Stromness Dragon

The flagstones were unforgiving beneath Olivia’s knees. Her hands were raw and her nails had cracked and flaked. The bristles on the brush, already worn when she had arrived at the convent the year before, were threadbare and ineffectual, and her cold fingers caught painfully under the wooden handle. The soap was as hard and shiny as a stone and yielded no lather despite her vigorous scrubbing. She was exhausted.

There had been an air raid the night before and she had heard the bombers overhead as she scrambled for the cellar. In the panic to get down the steps, a cloaked figure had pushed Olivia hard in the small of her back, causing her to lose her balance and stumble down the last few stairs. In the semi-dark, several arms had reached out to support her.

The cellar had held wine during the Middle Ages, but now lay empty. It was dry and cold and the walls were lined with rotten shelving which the nuns broke up and used to make small fires. The smoke made the atmosphere even more claustrophobic. In the feeble light, Olivia had counted over thirty shapes, which meant there was probably no-one left above in the convent except the bed-bound and Sister Anna, who refused to leave her sick charges.

She had found herself pressed into a corner with Sara, who had grabbed her arm and whispered ‘What were you doing in the kitchen?’ Olivia had the urge to tell Sara the truth – it would be a relief to share the excitement, and the burden. ‘I…’ she stopped and looked at Sara’s eager face. The girl looked so young. Could she trust her? Their friendship, such as it was, rested on the perpetuation of deceit. They had helped one another out, and had worked side by side hoeing turnips, but no real confidences had been exchanged. Olivia knew nothing about why Sara was a convent novice – from her observations she was not at all convinced that there was a vocation at work.

Once a nun took holy orders in a contemplative order her old life was finished – she was reborn in Christ and had little contact with the outside world, stepping away from family, friends, lovers, even children. Novices had several years of preparation, and many left the convent before they adopted the habit permanently. Sara had let slip that she had two older brothers, both in the army. There was also a hint of some misdemeanour in her past, something that had hurried along her entry into the convent, if not actually prompted it. Olivia sensed a strong personality in Sara, but an immature and wayward one, too.

‘I was helping a friend,’ she had said, opting for the half-truth. And that friend, she had thought, with a frustrated thrill, was lying in her bed. Her moment of warmth with Jonathan had barely begun before the sirens sounded and she had to run for the shelter. Jonathan had remained in bed, tired but alert, flexing his bound hand and smiling at Olivia as she cursed and threw on as many clothes as possible. ‘Hey,’ he had said, making a grab for her hand. ‘You saved me.’ He had raised her hand to his battered face and kissed it. ‘Thank you’.

Sara had seemed satisfied with her answer and grinned as a short wide nun bustled down the steps, huffing and puffing. Olivia found herself smiling. She caught Sara’s expression and they stifled a giggle, holding on to one another as the absurdity of the situation struck them. The odour of damp wool mingled with the nuns’ stale breath, and the smoke from the oil lamp. The door to the cellar slammed shut and the last sister was helped down the stairs. They all moved around the cramped space to accommodate the elderly nuns and Olivia and Sara were separated. Sister Maria cleared her throat, and began to sing. One by one the nuns joined in until the sound they made was loud enough to drown out the noise of the sirens, the planes above, and the deep, earth-shaking tremors which were too near for comfort. Who knows, thought Olivia, maybe it had been loud enough to reach God.

When Olivia got back to her room, Jonathan had gone.

Olivia’s feet were like ice. Dressed only in her nightgown she tried desperately to think of a reason why she would be standing in the unlit kitchen at 3.00 in the morning holding a packet of cotton dressings. In the shadows, the nuns were silent and alert to the prospect of trouble and therefore novelty.

‘I was getting…..I needed these….things…..for…um….’she grasped for words.

