“Thorn Cottage & the Police”

December of nineteen fifty brought another snow less winter. Jack Frost tapped upon the panes of our windows and etched leaf like patterns upon the glass.This would soon be melted away by the bright early morning sun, and small puddles of water would form on the internal window sills the only hint of the previous night’s frost.

Hunkered into the hillside, against the gusting northerly winds the cottage remained unyielding to the seasonal onslaught. The surrounding moorland took on a lifeless appearance with bracken strewn about the landscape. Devoid of fodder, cattle, sheep, and wild ponies sought shelter among the abandoned mine workings. For the grazing animals this was a period of fasting until new growth appear in spring.

Climbing into our beds at nights took considerable resolve. Gingerly, I’d slide between the stiff starched cold cotton sheets, as the sudden shock sent shivers up and down the body.
Fathers Second World War army great coat acted as a top cover for my bed. Given time my body would generate sufficient warmth to overcome the coldness and eventually the bed would become warm and cosy.

Nightly, I was now permitted to read by candlelight a few pages of my book ‘Pinocchio’ The flickering yellow flame of the candle would cast eerie shadows across the white washed walls and ceilings. Having read a chapter or two, I would blow out the flame since I was restricted to one candle a week for my reading.

Early in the mornings beads of condensation would trickle down the thick granite walls of the two heatless bedrooms, causing the rooms to feel damp and a little musty.

Fordson Standard Tractor

By the beginning of January the frost had disappeared.  Mr. S (our new landlord) Had for some strange reason sold the Ransom Crawler Tractor and purchased a second hand rusting green steel wheeled Fordson Standard tractor as a substitute. He was thought as slightly touched with insanity locally as the sloping fields of the farmland he intended to work were unsuitable for this type of machine.

Green buds were forming on branches of the ash trees down the lane, a sure sign that spring was about to arrive.

School days were going well for both my classmates and me. Our head master (Tom. D) practiced a philosophy of reward for good behaviour, so most Fridays (If we had been well behaved throughout the week) during the last teaching period his pupils were treated to a reading of Wind in the Willows.  With white flecks of spittle chased across his lips he brought the books characters alive, and for an hour the class would become silent and captivated by the activities of Toad and his friends. Tom. D was an accomplished reader.

It was on such a Friday whilst making my way up the lane after school that I noticed a Kestrel Hawk on the ground huddled against the lane hedge. One of its wings looked so damaged that I thought it may have been broken; most likely it had been diving for a kill and collided with one of the branches of the many trees that formed a canopy over the lane.

Taking a handkerchief from my trousers pocket I carefully placed it over the bird’s head which had an effect of calming it. Tucking the bird under my arm, I headed home, determined to do my best to administer an adequate amount of treatment to patch up the damaged wing, and maybe impress my mates with the fact that I now owned a pet Hawk that I was teaching to hunt for me!

When I entered the kitchen Mother was standing at the table preparing tea. Becoming aware that I was carrying something under my arm, she said “What have you got there”? At the same time she made a grab for the bundle wrapped in the handkerchief.

Within a split second Mother was shrieking with alarm. The Hawk having sunk a few of its talons into her hand, was now flapping around the kitchen, seeking whatever shelter it could find.

Dripping blood fell from mothers hand onto the tiles of the black Welsh slate floor. Her face became an embodiment of sheer panic; she headed for the stairs seeking sanctuary from the mayhem.

The commotion became simply too much for Digger the terrier, who until this time had been sleeping peacefully by the front door.

The dog now ran about the room, leaping and yapping at a cluster of descending feathers that were now floating down on the plated meals set out on the kitchen table.  Squawks, squeals, barks and cries of alarm filled the air for several minutes.

During the pandemonium, Mother somehow managed to compose herself enough to regain sufficient self-control, and with as much dignity as she could muster, the Kestrel was ushered out of the front door and onto the garden.

