OUR DINING ROOM
A room. Just an ordinary room. The family always call it “the dining room”. It’s not big. Taking up much of the space, there is a sideboard and a dining table with four chairs around it; a fifth chair stands apart and alone, under a corner cupboard. The house it is in is modern, but somehow, much earlier in the twelve years of its life, this room has acquired a ceiling of oak beams and a plate shelf high up on three walls and simulated leaded light windows in the bay window. The room looks old, just like the oak sideboard and the table and the wheelback chairs. But none of them is, really. It's all a bit of an illusion. In recent years and with changing circumstances the room has become rather more than just an ordinary dining room. It is the very heart and soul of the house. And now, at this time of the day, nothing much is happening in it.
There is a fire in the grate, and in the garden beyond the window, it is growing dark, for it is late on a winter’s afternoon. The fire hisses and smokes furiously; it has been banked up with a shovelful of slack so that the house will have its evening’s supply of hot water. The odd small puff of smoke escapes into the room where for a few moments it overwhelms the faint aroma of beeswax and last night’s tobacco. Later in the evening better coal in larger lumps will be put on, the fire will explode into life and suffuse the room with warmth and comfort. And a seven-year-old boy will be able to lie on the soft woollen hearthrug with his chin in his hands and gaze into the glowing coals and see wonderful caverns and passageways opening up, with flames of red and orange and purple within, spitting and sizzling, flaring and fading. But not yet.
On the dining table lie a schoolgirl’s exercise books ready for homework; a child’s board game; a pile of socks for darning; a bottle of ink and a dip-in pen beside an airmail letter pad. And a folded-up tablecloth and a pile of tablemats, ready to be spread out. Two large and comfortable armchairs in brown leather have squeezed themselves in on each side of the grey tiled fireplace. Between these identical chairs, each with its matching soft and velvety cushion, various ornaments sit on the wooden mantelpiece: one or two brass figures, all newly polished; a tiny mounted cannon whose cast lead barrel could well have been home-made, a pipe-rack which if touched leaves the smell of stale tar on the fingers. One of the polished figures is a splendid Tudor gentleman in doublet and hose and a magnificent hat. He stands there, full of pride and nobility, leaning back, one arm outstretched and the other perched on his waist. One day the teenaged daughter of the house will be inspired to roll up a one-penny Midland Red bus ticket. The ticket is white and has black printing on it. She inserts it into the crook of the arm. "There," she says, "Now he's selling the Birmingham Mail". Her young brother is so impressed with this wonderful joke that the next time he himself has a ticket, he does the same. Like with the first one, it mysteriously disappears after a day or two. He repeats the exercise. And again. And then again. Nothing is ever said. The mother is a very patient woman.
On a small table beside the left-hand chair lie a favourite pipe, a pack of Gold Flake, a Home Guard training manual, an atlas of Europe and on top of that a letter written on flimsy paper, opened but not yet examined with due care. A stranger looking at this letter - or, more important, the army censor through whose mittened hands it will have passed, somewhere in the wintry Italian countryside - would just see: “Hello Mother and Dad, Hope all is OK. I’m fine but a bit fed up with days of rain. We’re camped at the moment in thick mud in an olive grove …” But that stranger would not discover, just from a careless reading, precisely where, on that long, murderous road stretching far to the north, past Cassino, to Rome and beyond, the muddy olive grove is located. But after a few moments of careful reading and one or two jottings down and a reference to the atlas, the father will know where it is and where his boy was at that moment of writing and he will tell the mother and their other two children. Perhaps, in a few weeks time, another letter will come. Another ruined village. Another month survived. Another smile of relief secretly exchanged. But not yet.
Within easy reach beyond the chair, against the wall, is the large wooden wireless set, an American Zenith with a glowing dial and now the main source of entertainment and information for the family: music, plays, the comedy of ITMA (Can I do you now, sir?). And above all news - news from the BBC with Alvar Liddell reading it. News of the RAF and the latest bombing raid on the Ruhr, news from Italy and Frank Gillard, from the Pacific, from Russia along the River Don. Even, if you really want it although the family doesn't, news of a sort from Lord Haw-Haw in Hamburg. But the wireless is not yet switched on. Not yet.
