Head master Mr. H.E.A.Day 1951 - 1971
Some Elmbridge Memories
By Nick Day
These are in no particular order, just as they come to mind. But, I'd be remiss if I didn't first mention the list of 193 attendees at the reunion that Tony sent me. I have returned the list to him, highlighting in red all those I remember. Apologies to those I may have forgotten, and although I believe, like Dad, I am blessed with an excellent memory (young Austin has a photographic memory too), it is not infallible. So, digging into the hard drive that is my brain, defragmenting it, and thus improving the seek time and data volume, here we go:
First, I remember all the teachers and their wives; at least those until the time I left Elmbridge. Second, I remember nearly all the boys while I was there, most particularly those in the earliest days: Reg Burningham (weren't you head-prefect—wasn't it Fairlop, or perhaps Abbey?), Brian Frost, Barry “Chunky” Fox, Clive Vernon, David Lamprell, Tony Meo, Garth Allmand, Ronald Cockayne, Miles Emblin, Barry Freeman, Peter Heard, Roger Heard, Russell Tricker, Bill Pirie, and so many others. How fantastic that you're all still alive and, I trust, well. But wow, was I surprised and delighted when I saw David Le Shirley, Vera Palmer and Ruth Cairns' (nee Wiskar) names on the list. What it says, for the fabric that was Elmbridge, to bring so many of you, some so far, to attend tonight. For many it is well over 50 years ago!
I remember us making crystal radios and listening to them surreptitiously under the bedclothes; being taught at 6 ½ to play table tennis (we all still play here and have our own table in the back garden).
The Saturday night film in the assembly hall; film selection courtesy of Vin Kay, later I believe, Colin Barrow, and others. The times when the projector would break down and the film would burn a bit and smell, accompanied by catcalls. Great classics like Ivanhoe, Robin Hood, Winchester 73, The Mark of Zorro, The Four Feathers (coincidentally I just saw this on TV today - now April 23 - or the first time since Elmbridge), the Bob Hope and Bing Crosby “Road” films, the Laurel & Hardy's, and Abbott & Costello's. Then on Sunday, how many of the boys would be out on the playing fields after church re-enacting the previous night's film. If it was Robin Hood, they would make bows out of the ash tree branches, arrows from the willows; and swords from whatever, imitating Erroll Flynn. There were Z's everywhere after Zorro.
Then there was the boy's trip to Paris when I was 11, and my first time in Europe. Dad came along too. At 13, my parents took me on an eight country coach tour of Europe, and then again the following year to different places. This started me on the long road to travel. When I turned 17 plus, Dad allowed me to drive them in the Sunbeam Talbot around Germany and a few other countries. He had no problem with me taking them down the autobahns at 90mph plus! Mother was less enthused, but she was no back-seat driver and kept mum! Before the black Talbot was the black Hillman Minx; before that the black Austin 7 - how fitting!
I remember the night the assembly hall burned down, losing everything. I was out there taking photos, some of which I still have, as the firemen tried in vain to put it out. The good news was a new brick building to replace it.
And talking of fires, how about all the red fire buckets around, which somebody felt had to be repainted every time the governors visited the school. And, the delicious sense of humour some of the boys displayed, which Mum enjoyed and passed on to me: it appears that whenever sore throats were around, some boys would come down to the hospital, asking for their throats to be painted with gentian violet just in time for the governors' visit! Staying on the theme of the hospital, it was a well-known fact amongst all small boys that matrons are curmudgeonly, old, fat, ugly, and insensitive to other people's pain. So, imagine everyone's surprise when the “drop-dead” gorgeous Rosemary Catchpole turned up for duty one day. Mum and Dad were somewhat concerned that there would be a stream of over-sexed boys visiting the hospital rather than being in the classrooms; and they were not far wrong. Hoping to catch a glimpse of Ms Catchpole bronzing herself in a bikini in the back garden, they would troupe down with all manner of made-up symptoms. Somewhat unfazed, however, Rosemary knew how to deal with them, and I suspect an injection in an unmentionable part of the anatomy, plus a sizeable dose of cod liver oil stemmed the flow of visitors when word got back from the front line.
I should also mention that, when I was about 17, I came down with pneumonia, which turned to the double variety, followed by pleurisy. I was in and out of St Luke's Hospital in Guildford, and Cranleigh Village Hospital, over a period of about six months. I was given a relatively new drug at the time, prednisone; but still at one stage in St Luke's I was so ill I was not expected to live through the night. Mum, Dad, and Jenny Barrett were at my bedside that night. But, miraculously I pulled through. Later, what really put me back on the road to recovery was Rosemary Catchpole introducing me to Yoga breathing and stretching exercises to help with posture, relaxation, and other benefits. Thank you so much Rosemary, I shall never forget you for that; and about a year ago I took it up again to try and keep supple and fit.
