A short story written by Ronnie, the only piece of fiction we have discovered amongst her treasures.
Just before Christmas, four children were sent out with their wellington boots and coats, out from under Mum’s feet. It was raining and dismal, but not cold, not yet real winter weather. The children took in deep breaths of air flavoured by the river and as a steam train past screwed up their faces so as not to breathe in coal smoke. The four waved to the passengers on the train and then charged down the road, arms out and behind, pretending to be aeroplanes. They decided not to go down to the river because of the cows and Wendy didn’t like cows, so up the hill they went, up the lane towards Mr Powell’s farm. Turning right onto the field at the top of the hill, they crossed the field, under the barbed wire into Bluebell Wood.
The trees were very stunted and grew close together, very little light got into the wood because of the thick canopy of branches. Crouching and ducking under the branches of the trees, they went their separate ways exploring this different but vaguely familiar wood. There were no bluebells at this time of year. The children didn’t very often visit the wood during the winter, it was a summer place where they could go exploring and not get lost, because they would follow the stream out of the wood.
One way led to the Marsh and cowboys and Indians, the boys were the Indians and the girls the cowboys and they had their own secret dens. The other way led to a lane beyond the farm, with its sheds and pigs, chickens and stinging nettles. The lane joined a road that went to a hamlet on the edge of the moor, which in the summer smelt warm and earthy, the air was clear and sharp and you could see down the estuary for miles and hear skylarks. Then a long walk home along the road to a tea fit for hungry explorers.
Today the children were a little in awe of the wood, it was not the same, it was dark and wet and empty. However, it was easier to explore without all the undergrowth. The boys were trying to splash one another with mud on the edge of the stream and shrieking and screaming at each other. The girls were exploring parts that were normally inaccessible. And then…there it was…smaller than the other trees and not very tall, but a blaze of colour almost bright pink amongst the wet browns and greys of the leafless lichen covered winter trees, “Trees don’t normally flower at Christmas…do they?” breathed Katherine “Have you ever seen anything like it?”
“Mum will know what tree it is; she knows everything. How can we describe it to her?”
“Well, um, the flowers are pink and there are four or maybe five of them bunched together. Almost like a star but not quite. Perhaps one in each corner and I think there might be one in the middle. But that bit there in the middle looks orange.”
“They really are very pink, aren’t they? I wonder what tree it is?”
“Well” said Katherine “I don’t think they are flowers, nothing flowers at this time of year.”
“Hey what have you found?” the boys come running through the wood “What is it-let me see.”
“We don’t know” replied the girls.
“Mummy will” and a small hand reached up to pick some of the “flowers”.
“We aren’t supposed to touch plants we don’t know” said ten year old Katherine, suddenly feeling very responsible for her younger brothers and sister. Very gingerly a piece of twig with “flowers” on was pulled from the tree and stuck in a pocket.
Now they were eager to get home and show their amazing find to Mum. As country children it was not often that they found a plant that they didn’t know the name of, never mind a tree. They were keen to show off their new treasure.
Excitedly they rushed up the bank and under the barbed wire strand of the fence. Along the edge of the field, back down the lane, onto the road by the railway line, passed the Marsh and a quick race along the road home. Mum was pleased to see them, as she had been earlier to send them out.
The children tried to explain their find all at once. The twig with its “flowers” was pulled from the pocket and laid on the kitchen table. “What flower is it, Mummy?” “What tree does it grow on?”
“Well they are spindle berries-not flowers at all.”
“Not flowers, why are they so pink?”
“Probably to warn the birds and squirrels off, because these berries are not good to eat. I think you had better wash your hands because these berries can upset you.”
“You mean like foxgloves do?”
“Dandelions always make me go to the toilet!” piped up David.
“Yes that’s right, these pretty berries are poisonous” said Mum.
The four children went to the kitchen sink and washed their hands, vying with each other for the towel. After they washed their hands they gathered round the kitchen table and Mum asked the children if they remembered the story of the sleeping beauty who pricked her finger on a spindle while spinning wool and went to sleep, to be woken by the kiss of a prince.
There was a chorus of “Yes”. And the children wanted to know why.
“Spindles used for spinning wool were made from the spindle tree which is what you have found growing in Bluebell Wood.”
“I won’t fall asleep for a hundred years, will I?” one troubled son asked. “And have to be woken up by someone kissing me-yuck-I hope it won’t be by Katherine or Wendy!”
They all laughed. “No, its only the berries that are poisonous”. Replied Mum.
“Is that why the tree is called spindle?”
“Quite possibly.”
“Why have we never seen spindle trees before?”
“In this part of the country, we don’t have the right kind of soil for them to grow, they like chalky soil and you say it was right in the middle of the wood. Mr Powell probably doesn’t know that the tree is there, if he did he would have to be very careful not to let his sheep in the wood”
“I’m starving!”
“So am I, what’s for tea?”
During January Mum had worried about the spindle tree, she knew farmers didn’t like them because the berries poisoned their stock if eaten and quite often whole woods or hedged were grubbed up because of the spindle trees. Also many spindle trees had in the past been cut down and the wood used for a variety of small household objects, not only as spindles for spinning but also for skewers, knitting needles and sometimes clothes pegs.
As an amateur artist she also knew that new growth on the trees made the best artists charcoal for drawing with. So, the one that the children had found was quite rare for that part of the country and, she thought, a bit special.
Mum met Mr Powell in the town on market day late in January and she told him about the tree in his little wood. He was quite surprised to be told.
Some days later, when the children were at school, the telephone rang “Hello, Mr Powell here. About that spindle tree the children found. I don’t quite know what to do, obviously I have to stop the stock getting into the wood now but what about the children? I never use the woods for anything, but I know they like to go and explore, and pick the bluebells.”
“That’s very kind” replied Mum “especially as they shouldn’t have been there without your permission.”
“Oh, children will be children and they are more than welcome. They never do any harm. I will have to put up a fence but I thought I would put in a small gate, not a field gate, so that they can come and go as they please. They will remember to shut it won’t they?”
“Oh yes” said Mum confident that her children always left gates as they found them. “Well thank you very much.”
“No, no I should be thanking your young explorers” laughed Mr Powell.
The children soon forgot about the spindle tree. Christmas and all its excitement came and went, then back to school, Pancake Day, Half term holiday, David’s birthday. Mothering Sunday when the girls picked a bunch of primroses for Mum from the local hedges, always being careful to only pick one or two flowers from each plant. Easter and chocolate eggs and the annual rediscovery of their respective dens on the edge of the Marsh.
And then in May it was time to go up to Bluebell Wood to pick armfuls of the delicate blue flowers. The children, as always, suiting their activities to the movements of the seasons.
Down the road, up the lane, open the gate into the field which had sheep in it, turn right at the top, follow the hedge to the wood where they stopped dead. Their normal entrance, under the single strand of barbed wire, was barred by a very new, strong, stock proof fence, which now edged the wood.
After their initial surprise the children quickly found the gate that had a latch easy for them to reach and they were soon into the wood admiring the swathe of blue carpet.
The four children and probably many more after them were able to enjoy the wood on Mr Powell’s farm and several more children would gasp in awe of the bright pink berries when they first discovered the spindle tree.
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