By the side of the other easy chair, there is a large bookcase against the wall. It looks antique and its oak is highly polished. But perhaps it too, like the little cannon and the ancient beams, is home-made, and not very long ago - probably at the time when the family moved in. And it's probably designed to fit into that very alcove. On its shelves are a complete set of Dickens, "Eothen" by Alexander William Kinglake - awarded as a Prize for Physics from King Edward's, New Street in the summer of 1912. And "A History of the Great War", "Practical Woodworking Yearbook 1935", a newish paperback, "Gardening in Wartime". In the corner behind this chair and looking down on it stands a tall, walnut grandfather clock. In fact it is Grandfather’s clock. It has stood here for over three years, ever since it and its master were bombed out of their Handsworth home. It has survived its ordeal but the grandfather has not. The old clock ticks on, quietly resolute and comforting, as it has done for over a century already. Today it stands guardian over an area of wood-stained and polished floorboard at its foot, between the skirting board and the edge of the carpet. It is not a big area, but it is large enough for two children to fit into in times of particular danger and is now occupied by two neatly folded sleeping bags. So far this winter they have not been needed. Not yet.
It is nearly dark. The fire is spluttering into life and the clock is chiming five. It is time to shut out a cold and threatening world: to put up the crude blackout frames in the bay windows, draw the curtains, switch on the light, lay the table for supper, prepare for the evening. The room is ready. And beyond this approaching evening, and beyond unknown hundreds more evenings just like it in the future, perhaps one day, by the grace of God, the sleeping bags will return to the loft, the ugly blackout frames will be broken up, the room in this modest 1930s house will become, as it was before, just an ordinary dining room. And all five chairs will be back around the table.
But not yet. Not yet.
A room. Just an ordinary room. The family always call it “the dining room”. It’s not big. Taking up much of the space, there is a sideboard and a dining table with four chairs around it; a fifth chair stands apart and alone, under a corner cupboard. The house it is in is modern, but somehow, much earlier in the twelve years of its life, this room has acquired a ceiling of oak beams and a plate shelf high up on three walls and simulated leaded light windows in the bay window. The room looks old, just like the oak sideboard and the table and the wheelback chairs. But none of them is, really. It's all a bit of an illusion. In recent years and with changing circumstances the room has become rather more than just an ordinary dining room. It is the very heart and soul of the house. And now, at this time of the day, nothing much is happening in it.
There is a fire in the grate, and in the garden beyond the window, it is growing dark, for it is late on a winter’s afternoon. The fire hisses and smokes furiously; it has been banked up with a shovelful of slack so that the house will have its evening’s supply of hot water. The odd small puff of smoke escapes into the room where for a few moments it overwhelms the faint aroma of beeswax and last night’s tobacco. Later in the evening better coal in larger lumps will be put on, the fire will explode into life and suffuse the room with warmth and comfort. And a seven-year-old boy will be able to lie on the soft woollen hearthrug with his chin in his hands and gaze into the glowing coals and see wonderful caverns and passageways opening up, with flames of red and orange and purple within, spitting and sizzling, flaring and fading. But not yet.