‘For me!’ The plea burst out and the dark shapes gasped, parting to let Sara through. ‘Begging forgiveness, Sister,’ she said, bowing her head to the nun then looking at her with guileless eyes. Sister Gertrude glared at Sara – a look that had turned many a novice to stone. ‘You, girl? Are you ailing?’ Sara stared at the floor and mumbled something. ‘What are you saying? Speak up, child!’ snapped Sister Gertrude. ‘My monthlies, sister…I…Fraulein Olivia was kind enough to….I’m sorry’. Silence fell and everyone, Olivia included, stared at Sara. Sister Gertrude inhaled loudly. ‘Very well. I will make a report,’ she said, turning to Olivia. ‘Give me those. I shall take care of this.’ She held out her hand and Olivia had no choice but to hand over her bundles. ‘Maria, take the Fraulein back to her cell.’ Led away, Olivia exchanged a brief glance with Sara, and was disturbed to see a gleam of excited complicity in the girl’s eyes.

Thankfully, Sister Maria did not linger at Olivia’s door as she slipped in, grateful for the dark. Jonathan, a huddle shape under her cloak, had slipped into unconsciousness. His hand seemed to have stopped bleeding, but he was deathly cold. She tore up her only undershirt and dressed his wounds as best she could, then gently stripped him of his wet clothes, checking for other injuries and finding nothing worse than bruises.

Despite his recent troubles and the hardships of the war that they all suffered, Jonathan seemed a reasonable specimen. It was not, she mused, as if she had much to compare – the only other male form she had tended at close quarters had been her elderly father. Jonathan was lean, with a tall, wiry frame and a taut stomach. Olivia’s nursing skills had been largely confined to care of the old, but she remembered reading somewhere (a book of Eskimo lore, she fancied) that the best way to warm someone up was through the direct exchange of body heat.

The bed was small and Jonathan was tall, and it felt awkward to move him. She rolled him onto his side and removing her nightgown, climbed in and wrapped her body around his, pulling the blankets over both of them. Her nose was buried in his neck: his damp hair smelt of smoke. As she pressed closer into his back and curled her legs around him, she decided that Eskimo wisdom was not without its merits. After a while, his breathing deepened and he relaxed into her embrace, warmth creeping back into his body. Her last memory before drifting into sleep was Jonathan easing himself round to face her and without opening his eyes, reaching out a hand to touch her face.

When I was growing up, we lived in a red brick 1950s council house, built to house the London overspill following the Blitz. It was on the edge of the town and the garden backed onto a playing field, which was itself surrounded by fields and ditches and hedgerows – a haven for children growing up and a place of skinned knees, scratched arms, nettle stings, bumped heads, first kisses and all the rest.

When we moved into the house, my parents’ bedroom had thick wallpaper in various shades of cream and black and brown, featuring a nautical theme of galleons in full sail. Having, as my mother so descriptively puts it, ‘not even a pot to piss in’, the redecorating of their bedroom came fairly low down the list of priorities, well after kids’ shoes, cats and Puffin Book Club purchases. For about 4 years they put up with those ships, until my mother tried to persuade my father to strip off the wallpaper in preparation for redecorating. After months of nagging had failed to do the trick, my mother, armed with a kitchen knife and a washing up bowl full of soapy water, did the job herself. The walls beneath were solid enough, and a sort of greyish plaster. Now all they needed to do was repaper the walls and paint them whatever colour they fancied.

A year or two passed. My father showed no signs of enthusiasm for the great decorating project, and my mother resorted to guerrilla tactics. ‘If you don’t decorate the bedroom,’ she threatened, ‘I’ll get the children to do it!’ And he would laugh and go back to his crossword.

One wet day in early February, my brother and I returned from school to find Mum waiting for us with tea and toast. She then produced two big boxes of thick crayons, led us upstairs and told us to decorate her bedroom walls! It must be every child’s dream to have such a large canvas, and we took full advantage of it. Well, my brother got bored after about 20 minutes and went off to do something else, but I got more and more exuberant as the time went on. I started with a big tabby cat, whiskers extended and tail curled. Then I drew a rainbow above the bed, using every colour in the crayon pack, whether they were in the spectrum or not. I tried to draw us, but didn’t do very well ( I was only 8 years old at the time). Then, I struck upon the brilliant idea of drawing Mr Men. They were simple shapes, lovely colours, and had lots of personality! So I ran to my brother’s room and demanded all the Mr Men books he had. Two hours later I had covered the walls, and the pièce de résistance was a magnificent Mr Tickle, a beautiful orange blob with enormous long wavy arms that went all the way around the room. I used two whole orange crayons for him and wore them down to tiny stubs that my fingers could barely hold.

