The House that Time Forgot

Chapter: 1 The Wireless

The House that Time Forgot

Written by: Catherine Stålborg

Chapter:1

The Wireless

Many tales usually start with a cold and frosty morning, sounds rather cliché but in all honesty, it was just that. Cold, for three whole days, every morning laid a fresh coating of frost on our neighour's A.C car. The frost almost turned the mat black finish into a light grey glittering velvet. But after a few hours, it melted away. Leaving the sunshine to take over the day shift. August had been a very warm month, so a little frosty morning dew was a welcome sight.

Mr Brown-Jones, was the only man in our neighbourhood that could afford an automobile, actully he was the only neighbour in a three street radius that could afford a transitior radio; many of us watched in amazement when it was being lead into their house by two burley men in brown overalls. The Jackson Bell 'Sunrise' radio, to me was simply a thing of beauty, and yet very alien, but all the same an object of complete fascination. All of us children on the street, gathered curiously around The Brown-Jones front doorstep, in the hope that we be the first to hear music or the sound of someone from the radio station introducing a radio program.

I had seen these machines many times in magazine advertisements in newspapers that had been yesterday's rubbish. They seemed all too far out of reach for me, and especially my 'hand-to-mouth' family. Mother and I had passed the electric appliance shop in town only a few months earlier, and there in the window (along with many of my schoolfriends peering closely in to see this wooden wonder, in sheer amazement). With this new piece of home gadgetry, was a more astonishing, and more depressing sight. The brown price tag that hungto the side of it with beautiful writing '£9' and in smaller writing 'Not including Earth Rod', to enable electricity to pass safely, andcable, and the man to install the 'earth system', and 'electron' in total, our family simply would never be able to afford the rounded figure of £10, 2 Shillings and 6 pence. It was more money than I could ever have imagined at that age. And more than my parents could ever muster in a year. But the Brown-Joneses of this world could, and that was frustrating, and downright annoying.

Mr Burn-Jones was an architect, and some said he was a bit of a miser to say at the very least. Never liked to put his hand in hs pocket for anything, unless it was something he really wanted for himself. Most of his children ran around the streets with shorts in all sorts of weather conditions, and usually had lime green slimey streaks trailing from each nostril to their upper lips. It wasn't uncommon for both Jane and Charlie to have 5 centimetres long snail-trail on both left, and right sleeves. Jane had beautiful bobbed blonde hair, that was such a light shade of blonde, that in the sun it appeared white. Charlie, was more my own age, and had brown hair like his dad. Mr Brown-Jones on the the other hand, was a well-dressed gentleman, with his hair always without a single hairout of place, Bryl-creamed and dapper; and always trimmed every other week in Morley Barbers, the most popular barbars in town. His pristine white shirts were always ironed, and starched to perfection, by Mrs Brown-Jones. Mrs Brown-Jones was a quiet lady, and appeared almost subsurvient to Mr Brown-Jones.

Somestimes, she appeared to trail behind her husband, when they were ever seen in town. My mother always told me that Mrs Brown-Jones just wanted to always do the best for her family, and always put their needs first, even if she in the end had to frequently go without. She was a very plain lady,and her hair was always tidy, but it's style was incredibly basic. I always felt that if she had took a little more time, she would have been a real beauty, she had always a warm smile. Jane her daughter seemed to inherit her white blonde hair and fair features. However Mrs Brown-Jones was always overshadowed by her husband. MrBrown-Jones's black shoes appeared to never have a single smudge of mud or dust on them. I later discovered that both Jane and Charlie were responsible for their high-polished shine. Jane nad mentioned that she was saving her shoe polishing money for a doll on her birthday. Charlie, on the other hand was always spending what he had earned, almost immediately.

Mr and Mrs Brown-Jones however, didn't mind us children loitering around their front doorstep so much these days. There seemed to be a forboding in the air that told us children that something was going to happen soon. Just by our parents discussions, that in most cases seemed 'hush hush', whenever I returned home. Mother looked concerned, and father seemed to always have a 'matter of fact'approach to any situation, usually he was incredibly difficult to read. But my mother's face seemed to tell me all I needed to know.

"What is it mother?" I enquired. "Well..." she began, looking at the floor at the same time.

"No need to say anything as yet, not until we have all the facts" my father interrupted in a  sharp 'matter of fact' tone. Whatever it was, it was serious, as his brow never furrowed usually. It  furrowed only when he was either thinking hard about something, or he was punishing me for misbehaving. Like the time I had dropped into Daisy Harris's house one evening to see her pet rats. She had three of them! One black, one grey, and the third pure white, with pink eyes. My folks would have been alright about me visiting her, and her pets; if I had told them where I was at the time, and what time I would be back. My usual home time was 4pm, on this particular evening I never got back into the house again until 7:45pm. This worried my folks sick, and both had been out looking for me everywhere, and had asked around all our neighbours. When I opened the door, and seen my father's furrowed brow, it told me, I was going to get a good hiding this time. His face was serious, and I knew that look all too well.

"Facts?Facts about what, father?" I asked, almost nervous of my father's reaction.

It was at this point that my father's face seemed to mirror that of my mother's. It softened, almost in fearful anticipation and anxiety. He slowly lowered his pipe, and and fumbled with the little wooden box of Swan matches between his forefingers and thumbs.

"War, Elizabeth" he replied at last. "Facts are still being relayed to us all the time these days". At hearing what he had to say, one word stuck like a knot in my stomach and throat, that made me feel quite nauseous. War?! What had we done to deserve to go to war with anyone? Hadn't we as a nation already had enough fighting and killing in The Great War; World War One, had we learned nothing?

"Did you not hear any of the news being broadcast on Mr Brown-Jone's fancy wireless?" 

"No, I have heard nothing father" I replied. Looking up at my mother, my father declared "I will set to work this weekend in preparation" he declared, as he got up from the table, and walked towards the living room window overlooking our small garden.

More confused, I looked at my mother saying nothing, I  just passed a confused glare.

"Your father is going to start preparing the garden for us; there will most probably be air raids. He says he will set to work in building an Anderson Shelter". Confirmation as delivered at these words, it was no dream, or worst still...nightmare. I wanted to pinch myself, to see if what I had just heard was real. There was nothing in our garden, but a small allotment that my father took pride in, he grew (some would say), the best tomatoes and potatoes in the whole of our borough. He entered competitions with his produce, and they always produced awards. He had 7 rosets, and a plaque for his prized vegetables. It was a small garden, no more than 10 feet by 20. It housed his shed (that stored all his gardening tools) and a small plot of land with soil that the vegetables relished.  He always believed it was down to our rich soil, that made him a winner every year.

There were times when the rag and bone man's horse would trot by leaving us a fresh deposit of manure every Thursday in the middle of our road. My dad would usher me to go and collect what I could; in time for his strawberries. I could never understand how something that looked and smelled so terrible, could deliver the most gloriously bright red, plumpest, sweetest and juiciest strawberries. They were a real treat. I understood, that with the threat of war looming, the chances of the strawberry plants being destroyed, all in the name of Sir John Anderson, and war with Mr Adolf Hitler! But I understood it was for our own safety. Maybe we might all have some strawberries once war was no longer a threat to anyone. We knew we had the best soil for them, it was never going to be a problem to grow more. We would be enjoying our my father's strawberries next season, this war I was sure, won't last. Even if it took a little longer for us to get a chance to enjoy them, I wouldn't care. Because all that mattered to me, was that we still had each other, and that was a blessing.