Bluebell wood was just beyond our cottage on a hill near Matlock. Father was teaching there at a girl`s boarding school. While Veronica (Jill) and Rachael were picking flowers I would collect spent shotgun cartridges from behind the haystacks in the field where the farmer used to shoot pigeons. I used to love the smell of spent shotgun cartridges. Pigeon pie with peas was one of my favourite meals and we used to sink our teeth gently into the meat for fear of crunching against the lead pellets.
Growing up as a small boy in the Derbyshire countryside etched deep into my consciousness. Inge cottage was remote on a hill. We had paraffin lamps, open coal fires and wore second hand clothes. This was rural England in the nineteen fifties.
'Come on` Veronica shouted as father wandered outside to tend to the beehives one summer`s day. `Let`s go down to our ship`. My two sisters and I would play down by the river Dove as it forged its way through the undulating countryside. We had this ship on the river which was a clump of trees on an island surrounded by rapids. The girls would carry me across and we would all take up stations at the helm. The roar of the current allowed our ship to thunder through the white water at ferocious speed on our journey to distant foreign lands. I would hug the mast looking out for pirates as Veronica gave the orders. `Land ahoy` she called and we climbed down the tree stumps to disembark.
`Quickly` Veronica repeated as we rushed up the hill to get home in time for lunch, daring not to be a minute late. Life was a curious mixture of rural freedom and brutal domestic discipline imposed by father.
Growing up as a small boy in the Derbyshire countryside etched deep into my consciousness. Inge cottage was remote on a hill. We had paraffin lamps, open coal fires and wore second hand clothes. This was rural England in the nineteen fifties.
'Come on` Veronica shouted as father wandered outside to tend to the beehives one summer`s day. `Let`s go down to our ship`. My two sisters and I would play down by the river Dove as it forged its way through the undulating countryside. We had this ship on the river which was a clump of trees on an island surrounded by rapids. The girls would carry me across and we would all take up stations at the helm. The roar of the current allowed our ship to thunder through the white water at ferocious speed on our journey to distant foreign lands. I would hug the mast looking out for pirates as Veronica gave the orders. `Land ahoy` she called and we climbed down the tree stumps to disembark.
`Quickly` Veronica repeated as we rushed up the hill to get home in time for lunch, daring not to be a minute late. Life was a curious mixture of rural freedom and brutal domestic discipline imposed by father.
An extract from 'Missing Jean' by Jeremy Broun
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