When my father came home he went upstairs to change, and me and Mum held our breath as he walked into the bedroom. There was a stunned silence, a sort of growl, then a chuckle, then a full shout of laughter as he realised what had happened. And do you know something? Those Mr Men were still there 4 years later!

Eventually, as time went on and my brother and I moved towards adolescence, my mother eventually realised that if there was any decorating to be done, she would have to do it herself. The walls of the bedroom were finally papered in woodchip (yep, parental units were still spending all the housekeeping money on books and red wine), and painted with white emulsion. After three heavy coats of paint, Mr Tickle was finally rendered invisible. About 5 years ago, my parents moved out of that house, where they had lived for over 30 years. By that time they had bought it, and like a lot of houses on the street, it had new windows and doors and you would be hard pressed to tell it was ever a council house. Being within easy commuting distance from London, yet right on the edge of lovely countryside, the town where I was brought up had become fashionable and affluent, meaning my folks could sell up and buy a cottage in Suffolk. They sold the house to a lovely young couple with two small children. And I wonder what they thought when they decorated the bedroom and stripped off the old 1970s woodchip wallpaper and found what was underneath…….

Tags: crayons, decorating, Mr Tickle

It was raining so hard that at first Olivia did not hear the knocking at her window. She had gone to bed, exhausted, before Compline, earning herself glances of envy from the novices, who had sent spent much of the day working in the kitchen garden. Olivia had helped them brush their long skirts but the heavy cloth had been soaked and filthy, dragging around their ankles. Whilst the religious duties of the day were far from over, her own work was done. She felt achy and bad-tempered and decided it would be best if she retired for the night. Her bed was not built for comfort, but the scratchy woollen blankets were thick and heavy and she was grateful for them as she lay and listened to the relentless downpour.

She drifted in and out of sleep before dowsing her lamp. She dreamt that someone was calling her name and that she, statue-like, could not move to answer the summons. One moment the supplicant was her father calling for a glass of water, the next it was a child, weeping for its mother. When she finally struggled to wakefulness, she heard the rhythmic knocking on the glass and an increasingly urgent whisper. ‘Olivia! Olivia, for God’s sake! It’s Jonathan, let me in! Olivia, wake up! Please!’

In darkness she stumbled to the window and dragged open the shutter. As her eyes adjusted she could see the sheen of water on the cloister and the figure pressed against the wall. Her cold fingers fumbled with the latch, and he clambered in, collapsing on the floor, breathing heavily as a puddle formed around him. ‘What’s going on?’ she hissed. ‘Are you hurt? What are you doing here?’

Jonathan did not speak but pushed himself up into a sitting position. Groping for the lamp, Olivia struck a flame and turned it down low. The yellow glow revealed a sorry sight: Jonathan, soaked to the skin, had clearly been in a fight and had come off worst. His face was badly beaten and his left eye was closed and swollen. His right arm hung limp at his side and as Olivia’s eyes adjusted to the dim light she could make out the misshapen bloody mess of his hand. Her stomach heaved as she watched his fingers twitch in pain. Pulling her cloak from her bed, she wrapped it around him and made him stand, supporting his weight. She led him to the bed and he made no sound as she lay him down against the hard pillow. ‘Stay here,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t move, or we’re both done for.’

Heart thumping, Olivia found her keys and slipped out of her cell into the corridor. She had no idea of the time, and prayed fervently (the irony not lost on her) that the nuns were at office, or asleep. The medical stores were in a small cupboard in a corner of the kitchen, which meant crossing the cloister. The rain was easing but it wasn’t until she felt the water splashing on her ankles that she realised she was barefoot. From across the courtyard she caught a twinkle of candle and a phrase of plainchant that she recognised as Matins – that meant it was almost three o’clock. Trying to make as little sound as possible, she felt her way across the kitchen and round the large table in the middle.

Lifting her keys gently, she slid the key into the lock and eased open the medical cupboard. As she reached in to find dressings, her elbow nudged the door and she dislodged the key, sending the ring to the floor with a clatter. The noise of metal on stone seemed to ring out for hours, and Olivia’s heart stopped.

