certainly could. ‘I don’t remember’, I stammered. I wanted to burst into tears, what she must think of me, not so much for being a numbskull but far worse, a dishonest numskull. She took my hand in hers and led me over to a massive wall of books on the far side of the room, she stood scanning the shelves for a moment or two before removing two books. Masie flicked through the pages and after a short while handed them to me saying, as her eyes pierced into mine, ‘promise me you will read these books’. ‘Yes’… I said as honestly and sincerely as I could. I followed my agreement with yet another enthusiastic nodding of my head. The two books she had given me were The Song Of Hiawatha by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and the Poems of John Masefield. ‘Never, ever in your life stop reading’…she said in the closest I had ever heard her scold me… ‘reading and particularly reading poetry is like opening a new box of paints onto a new and imaginary world, read each word slowly, savour it and enjoy the sound of it, give it a colour’. She went on to explain freedom of expression and imagination particularly when she was able to dance and move without inhibitions. She had never been given the opportunity to be able to study the discipline or the art of dance, or had she ever received lessons. Masie quivered with passion as she explained the very first time that she had felt the raw Mother Earth beneath her naked feet and how that moment had fired her for ever into the free movement of dance and expression. There was a moment when she was detailing the freedom and utter beauty of movement, the nearest equivalent she said. ‘To what a bird must feel each time it launches itself from a branch. It’s such a pity it was not the finest of days today because sometimes I pop off over to Sandown in order tofly Mr Peter’s aeroplane, (evidently he was a farmer who needed his crops spraying, and allowed Masie to use his light aircraft). She was aware of my open mouth and tapped my arm to regain my attention. ‘I really do find that far less dangerous an undertaking than riding the Douglas Dragonfly at speed in the rain, she giggled. Once again and at the risk of boring you silly, I just love both the power and the strength of the air turbulence but most of all I simply adore the sheer freedom beneath my wings as I peer at our wonderful world slowly unfolding beneath me.’ ‘You fly a plane too…? My words failed me, trailing off into the ether.

My grandmother and Aunt Carrie had entered the room in which we were sitting and were followed by my uncles. My grandmother informed me that it was time for us all to take our leave and to be sure to thank both Aunt Carrie and Masie for a wonderful day. I really didn’t want the day to end, every word that Masie had told me was resonating in my head, my mind was spinning, it was alive with wonder and afire with new and as yet undiscovered ideas. We all began to gather outside on Oxford Street in order to say our farewells to one another as we hugged and kissed. Aunt Carrie felt frail and breakable and still smelt musty, antiqued she was, very definitely of another bygone time. My uncles had waddled out in front of us carrying a large straw basket between them full of greengages that they had picked earlier that afternoon during the rain. I had stood for a moment hugging Masie and thanking her for the most memorable day I thought I had ever had and promised her once again that I would read the books that she had given me when suddenly she bent forward and kissed me loudly on both cheeks and then proceeded to punch me playfully on my arm. She began to cry as she reiterated through soft sobs of joyous affection her promise to me that we would see each other very soon. Watching my two old uncles toddle lovingly slowly off home towards Wyatts Lane happy that Aunt Carrie had paid them both handsomely for their hard work in the garden with a brand new crisp white five pound note to share and a basket full of greengages. My lasting memories and images of those moments leaving Aunt Carrie and Mad Masie leaning over the garden gate silhouetted by the early evening sun waving us all a fond farewell have remained with me all of my life as though it was only yesterday.

From that day, with the exception of my Grandmother, it is with the deepest regret I never saw any one of them again. Within three years of this occasion both of my dear Uncles had died, sadly Harry followed by his lifelong friend Bert two months later. The following year Aunt Carrie died, peacefully in her sleep. My wonderful Grandmother whilst taking up an invitation to visit Australia to stay with her eldest daughter and her family died of a heart attack on board the cruise ship SS Canberra and was buried at sea. Masie had, so rumour had it, moved to Canada some time during the early sixties and by my best calculations would now be enjoying her ninety-sixth year, and it certainly would not surprise me if she was still dancing and taking the odd flight into the blue.