She did not ask why I had brought the bird into the house, but sent me straight to bed tea-less as punishment. What became of the bird I have no idea.

During spring, water from the higher ground of Down Hill Farm would form small rivulets and pour down the lane sweeping away debris of slippery moss and other lichen which covered the floor of the lane during the wet winter months.  Amongst the now cleansed granite chippings nuggets of fool’s gold would glint in the early morning sun.

Revitalized after the winters break the young shoots of Primrose and Foxglove re-emerged along with other hedgerow foliage. The new growth providing safe haven for a variety of insect life along with slugs and snails.

Hedge Sparrows were now diligently chirping courtship mantras in order to attract a mate. Cock Wood Pigeons strutted along tree branches as they searched for the nearest hen available.

Magpies chattered and swaggered about full of self importance, causing havoc amongst the nearby feathered community. On occasions red squirrels could be seen running up and down tree trunks playing ‘catch me if you can’.

Over the past few months the unexpected death of Pauline at Thorn Cottage seemed to affect me considerably. Try as I may I just could not get her out of my mind. It may have been just a ten year old’s boyish crush. Mentally I could still see her gorgeous face resting on pillow of the bed as she lay sick and dying.  Had she really died, or had she got fed up with me for some reason?

Needing to put my mind at rest I became determined to get to the bottom of the matter. When passing Thorn Cottage on the way home from school one afternoon, I decided to try to get into the house to find out if I had upset Pauline in anyway, the doors to the cottage were locked. However the rear of the cottage backed onto the hedge of the lane. Noticing the bathroom window was slightly open I climbed onto the hedge, slipping my hand through the windows opening I slipped the catch off and opened the window fully so I could climb into the cottage.

Once inside the silence of the house seemed unnatural and was beginning to unnerve me. Silently I crossed the upper landing and entered Pauline’s bedroom. The neatly made up bed was empty, the chair that I used to sit upon was still there, right next to her bed. Running my hand over the pillow I asked myself why she had to die.  On her bedside table was a notepad. Childishly I decided to write her a letter as soon as I could and picking up the pad I left the cottage through the window I had entered by.

The following day I wrote a short letter to Pauline telling her how much I missed her. It was all very childlike.  I placed the letter under a stone in the hedge near the cottage and then went out over the top railway line to Caradon moors to think about things.

On the way home for tea I came across a man who stopped me and asked if I had been into Thorn Cottage the day previously. Not knowing who he was I said I had. With that he told me he was a detective from Liskeard Police Station and was investigating a burglary at the cottage.

Two months later I appeared before the Magistrates at Liskeard Magistrates Court. Being a juvenile my Father had to appear with me.  My legs trembled with fear as the Magistrate berated me for some minutes; Father standing next to me looked totally embarrassed and humiliated. Having been told I had disgraced my family I was fined five shillings and had to pay court costs of half a crown.

No one asked me why I had decided to go into the cottage, nor did I volunteer the information. As punishment Mother and Father informed me that I was not allowed out to play for three weeks, and I was sent to bed at five thirty immediately after the evening meal.

The Sunday morning following my three week grounding, knowing I’d be in for a roasting from the Methodist Minister at the Darite, I decided to go to the Wesleyan Chapel down at Crowsnest. On entering the chapel most of the congregation stared at me as if I had caught some kind of deadly plague, when in truth they were only looking at a ten year old convicted criminal.
Half way through the service the heftily built wife of Butcher Daw came around with the collecting plate, and feeling rather ashamed of my recent court appearance I decided to donate all of the pocket money that had been saved during previous weeks. Slipping my hand into my trouser pocket I took out a half a crown piece (twelve and half pence) and placed it on the plate. Mrs Daw, with her free hand promptly gave me a stinging slap on the side of my head and said.

“God cannot be bought with money”

She kept the half a crown piece, and continued collecting money from the rest of the congregation.
I never went to Crowsnest Chapel again.

To be continued…