Within a few seconds, a rustle of cloth announced the arrival of Sister Gertrude and several other figures, clustered in the dark and sensing drama.

‘What is this? What is happening? What are you doing in here?’ Sister Gertude stared at Olivia and raised her lamp. She stood, clutching the packages of bandages and dressings to her chest. There was nowhere to go.

‘Sister,’ she said, trying to slow her breathing. ‘I did not mean to disturb you, please accept my apologies.’ The nun’s eyes were flat and hard. ‘I repeat, Fraulein, what are you doing?’ How could she explain what she was doing raiding the medical cupboard in the middle of the night? Sister Anna, who ran the infirmary, dealt with the sick or injured of the convent – she would surely have known if anyone needed medical attention. At best, Olivia might be accused of stealing supplies to sell on the black market; at worst…well, she didn’t want to think about that. Whatever happened, Jonathan was lying hurt in her bed and she had to get him out.

The stairs to Herr Jonathan’s room were narrow and they had to go in single file. He led the way up three flights, passing several dusty, drab doors before they reached his, tucked under a roof slope. He held open the door for Olivia in mock ceremony, pulling off his hat and bowing, his dark blonde hair sticking up as he grinned. ‘Fraulein,’ he teased.

She began to wonder if this was a good idea – after all, what did she really know about him? He came to the convent regularly to deliver parcels of food and clothing, but where he got the sugar and thick cotton and other rationed goods she did not ask. Her job was merely to write it in the stock ledger and store it carefully. Sometimes, weeks might pass without him coming, but after these absences he usually returned with something special. It was on such an occasion that he discovered her secret vice – coffee. Since coming to the convent she had barely touched a cup and what she had managed to find was certainly not worthy of the name. ‘Ol-iv-ia,’ he had said, rolling her name around with his mid-Atlantic drawl. ‘I have real coffee in my room, you know. And a book I think you might like.’ Careful, said a voice in Olivia’s head. What’s the harm? said another, louder voice.

Jonathan’s room was plain and held little in the way of furniture. It was devoid of personal effects, not unlike the convent cell she inhabited. Whilst he busied himself with a gas ring and a brown package with a very tantalising aroma, she looked around at the bare walls, chest of drawers and single iron-framed bed. On the small cabinet next to the bed was a book, its title hidden from Olivia’s view.

‘I’ve forgotten something,’ said Jonathan, standing. ‘An extra treat for you. I’ll be right back,’ and smiling, he opened the door, heading for the stairs. She could hear his footsteps and deduced he was taking the steps two at a time. She leaned forward and pushed the book with her forefinger, turning it just enough to see the gold-embossed lettering on the spine. She was craning to read the title when he bounded back up the stairs, startling her. She jumped, and her hand struck the book, knocking it to the floor. Flustered, she knelt to pick it up and found that was well as the book, she had dislodged an identity card.

The photo was unmistakeably him – the rumpled hair, clean shaven, and eyes which even in the small black and white picture seemed to pick up and refract light in a thousand different directions. As Olivia’s heart took an unexpected jolt, she caught sight of the name on the card. It was not his. For a few seconds, the room was still and silent as she half-crouched on the floor, Jonathan looking at her as he clutched a white paper bag spotted with grease.

‘I’m sorry,’ she blushed. ‘I didn’t mean….’. He stepped forward and took the card from her hand. ‘Olivia,’ he said briskly. ‘I should explain….’ Then he seemed to run out of words. ‘I’m not…I was…’. Olivia looked into his handsome face. He tried again to find the words. ‘It’s standard in my line of work, you know, to have several identities,’ he said. ‘It makes things less complicated.’

‘Less complicated?’ she said. She sat down heavily on the bed. ‘Jonathan, who are you?’

Remember my blogs about the Ness Battery? Well, there have been lots of developments since I last wrote about it, so I thought that I would give you an update! I’ll start off with a bit about the site in wartime, what’s there now, and what life might have been like for the men stationed there.

