Read Online A Little Bit on the Side by John W O' Sullivan - Free Book Online
Authors: John W O' Sullivan
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I’m sure they will be, wrap the book up carefully and get one of the boys to go up on the train and see them. If the boys aren’t keen to do that, then if it’s OK with you, I’ll pop up for you.’
Ada was quite happy with that, and the rest of their time together was spent, without all that much encouragement being needed from her visitors, in listening to Ada reminiscing about her childhood and early married life on the hill. And always it was the hill’s isolation in those early days that was the underlying theme. It forced on them a self-sufficiency and spirit of mutual support and cooperation that was being lost elsewhere, and in winter in particular it brought with it a fair share of emergencies and tragedies.
Ada, newly pregnant herself for the first time, had been called on to assist when heavy snowfalls had prevented either doctor or midwife getting to the village, and Albert, the current publican, was showing a distinct unwillingness to assume a personal existence independent of his mother’s womb.
‘But we got him out in the end,’ said Ada, ‘although he did look a sight. All blotched, scratched and ugly.’
‘Not much change there then,’ said Jimmy.
‘Maybe not, but he’s always kept an eye on me since Tom died.’
The tragedy was the loss of David, Ada’s young cousin, who cycling home late one night when winter ice lay thick across the hill, had skidded and fallen. His injury itself had not been severe, nothing more than a broken ankle, but none other was to pass that way during the night, and long before anyone was moving the following morning young David had frozen to death.
There were of course many happy times to be recalled, but as always it was the tragedies that left their mark on her visitors.
Unsurprisingly, as they had turned from tea to parsnip wine following the sensational discovery in the book, more than three hours had slipped away before they set off down the hill for home. Despite the excitement of the book’s discovery, the dying light of day and the thought of youth and life lost by war or accident had left them all in a reflective mood, Jack in particular.
‘Strange isn’t it how we can be so affected by the faraway deaths of those we have never even known. I felt like that when I read Tom’s few words about William’s death. Do you know that Hardy poem Drummer Hodge Jim?’
‘No Jack; can’t say that I do. Remember, you’re the man of letters. I’m just a pragmatic revolutionary and man of action.’
‘You’re a soulless bugger too, but I’m not deterred. Borrow my book some time and read it. Fine piece: only a few stanzas on poor young Hodge dead and buried on an African kopje to spend eternity under an alien sky. Can’t remember the exact lines, but there’s a bit about Hodge becoming part of that unknown plain and growing to become some Southern tree. A few years and a war later Brooke had much the same idea with his “foreign field” piece. Prefer the Hardy though — not so self-indulgent.’
‘Now you’ve got that out of your system, can we get home please, open a bottle and get stuck into a cold collation,’ said Kate.
‘God, you’re two of a kind. Bloody philistines.’
A specialist identified and Ada’s letter sent, there was little more than a week’s delay before a reply was received. There was great interest, they learned, and it would be the writer’s pleasure to examine the book and signature if they would telephone him for an appointment to call as soon as it was convenient.
Contrary to Jimmy’s expectations, both of Ada’s sons had shown themselves to be not only willing, but eager to carry the book to London. In fact having seen and heard so much about London in the swinging sixties they went right away, and allowed themselves three nights to explore its delights.
On the Saturday evening following their departure Jack answered a knock at the door to find the two of them fairly bursting in their eagerness to be
Ada was quite happy with that, and the rest of their time together was spent, without all that much encouragement being needed from her visitors, in listening to Ada reminiscing about her childhood and early married life on the hill. And always it was the hill’s isolation in those early days that was the underlying theme. It forced on them a self-sufficiency and spirit of mutual support and cooperation that was being lost elsewhere, and in winter in particular it brought with it a fair share of emergencies and tragedies.
Ada, newly pregnant herself for the first time, had been called on to assist when heavy snowfalls had prevented either doctor or midwife getting to the village, and Albert, the current publican, was showing a distinct unwillingness to assume a personal existence independent of his mother’s womb.
‘But we got him out in the end,’ said Ada, ‘although he did look a sight. All blotched, scratched and ugly.’
‘Not much change there then,’ said Jimmy.
‘Maybe not, but he’s always kept an eye on me since Tom died.’
The tragedy was the loss of David, Ada’s young cousin, who cycling home late one night when winter ice lay thick across the hill, had skidded and fallen. His injury itself had not been severe, nothing more than a broken ankle, but none other was to pass that way during the night, and long before anyone was moving the following morning young David had frozen to death.
There were of course many happy times to be recalled, but as always it was the tragedies that left their mark on her visitors.
Unsurprisingly, as they had turned from tea to parsnip wine following the sensational discovery in the book, more than three hours had slipped away before they set off down the hill for home. Despite the excitement of the book’s discovery, the dying light of day and the thought of youth and life lost by war or accident had left them all in a reflective mood, Jack in particular.
‘Strange isn’t it how we can be so affected by the faraway deaths of those we have never even known. I felt like that when I read Tom’s few words about William’s death. Do you know that Hardy poem Drummer Hodge Jim?’
‘No Jack; can’t say that I do. Remember, you’re the man of letters. I’m just a pragmatic revolutionary and man of action.’
‘You’re a soulless bugger too, but I’m not deterred. Borrow my book some time and read it. Fine piece: only a few stanzas on poor young Hodge dead and buried on an African kopje to spend eternity under an alien sky. Can’t remember the exact lines, but there’s a bit about Hodge becoming part of that unknown plain and growing to become some Southern tree. A few years and a war later Brooke had much the same idea with his “foreign field” piece. Prefer the Hardy though — not so self-indulgent.’
‘Now you’ve got that out of your system, can we get home please, open a bottle and get stuck into a cold collation,’ said Kate.
‘God, you’re two of a kind. Bloody philistines.’
A specialist identified and Ada’s letter sent, there was little more than a week’s delay before a reply was received. There was great interest, they learned, and it would be the writer’s pleasure to examine the book and signature if they would telephone him for an appointment to call as soon as it was convenient.
Contrary to Jimmy’s expectations, both of Ada’s sons had shown themselves to be not only willing, but eager to carry the book to London. In fact having seen and heard so much about London in the swinging sixties they went right away, and allowed themselves three nights to explore its delights.
On the Saturday evening following their departure Jack answered a knock at the door to find the two of them fairly bursting in their eagerness to be
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