One of the scenes that I retain of my time in the village where I lived as a boy holds a mystery. It's not a deep mystery but it's one which an inquisitive mind such as mine finds rising to the surface from time to time, to ponder on, tease at and enjoy with a sense of wistfulness.
My mate Kenny lived round the corner and had the same cheeky grin as me, according to my big sister. We generally went to school and came home together, passing the big stone house on the corner. On a rise opposite the house stood the village church and graveyard, covered with trees in the kind of picturesque setting you see on postcards. A road passed below the church with a smaller side road heading off deeper into the countryside.
Each day as we passed the house my eyes were drawn to the large window facing on to the street. The largest section in the centre was unusual because it had a circle of glass with four round holes cut into it. It was some time before I figured out the circle could be turned to match up with holes cut into the window glass, providing ventilation.
Sometimes, behind that window, I saw the shadowy figure of a woman. Kenny and I wanted to know more about this lady, so we asked around. Grown-ups who heard our questions told us to, 'Mind your own business, ya cheeky monkeys,' or, 'Keep your nose to yourselves'. Then someone added, 'Curiosity killed the cat,' which didn't make any sense at all to me. It all became quite frustrating and in the end we made up stories about who the woman might be. Betty, the tall girl who was in our class and had a sniff, said she knew something but we had to give her half of our lunch before she'd tell us. When she said the lady was a refugee from Russia, we didn't believe her and burst out laughing.
Then a few days later, Freda Nuttall, the plump lady with tiny pink spots on her skin just below each eye and who owned the small shop in the centre of the street, started talking about the White Russian lady to Mrs Yates who took in washing. We pretended to be glancing through some comics and heard Freda say that the lady might be connected to Russian royalty. 'I’ve seen her,' she said, 'wearing fur-lined boots, a long flowing dress and a tiara in her hair, when she'd taken some groceries round. And ordinary people don't wear tiaras do they?'
That's when Freda caught Kenny and I shaking our heads in agreement. She stamped her foot and growled us out of the shop, with, 'Ee look at those two eavesdropping. Go on, clear off ya nosy beggars,' closing the door after us before we could hear any more. I don't know why grown-ups insisted on keeping such interesting stuff about people to themselves. For days after that, Kenny and I made up stories about the lady which became more and more fanciful. As for eavesdropping, neither of us knew what Freda was on about.
My days were filled with activities involving Kenny or other mates, but each time we walked to school my mind would switch to wondering about the lady behind that window. It didn't stop when our family moved away. Kenny and I met occasionally and one time he told me he had some news about the lady. He said his big sister had been out with her boyfriend, looking at the headstones in the graveyard. He gave a big wink when he said that. I didn't know why then. He was streets ahead of me when it came to knowing things boys weren't supposed to know. They'd seen a horse and cart come down the road and stop outside the rear entrance to the old stone house. As the man driving the cart got down they'd seen this women come roaring down the path, shouting angrily and shaking her fist in the man's face. It was difficult to make out what she was saying but according to the boy friend, she was no Russian. He recognised the accent; she was from Wales. My little world fell flat then, until I remembered Kenny didn't have a sister.
I wasn't angry with him for having me on. It was one of the things I liked about him but I was very relieved because it left me with the mystery you see. One day I intend to go to the Public Records Office and look up the Census Roll. I've got this theory about Anastasia…
Dennis Crompton © 1999
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)
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