The site, once owned by the Ministry of Defence and now the property of Orkney Islands Council, comprises two large WWII gun emplacements, the remains of several camp huts, an enormous control tower, various engine rooms, water tanks, and remnants of the WWI battery and camp. The site is surrounded by a large perimeter fence, and access is strictly controlled by the council.

Last year, the Scapa Flow Landscape Partnership Scheme came in to being. It has 3 years’ worth of funding, and some of that money is going towards Ness Battery, for the development of public access via guided tours, and conservation of the structures, both interior and exterior.

Ness Battery was extremely important during both World Wars, as it protected the western approach to Scapa Flow, home port of the British war fleet and vital to national security. In WWI, Ness Battery offered the only serious defence against attack – there were a few blockships between Graemsay and Hoy, and an induction loop, but Ness provided the fire power. In WWII it was a Port War Signal Station for the Examination Service, and Fire Command for several coast batteries on Orkney Mainland, Graemsay and Hoy.

Several important structures remain, including the two gun emplacements (each at one time containing a ‘Twin Six’ – a pair of 6-inch guns with a fire rate of 72 rounds per minute). These were originally open to the skies – it was not until 1941 that the concrete roofs were put on, after attack from the air was recognised as a serious threat.

The WWII Ness Battery was planned and mostly constructed before the start of the war. Time was taken in its construction, resulting in underground ammunition magazines, and drystone wall reinforcements. It was one of only two batteries in Orkney that was operational at the start of the conflict.

Shipping was strictly controlled in and out of Hoy Sound, and any ship that had failed to communicate was warned off by a shot across the bows. On one famous occasion, this was the St Ola ferry. The official war diary (which recorded events at the batteries) noted the appearance of an enemy plane overhead. The plane was then seen to drop three parachute mines into Hoy Sound, thus making it impassable for any shipping until the mines could be cleared. One of the ships that tried to enter the Sound was the St Ola, under the command of the redoubtable Captain Swanson. For one reason or another, there was no way of contacting the ship, so shots were fired. Swanson, apparently furious, held his course, and it took another shot to convince him to turn the ship around and find an alternative route into Stromness!

Thanks to funding from Scapa Flow Landscape Partnership Scheme, archaeologist Gavin Lindsay was able to travel to the National Archives in London to study the record books pertaining to Ness Battery. As well as providing detail about the way that the guns and searchlights were controlled, the records also gave an insight into life in the camp itself.

Orkney counted as an overseas posting for the British forces, with all the attendant perks and privileges. It is likely that the average length of service might have been about 6 months, but there were no doubt variations. At Ness it seems that there could have been 100-150 officers, NCOs and other ranks, although there was constant movement of troops, and units spending only a short time there before going on to other locations.

Whilst the Battery Observation Post and gun emplacements were made of concrete and cast in situ, the camp consisted of Jane or Jain huts which, like Nissen huts, were prefabricated buildings that could be transported in bits then constructed on site. The huts at Ness had wooden walls and ‘wrinkly tin’ roofs (corrugated iron). The officers’ quarters had an ablutions block, a kitchen, and a nice little fireplace in the mess. The other ranks were quartered in four huts, some containing stoves (none are there now, alas), and in the mess hall, a stunning mural was painted on three sides of the interior walls. Local legend says a fourth wall boasted a painted crest bearing the words ‘Come the four corners of the earth, and we will sink them!’ The Italian Chapel it wasn’t!

The Ness Battery had its own entertainment troop called The Nesters. Stromness and Lyness in Hoy saw many of the great Forces entertainers too – Gracie Fields, Flanagan and Allen, Vera Lynn and George Formby. There were several Forces newspapers, including the famous Orkney Blast, edited by Eric Linklater and Gerry Meyer, whose masthead featured a very saucy WREN-mermaid!

The hardships felt by those stationed at Ness were largely of the cold/wet/boredom variety. The Orkney landscape and climate can seem inhospitable to those unaccustomed to it, and we can only pity the poor so-and-sos on the night when the war diary recorded in April 1941: ‘Very severe gale….& snow storm…. Roof blew off several occupied huts.’

