My Aunt Mabel and
Uncle Arthur lived in a tied cottage on Tregantle farm near Torpoint Cornwall.
Aunt Mabel, as I always called her, was my mother’s cousin so not really my
aunt and of course Arthur Lobb, her husband, could hardly be called a relation
at all, yet he remains one of the dearest and gentlest of men that I have
known. My mother thought a great deal of him and now, when I look back, I
wonder if there was a little more than just affection between them, whether at
one time they suppressed their love for one another, as many did in those days
because of circumstances and loyalty to others.
In this photograph of my mother’s wedding,
Arthur stands behind her tall and handsome. I wonder what he is thinking? I
have no idea if Arthur and Mabel were married then or still courting; she sits
third from the left sporting a wonderful hat and a huge bouquet of flowers. She
was more like a sister to my mother and sweetly petite.
My father had met my mother in Devonport
during the First World War when he was billeted there before he went to France
and fought in the Somme and Passchendaele. They corresponded throughout the
war, as much as they were allowed to in those times. There is so much in this
photograph for me, so much left unsaid, so much forever a mystery.
I am sure that my mother and father were
perfectly happy; they like many of that generation stuck together through thick
and thin; there was certainly plenty of that in their life. Certainly they were
loyal to each other to the very end and after my father died my mother’s life
seemed to lose all its sparkle as if a light had gone out of it.
Uncle Arthur and Aunt Mabel never had any
children. I sensed that he, himself would have loved children of his own,
because he showed so much love for myself and my brothers and sister.
He had the typical rolling gait of a
countryman. I realise now, how little I know about him, other than that he was
gentle, kind, had a wonderful sense of humour; that he loved golf and during
the time that he was a greenkeeper at Crafthole Golf Club he won many cups; I
still have one now that I treasure. What I do
know of him though is infinitely more important than the unknown; that
he filled me with happiness whenever I was with him; that I owe so very much to
him; that he touched my life in no small way.
I can still picture him walking up the lane towards the beach, an old
black kettle hung on a stick over his shoulder. I would slip my arm through his,
as we made our way, as a family to the beach.
Often outside the cottage in the lane he would fetch an old tin and we
would play cricket, his heavy studded boots skidding as he ran to fetch the
ball. Sometimes the ball went over the tall hedge and disturbed the chickens
laying their eggs in the field. We knew exactly where each nest was and were
able to collect the eggs sometimes easing a broody old hen off her clutch to
much protesting. On a Sunday we would go with him and call in on Bill Sparks,
who worked in Devonport Dockyard, and go hunting for rabbits, with Bill’s
ferrets but first we would sit in the kitchen by the stove with Bill’s mother
and have a cup of tea, a dark cosy place.
One day a gypsy family with horse and wagon arrived on the field behind
Bill’s cottage and I was made aware of a dark beautiful girl of my own age. We
must have made conversation of some sort and walked together, although I have
no memory of what we may have said to each other; probably very little for we
were both shy. She waited for me outside
the cottage many times, which gave Uncle Arthur much fun in pulling me leg.
You might say that it was my 'Cider with Rosie moment'. One day she was
gone, as her parents moved on, and I was left wondering; perhaps it was just as
well!
Those days will stay with me for ever. How lucky I was!
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