Guarding the Castle

I always hated going to The Castle. 

It wasn’t really a castle, of course, only the house opposite ours in Tatnam Road, Poole. It was owned by Mr and Mrs Marsh, who must have been in their mid-80s when I was just a small boy aged three or four.

My mother used to leave me with the Marshes when she had to go out during the afternoon, which was usually at least once a week. Those sessions with the Marshes are forever seared on my memory. In later life I have never suffered from boredom, because I can always relate any experience that smacks of tedium to what I suffered from the Marshes in terms of being mind-numbingly, limb-solidifyingly, Medusa-petrifactionally, bored! Droning teachers, 30-minute church sermons, speeches by Tory politicians – all of them were models of joyous excitement in comparison to those long-past afternoons at The Castle.

I called it The Castle because it had a large painting of Corfe Castle hanging over the fireplace in the front room. It was the only thing in the room that was worth looking at, and I did a lot of that. The painting might have been a wedding present from an artist friend more than half-a-century previously. I don’t suppose that it was all that great as a work of art, but it contained enough detail to allow my imagination to get to work on what might be going on within its shattered walls. Without that impetus, the boredom would have been completely unbearable.

It wasn’t really the Marshes fault. They were so much older than me that they had no idea how to entertain a small boy, especially as they had had no children of their own. I suppose they did their best, but their best was nothing like good enough. As a result, I just sat there, doing nothing apart from stare at the painting of Corfe Castle.

I probably bored them, which was why they were always pleased when other people called round and they could have long conversations as I sat in the room, understanding absolutely nothing of what they were talking about.

I imagined that I was being kept in The Castle’s dungeon. The room was certainly dark enough, given its dingy wallpaper, depressing brown paintwork and thick net curtains that kept out most of the daylight. It did not help, on these afternoons, that this room faced east as opposed to our own west-facing front room just over the road, which was where I so wanted to be.

I knew that prisoners in dungeons were fed on water and dry bread. At least I got a glass of milk and a small plate of biscuits, although these were always boring ones like rich tea or malted milk. There was nothing as exciting as a custard cream or – Heaven forfend – a chocolate digestive!

The Castle had its own garrison, in the form of old soldier Mr Marsh. He showed me his army medals one day, and also a photo of him in uniform together with a group of his colleagues. I knew that I had uncles who had fought in World War I but Mr Marsh could go one better than that – his fighting experience had been in South Africa during the Boer War that ended in 1902!

 I learned later that the real name of the house was Mafeking, the reason for which was clear enough.

However, what sealed that house as The Castle for me was the fact that its entrance was guarded by two formidable sentries. They stood either side of the path that led to the front door, being two large hydrangea bushes. I used to think that Mother had to give these bushes the password before she could knock on the door. 

Those bushes never liked me. Mother was not a tall woman, but at the age I was then I was clearly much shorter that her and the bushes were roughly the same height as me. The bushes stared at me, one on either side, laughing to themselves as we waited for the door to be opened. They knew what was going to happen.

At the end of the afternoon I had to pass between the hydrangea bushes a second time. I could hear them giggling as I did so. “See you soon” they said, mockingly.

I have always liked Corfe Castle and bought a painting of it myself many years later. I have also taken a number of photos of it and learned its history.

But I have always hated hydrangeas.

© John Welford

What's In a Name?

I once ran a company library that gave the impression of having been founded sometime in the Middle Ages. I was the first professional that had ever been employed there, and it showed. Nothing seemed to make sense in terms of how it operated, how the stock was arranged, how it was processed, or anything else. Needless to say, I soon got to work on improving matters, and I like to think that I made a huge difference in terms of turning the place into an asset that was of real benefit to the company’s employees.

The original appalling state of affairs applied to the archaic system used for issuing books to the very few customers that came through the door in the early days. Everything was written down in a huge loose-leaf ledger that sat on the library counter, with pages labelled according to the borrower’s name with the titles of the items they had borrowed written down when they went out and crossed through on return. To call it a system was an insult to the word “system”.

Eventually I was able to install a much more efficient way of working, but in the meantime I had no choice but to carry on with what was there. 

Margaret, my assistant, had been working in the library for years, was not far short of retiring, and naturally knew everyone who came through the door, having no trouble in turning to the right place in the ledger. As a newbie, I did not have that advantage and had no choice but to ask everyone who came to the desk what their surname was.

One morning, when Margaret was out of the room, a customer came to the counter who wanted to borrow something. I therefore needed to turn to the massive ledger, which was always referred to by the library staff as “The Bible”.

“And your name is?”

“Mudd”.

I couldn’t believe it. The poor guy had clearly spent much of his life bemoaning the fact that his name was always going to be Mudd whatever he might or might not have done, and here I was reminding him of the fact. I did, however, manage to keep a straight face until after he had left the library.

However, that did not stop me from wanting to tell Margaret the good news when she came back, which she did at the same time as another customer walked in, going straight to the shelves to find the one item he needed.

“Would you believe it?” I said. “I ask him his name and he says ‘My name is Mudd’. I know we shouldn’t laugh at people because of something they can’t help, like their name, but there are occasions when it becomes very difficult not to”.

As I was talking to Margaret I had my back to the counter so I couldn’t see what Margaret could see, which was the customer who had found what he wanted and was now standing there waiting to be served. There was no doubt that he had heard every word I had said.

The expression on Margaret’s face was an odd combination of horror and delight. I realized afterwards that the horror was due to what she knew was about to happen. The delight had more to do with the opportunity she now saw to put this new whippersnapper, with all his crazy idea for change, firmly in his place.

She could, of course, have leapt to my rescue by reaching for the Bible and turning immediately to the right page for the man at the counter. She much preferred, however, to let events take their course.

Which they did.

I therefore asked the usual question. “Your name is?”

“Strange”.

© John Welford