Research continues into the site and the resources will grow with time. Meanwhile, a training course is taking place for tour guides, with a view to guided tours of Ness Battery being available later on this year. It is hoped by many that this will just be the start of the process – once interest is excited, awareness raised and money generated, who knows where it could lead? I can’t help thinking that Ness Battery has the potential to become one of the most visited places in Orkney – so watch this space!

Tags: Ness Battery, Orkney, Stromness, WWI, WWII

Olivia cooked the books. She wrote in the domestic stores book that the dried fruit, the jars of preserved fish and the cans of vegetables that Sara and the other novices had stolen, were rotten, cracked, or otherwise spoilt. It was not a deception that was difficult to carry off – the elderly nun who had kept the stores before Olivia, and was still nominally in charge, made infrequent visits to the larder and even fewer visits to the heavy ledger where the details of all the convent food stocks were kept, along with a brief description of how they were used.

Olivia’s main difficulty in covering up the novices’ crime was simply that she was unused to deceit. Alone in her cell she tussled with the problem, as she would with a philosophical argument. On the one hand, stealing was a crime and should be punished. On the other, Sara and the other novices had been hungry (they were young girls and still growing), and to reveal their crime would almost certainly result in their expulsion from the convent. She was on shaky ground herself – if she told the Mother Superior what she had discovered, there was no guarantee that she would be thanked for her honesty; indeed, she could open herself to accusations of duplicity – it could easily be argued that she had stolen the food herself and blamed the novices to cover her crime. But the nuns, however distant they might seem, had taken her in, and provided her with shelter and protection when the alternative was a labour camp. She owed them a debt of gratitude and her deceit belied their trust in her.

And then there was God. Olivia’s relationship with the almighty was an awkward affair. Her early unquestioning faith had not withstood her parents’ illnesses and her obligatory spinsterhood, save as a matter of routine. Any lingering remnants had been thoroughly thrashed during her sherry-fuelled afternoons discussing philosophy with Herr Professor. Yet she was in a convent. A community dedicated to the contemplation of the work of the Lord – a powerhouse of prayer. Sometimes, when her soul felt raw, as she emerged with the terrified nuns from the underground shelters after the bombers – her own country’s bombers – had dropped their load on the industrial heartlands…sometimes the sound of the nuns chanting seemed to be the only thing of beauty in a world of ugliness and conflict. There were times when she gladly raised her voice to the glory of God.

The arguments fought in Olivia’s head until it ached. In the end, self-preservation won the day, and she decided would take her chances with God. She said nothing, altered the ledger, and earned the gratitude of the novices. Two weeks after the incident, she found on her bed a small sachet of pillow herbs, stitched into a canvas pocket embroidered with flowers. It was, she reflected, a very long time since anyone had given her a present.

Olivia shivered and watched her breath plume from her mouth. The candles glinting off the damp stone gave a yellow glow but did nothing to raise the temperature, which she estimated to be just above freezing – there had been a thin skim of ice on the well this morning. The nuns were white-faced and motionless except for the slight movement of their lips as the words of the service were spoken sotto voce. Lauds was not the first religious office of the day – the nuns and novices had celebrated Matins at 2.00am – but it was the first one that Olivia could usually manage, starting as it did at daybreak.

She pulled her woollen cloak more tightly around her and tried to think holy thoughts. Images of hot buttered toast rose unbidden in her mind and her stomach grumbled. The dark-habited figure next to her shifted from one knee to another. Minutes stretched to hours. She knew that as a non-religious she was under no compulsion to attend services, but Olivia was brought up to be at least polite to her hosts, even if those hosts had no choice in the matter. She went to Lauds, usually, missed Prime as that was the best time to clean the latrines, and tried to get to either Vespers or Compline in the evenings, although her domestic duties took precedence. This morning she would have to sift and divide up a sack of flour which had been delivered yesterday – even a cursory glance had shown the tell-tale black specks which indicated weevils. If she slipped away now, she could have most of it done by the time the novices came in to break their fast. Slowly she rose to her feet and slid from the pew, head down.

