Early morning, early summer, the sun rises over the village on a perfect Englishday.
Bobby opens up the garage while up the road Miss Bloomfield in the Post Office drinks her first tea of the day, dusts the shelves in the tiny lean-to shop, polishes the jars of jelly babies and dolly mixtures, farthing a bag, bull’s-eyes, 1/2d. a half-a-dozen.
Mr. Kersey the postman comes up the wooden-edged steps, brushing the pretty betsy with navy-blue red- striped trousers, flat cap on head, whistling. Wilfred cycles up to Low Farm next door, cigarette clamped on lip. “Morning Joe, that fair to be a nice day”. “Morning, Wilf, that sartinly dew”.
Pigeons coo in Fishpond Lane, tench stir to snap at gnats, mallard glide on the pond. Cows strew the cricket meadow with pancakes and magpies quarrel under the oak tree. William passes on his way to tend his rose garden at Rivers Hall, where Major Glossop hurrumphs at the moles and Hughie polishes the Austin.
Ellis Parken hups the cows out of the yard at Dairy Farm while George climbs on the Massey Ferguson in the barn. Over the lane Mrs. Frost stands at her cottage door and admires the scarlet runners and hears Ellis, black patch over his eye and mustard-gassed lungs, clattering milk pans.
Lizzie Thompson carries a bucket out for the chickens scrabbling in the orchard, “chook-chook-chook” while George trundles his wheelbarrow. Dog-roses in the hedges, sweethearts and cowp arsley lead to Mrs. Frost’s. She is making Camp Coffee in the back room, sorting out the broken biscuits.
Round the corner of Sandy Lane, down the hill past the cottages where the roses bloom and the broad beans flourish, to the smell of freshly baked bread from Spurgeon’s. Old Mrs. Spurgeon stands outside in her apron and flat cap, greets a customer. “Morning, Mrs. Spall”. “Morning Mrs. Spurgeon”.
Past the cement cottages and more roses, Brook Cottage, Deben Vale, periwinkle and lavendar, to the Maybush, quiet before the morning opening. Jimmy pulls his dinghy over the pebbles, and the water sparkles in the sunlight on the Deben. Beauty enough to make you cry in times to come.
Just over a year later, the Second World War began.