On the dining table lie a schoolgirl’s exercise books ready for homework; a child’s board game; a pile of socks for darning; a bottle of ink and a dip-in pen beside an airmail letter pad. And a folded-up tablecloth and a pile of tablemats, ready to be spread out. Two large and comfortable armchairs in brown leather have squeezed themselves in on each side of the grey tiled fireplace. Between these identical chairs, each with its matching soft and velvety cushion, various ornaments sit on the wooden mantelpiece: one or two brass figures, all newly polished; a tiny mounted cannon whose cast lead barrel could well have been home-made, a pipe-rack which if touched leaves the smell of stale tar on the fingers. One of the polished figures is a splendid Tudor gentleman in doublet and hose and a magnificent hat. He stands there, full of pride and nobility, leaning back, one arm outstretched and the other perched on his waist. One day the teenaged daughter of the house will be inspired to roll up a one-penny Midland Red bus ticket. The ticket is white and has black printing on it. She inserts it into the crook of the arm. "There," she says, "Now he's selling the Birmingham Mail". Her young brother is so impressed with this wonderful joke that the next time he himself has a ticket, he does the same. Like with the first one, it mysteriously disappears after a day or two. He repeats the exercise. And again. And then again. Nothing is ever said. The mother is a very patient woman.
On a small table beside the left-hand chair lie a favourite pipe, a pack of Gold Flake, a Home Guard training manual, an atlas of Europe and on top of that a letter written on flimsy paper, opened but not yet examined with due care. A stranger looking at this letter - or, more important, the army censor through whose mittened hands it will have passed, somewhere in the wintry Italian countryside - would just see: “Hello Mother and Dad, Hope all is OK. I’m fine but a bit fed up with days of rain. We’re camped at the moment in thick mud in an olive grove …” But that stranger would not discover, just from a careless reading, precisely where, on that long, murderous road stretching far to the north, past Cassino, to Rome and beyond, the muddy olive grove is located. But after a few moments of careful reading and one or two jottings down and a reference to the atlas, the father will know where it is and where his boy was at that moment of writing and he will tell the mother and their other two children. Perhaps, in a few weeks time, another letter will come. Another ruined village. Another month survived. Another smile of relief secretly exchanged. But not yet.
Within easy reach beyond the chair, against the wall, is the large wooden wireless set, an American Zenith with a glowing dial and now the main source of entertainment and information for the family: music, plays, the comedy of ITMA (Can I do you now, sir?). And above all news - news from the BBC with Alvar Liddell reading it. News of the RAF and the latest bombing raid on the Ruhr, news from Italy and Frank Gillard, from the Pacific, from Russia along the River Don. Even, if you really want it although the family doesn't, news of a sort from Lord Haw-Haw in Hamburg. But the wireless is not yet switched on. Not yet.
By the side of the other easy chair, there is a large bookcase against the wall. It looks antique and its oak is highly polished. But perhaps it too, like the little cannon and the ancient beams, is home-made, and not very long ago - probably at the time when the family moved in. And it's probably designed to fit into that very alcove. On its shelves are a complete set of Dickens, "Eothen" by Alexander William Kinglake - awarded as a Prize for Physics from King Edward's, New Street in the summer of 1912. And "A History of the Great War", "Practical Woodworking Yearbook 1935", a newish paperback, "Gardening in Wartime". In the corner behind this chair and looking down on it stands a tall, walnut grandfather clock. In fact it is Grandfather’s clock. It has stood here for over three years, ever since it and its master were bombed out of their Handsworth home. It has survived its ordeal but the grandfather has not. The old clock ticks on, quietly resolute and comforting, as it has done for over a century already. Today it stands guardian over an area of wood-stained and polished floorboard at its foot, between the skirting board and the edge of the carpet. It is not a big area, but it is large enough for two children to fit into in times of particular danger and is now occupied by two neatly folded sleeping bags. So far this winter they have not been needed. Not yet.
It is nearly dark. The fire is spluttering into life and the clock is chiming five. It is time to shut out a cold and threatening world: to put up the crude blackout frames in the bay windows, draw the curtains, switch on the light, lay the table for supper, prepare for the evening. The room is ready. And beyond this approaching evening, and beyond unknown hundreds more evenings just like it in the future, perhaps one day, by the grace of God, the sleeping bags will return to the loft, the ugly blackout frames will be broken up, the room in this modest 1930s house will become, as it was before, just an ordinary dining room. And all five chairs will be back around the table.
But not yet. Not yet.
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