There was the dimmest glimmer of cold dawn in the cloister. The rooks started to shift in their nests and small twigs fell to earth as they shook their sooty wings. Olivia had learned quickly the art of moving without noise – as a child she had been fascinated by the ‘floating’ nuns she saw on the street, now here she was doing the same thing – and walked swiftly and silently to the kitchen. As she rounded the doorframe, a black figure flew into her stomach, winding her.

‘Oh!’ Olivia caught the doorframe for support, blocking the path of the flying figure, whom she now recognised as one of the novices, Sara. The girl looked up at her and brought both hands up to her mouth. Her eyes darted from Olivia’s face to the corridor and back, flashing fear. Olivia steadied herself and Sara straightened herself, turning her head away.

‘Sara – are you alright?’ Olivia said.

‘I’m fine,’ Sara said but it sounded muffled. She tried to push past Olivia, who placed her hands on Sara’s shoulders and turned her round to face her. She could see at once that the novice’s mouth was full of something dark, although she was trying desperately to swallow.

‘What are you eating, Sara?’ she asked, peering.

‘Nothing, just some bread…I …oh, Miss, I am so hungry!’  The small figure trembled.  ’I didn’t mean to steal, I just thought if I could…I was going to replace them…’ and she leant her forehead against the doorframe and wept, her shoulders shaking underneath the brown habit. From her fingers fell a handful of black, sticky currants.

In 1893 a young girl, only 16 years old, fell in love with an unsuitable man.

Her name was Frances, and she lived in the industrial heartlands of south-west Wales, in the area around Pembroke Dock.

I don’t know who the man was – I have heard it suggested that he was a travelling photographer, one of many who went from village to village in rural areas taking portraits of country people; they would return several weeks later with the photos – sometimes the only ones the folk would ever own.

However they met, the young girl was besotted with the man, and he seemed to be equally taken with her. The pair became close very quickly, to the dismay of her family, but they continued to meet and correspond.

A plan was hatched. The two of them were to elope! They swore that they would be together no matter what the consequences, and decided to run away as far as they could go, get married, and live together forever. For a young girl with no experience of the world, this must have been a very romantic notion, and Frances agreed to the plan eagerly. The man booked two tickets on a trans-Atlantic ship – they were going to sneak away one morning, make their way to the docks and head across the sea to America and a new life.

Somehow, Frances’s parents found out about the plan. Instead of confronting their daughter, they simply crept up to her bedroom on the morning of the elopement, and locked the door. She cried and screamed and pleaded to be let out, but they were resolute; she would remain there until the danger was passed.

The ship sailed, and as far as I know, the man was on it. I don’t know his name, and I don’t know what happened to him; he simply disappeared out of the story.

Frances was heartbroken. She swore from that day onward that she would never love another man as long as she lived: she would never marry, never have children. The years went by, and whilst she was a bonny lass and many young lads came calling, she was interested in none of them.

When she was in her early twenties, Frances was offered a job in Scotland, working for a Welsh couple who owned a house just outside Nairn called Lochloy. She accepted the job and became the cook. Her handsome face, her baking skills and her unmarried state made Frances a very interesting topic of conversation for the local suitors; they all made their overtures, but she had sworn never to love, never to marry.

Living nearby was a bachelor farmer called Kenneth. By all accounts, he was very quiet, gentle, and had a real affinity for animals – his small farm was filled with dogs, cats and horses. He and Frances met occasionally, and he set about wooing her. The courtship proceeded at glacial pace; any sudden declarations would have sent her running for the hills. They exchanged the odd word here and there, a gift of eggs was left on a doorstep, a cake made its way to a table. Frances was 39 years old when she finally said yes.

Frances and Kenneth were married and lived at a farm called Springbank. They went on to have two sons, Kenneth and Thomas, and Thomas was my grandfather.

It was one of my greatest ambitions to have children, and it is one of my greatest regrets that I cannot. I feel very sad that I will never be able to pass on the story of Frances and Kenneth to my own children and grandchildren, but I have now passed to story on to you. If at anytime you feel like telling this tale, and passing it on to anyone you know, I would be very grateful!

The photo at the top, in case you hadn’t guessed, is my great-grandmother; Frances Gay McKenzie.

Tags: Lochloy, Nairn, Wales

This is by way of a little change from Caritas! But there may be a common thread….who knows?

