Fifty Years Ago: Monday, 26th July 1976
(Appleby Castle, Cumbria — Age 14.9)
I pulled the boat into the boathouse and cleaned it.
The boat was a wooden-and-canvas Canadian canoe that we kept in the Victorian boathouse by the River Eden. The boathouse stood at the foot of the steep bank below the rear of the castle, and was reached by a set of equally steep stone steps. It was tucked against the river looking across to a meadow and a low cliff face of red sandstone. I can still remember the smell of the place: mud, wet wood, stale sand and river water. When the Eden was high, silt would swirl through the building and settle over everything. No matter how often you dif it out, it quickly filled again. A few storms later and the entire stone building was picked out of its foundations and washed away down the river and across the meadow.
We had a platform to place the canoe on. Dad had somebody make a couple of wooden trestles, and I lifted the canoe onto them after use. I also tethered it with rope in case the river rose while I wasn’t around. The Eden could change character surprisingly quickly. One day it would be calm and inviting, the next it could be pushing towards the roof of the boathouse.
There was something satisfying about looking after the canoe. In an odd way it felt like having a car in a garage. If the River Eden was the highway then it did indeed give me access to a couple of miles of river. Manhandling it onto the trestles, securing it with rope and cleaning it gave me a sense of responsibility that I enjoyed.
Dad went to Newcastle.
His absence hardly changed anything. In truth, Dad was often absent even when he was physically present. He was deeply committed to the work of FIH and spent much of his time travelling, not just to Newcastle but all over the country: Northern Ireland, Manchester, the Midlands and London. And when at home he’d as likely be out in the grounds dreaming up more enclosures.
We had no stepmother at the time, but meals appeared from the castle kitchen as if by magic, and the castle staff made sure the apartment was cleaned and kept running. My siblings and I did our own laundry (or took home to Gosforth for mum to do). The washing machines were housed in one of the medieval towers of the first floor landing. Behind the washing machine and dryer there are steep spiralling stone steps to the top of the tower, with views across the gatehouse, the drive and the town beyond. A spot where the ghost of Lady Anne Clifford, the castle’s most famous resident, was supposed to sit and watch the ages go by. Even routine chores felt surreal when carried out inside a twelfth-century castle.
Had we wanted to know where Dad was, we would have had to ask his personal assistant, Mrs Elsie Hare. She kept his diary and she knew his movements better than we did.
Lunch was cooked by Mabel the castle cook. Mabel had spent most of her life in domestic service. She had cooked for the Lowthers, then for the Thanets, and then for the successive owners of Appleby Castle. By the time I knew her she was in her sixties and seemed to be part of the castle.
She was kind, hardworking and endlessly patient. There was a warmth about her that balanced some of the formality that still lingered in a place like Appleby Castle. I cannot remember what she cooked that day, she was preparing lunch for all the senior staff who dined in the refectory each weekday: around six to eight people – finance director, company secretary, accountants and management training director.
I watched the Montreal Olympics. Like millions of others, I had become absorbed by them. I watched Nadia Comăneci whenever I could. Everybody seemed to be talking about her. There was something astonishing about seeing someone my own age who perform with such perfection and confidence. At fourteen, I was old enough to recognise excellence but young enough to believe extraordinary things might still be possible.
I watched the British competitors too, in almost every event that appeared on screen. Swimming, athletics, rowing, whatever happened to be on. Being a swimmer myself, I followed the aquatic events closely, but during the Olympics national loyalties extended to almost anything involving a Union Jack.
I drank McEwan’s with lemonade. Nobody thought much of it. The occasional can was considered harmless enough. Looking back, what seems more remarkable is that the castle cellars were full of beer, wines and spirits. The wine was strictly off limits. Dad’s collection was one of the few things that carried an almost sacred status. Sometimes he would take guests down into the cellar and explain particular bottles and vintages with obvious pride. The collection represented knowledge, patience and expense. Even as teenagers we understood that crossing that line would bring consequences.
I watched the Olympics until about 1.00 a.m. The late-night coverage made the whole thing feel even more exciting, as though I was somehow staying awake with the rest of the world.
My older brother worked on his motorbike. That was interesting because he was not actually allowed to own one. Dad regarded motorbikes as dangerous and disapproved strongly. My brother therefore kept his machine hidden somewhere on the estate. I don’t remember exactly where. Appleby Castle had enough forgotten corners for a motorbike to disappear quite successfully. Dad eventually solved the problem in a very practical way. About a year later he helped my brother get a car instead.
Trevor is not coming as often as before. Fifty years later I cannot place him. Was he the son of somebody who worked on the estate? A local boy? Someone who came to the castle regularly? The name stirs no memory at all.
There was a boy around my age whom I befriended by the river. He taught me how to tickle trout, sliding a hand beneath the fish and lifting it from the water. Dad, being a dedicated fly fisherman, was distinctly unimpressed by this method of catching fish. Whether that boy was Trevor I simply do not know.
Yet the fact remains that I wrote his name down. A name suspended in time. A missing figure standing somewhere beyond the edge of memory, waiting for a photograph, a conversation or an accidental clue to bring him back into focus
Leave a Reply