At university in the late 80s, I visited Berlin with my boyfriend, Steve. His mother was German, and his grandmother still lived there; she had been a widow for many years.

We flew over East Germany and my ears hurt so much with the pressure that I couldn’t hear for at least 24 hours. Our hosts, Steve’s relatives, were very kind to me despite my rudimentary German and temporary deafness. I loved Berlin – it was a fabulous mixture of wide streets, confident people and modern architecture standing side-by-side with medieval ruins.

On our first evening there we went to see Steve’s grandmother, Christa. She was quite crabby and smoked like a chimney, claiming ‘it is my only vice’. We made her dinner and told her what our plans were for the week. We were going to see the museum at Checkpoint Charlie the next day, and the day after that we had booked tickets to go on a coach tour of East Berlin. The old lady’s thin hands shook and she tutted crossly at us. What did we know? She said. We were just silly tourists. She said we had no idea what it was like to live in a divided city; and she told us this story.

In 1961 Christa and her sister lived in one part of Berlin, and their parents lived in another. There were all sorts of rumours about how the city was going to be split in two, but no-one really believed it would happen, until they woke up one day and discovered that Berlin was divided into East and West. Overnight, a thick fence of barbed wire had been erected: Christa and her sister in the West, their parents in the East.

The East German authorities, not wanting to appear unsympathetic, issued the two daughters with passes, to enable them to cross the border and see their parents whenever they liked. Nonetheless, it was hard for them all, and life was especially difficult for the old people in the East. They did not have any washing facilities in the block of flats where they lived, so every weekend, Christa would drive through the military checkpoint, go to her parents’ flat, and collect their laundry. The next day, or the day after, she would bring it back, cleaned, dried and ironed.

One weekend she crossed the border as usual. She changed the sheets on her mother’s and father’s bed. She took their bath towels and the used sheets and went home. The evening was dry and warm with a brisk breeze, and the laundry dried quickly. The next morning Christa folded everything neatly and placed them on the passenger seat of her car, before setting off for the border. At the checkpoint, instead of being waved through as she usually was, she was pulled over; it was guard she did not recognise. He demanded to know why she had a pile of sheets and towels in the car. Was she going to sell them? No, she protested, they belonged to her parents. Did she not trust the state to take care of her parents? Was she criticising the government? His questions became increasingly aggressive but Christa stood her ground. After a quarter of an hour of protesting, Christa was forced to hand over her pass, and her own papers were stamped with clear instructions that she was never allowed into East Germany from that day onward.

She never saw her parents again. Her sister took the clean laundry the next day and crossed the border without incident – indeed she continued to travel betwee West and East unhindered for many years. When her parents died, Christa was forbidden to go to their funerals. The cruelty was heartbreaking, she told us, but what sickened her most was the arbitrariness of it. Her theory was that the border guard had a hangover, or had an argument with his wife that morning, and needed to take out his bad mood on somebody. So, she concluded, she could understand why we wanted to see the East, but she could not be happy about it. Steve and I did not know what to say, so we topped up her sherry glass.

We did go on the bus trip round East Berlin and it was astonishing in so many ways. My feelings at the Checkpoint Charlie museum were a mixture of horror, pity, and amazement at human ingenuity. We returned to Scotland to resume our studies, and we spilt as a couple a few months later. It was quite amicable, but our paths didn’t cross much after that.

In autumn 1989 extraordinary things were happening in the world – through political will and popular action, the Eastern Bloc started to crumble and one by one Europe’s former Communist countries emerged into capitalism. There was an atmosphere of great hope and expectation, culminating in the moving scenes at the Berlin Wall, when thousands of people used hammers and drills and their bare hands to tear down that most hated symbol of a divided country.

I sat in my flat and watched my tiny black and white TV, remembering the story of Christa. As my heart filled, there was a ring on the doorbell. Standing on the doorstep was Steve, and he was carrying a bottle of wine.

‘I thought you’d like to celebrate,’ he said. ‘It’s too late for her, but it’s not too late for millions of other people’.

We toasted Christa and her parents, and watched the world change.

Tags: Berlin, Berlin wall, East Germany