I remember the two big trees on the playing fields we used to climb. One by the grass tennis courts I learned to play on. The cricket pavilion and long-jump pit. The long straight driveway, lined with firs on one side, a copse on the other. The boiler house, right by where we first lived. The bursar who lived next door, Major Phipps and his wife Nana. Now, this will corroborate Ian Burrell's hilarious alternative menu - one I really hope you don't have served to your tables tonight - but whenever Mum complained to Phipps about the food they had just eaten in the dining room, he would simply reply “but my wife thought it was delicious.” (They were prior to Joan Ross).
The swimming pool, where several people tried unsuccessfully to teach me to swim over the years. The air raid shelters nearby. The farm, and milking the cow; the rather vicious geese that would hiss and go for you; the piggery.
I've just finished watching West Ham beat Middlesborough 1-0 to get into the FA Cup Final vs Liverpool. I am reminded of, perhaps Elmbridge's greatest football wizard, Ron Brett, who went on to play for West Ham after leaving school, but was so tragically killed in a car accident, ending his new career. Through the relatively new invention and acquisition of satellite TV, I am now more able to keep in touch with things British or European than I was the first 25 years or so here. I avidly watch the Premiership League games, the cricket matches (although sadly I missed all of the wonderful series vs Australia last year), Wimbledon and the French Open tennis, and BBC World News.
And who could ever forget the canal, a source of hours of entertainment for many of us. Making rafts out of oil drums and planks of wood, punting up and down. Swinging across the canal on ropes, making up different games, falling into the water on occasion, or getting pushed in. Sneaking over to the fish canal on private property. Were there ever any fish in there? I remember only reeds, weeds, and lilies. Digressing a moment, one of Caroline's brothers, Gerald (a retired civil engineer), who was just down from Portland, Oregon to stay with us over Easter, pops over to the UK as much as possible to help on redesigning and renovating the Wey & Arun Junction Canal. He tells me that the portion through Elmbridge - mainly crossing the Elmbridge/Cranleigh Road - is the trickiest section of all.
How could a boy have not enjoyed growing up in what I remember as about 28 acres of fields, hedgerows, woods, vegetable patches, lawns, apple orchards, farm, and numerous one-storey cedar buildings. Roding, Forest, Fairlop and Abbey dorms. And, how about bonfire night on November 5; the Halloween parties; Sports' Day; Open Day; and the Fathers/Boys' and Teachers'/Boys' matches. The memories are so vivid. They are etched in my brain. I don't even have to close my eyes to visualize what used to be there.
Dad was so concerned about any iota of favouritism that he knew would be levelled at him or me, no matter what, that he would not allow me to attend the school. Despite the ridiculously low salary that came with the headmaster's position, they scrimped to send me to Cranleigh School. Fortunately it was close by, about 1½ miles, so that I didn't have to be a “boarder”, the cost for which would have been totally impossible. But “day boys,” of which there about 40, were looked down on. Fortunately, I was fairly sociable and on all the school sports' team, which made me reasonably acceptable. When not in my own school, I sat in on Dad's classes while he taught, attended morning assemblies, had lunch with my parent's in the dining hall, went to all the plays, and generally attended most events. But, it was often tough being the head's son at Elmbridge. Dad insisted that I had no privileges that the boys didn't have. I wasn't allowed to walk across “the lawn” in term time, for example, only during the holidays when everyone was gone. Of course, I took liberties at times. What small boy wouldn't? But I was in big trouble if he found out.
He always tried to be scrupulously fair. He couldn't be bribed by anyone, and he would threaten to resign if anyone on the board of governors ever tried to get Dad to accept, say a boy he didn't want, or change anything he thought might be to the detriment of the school, the boys, or their reputation.
I remember the Sundays, when the boys would troupe down to the church by Cranleigh village green. I usually had to be yanked out of bed, often feigning illness or still be asleep, to avoid the ordeal of having to stay attentive for an hour or so. But, I enjoyed Dad's sermons, which he gave on occasion; he was a good speaker. He often played the organ in church, and his favourite was Bach's Toccata and Fugue.
Right next to church, two Americans from New York, Monte (Francis Montena) and Steve, moved into the old Elizabethan house in the mid-1950s. Perhaps surprisingly, they became two of my parents' best and closest friends. They kept up until Mum and Dad died, as did Caroline and I until we moved to the USA. Monte had been the chief interior designer for Macy's in New York, and was a very talented artist. This was partly the glue that cemented their friendship. We still have three of the paintings he gave them hanging in our lounge. Being Yanks, they were about the only people, apart from immediate family, who ever called them Noreen and Austin, rather than Mr and Mrs Day. Even “Jacko Nipper” Jackson didn't call them by their Christian names; nor, I think David Le Shirley who worked so closely with Mum on all the plays over the years (correct me if I'm wrong, David). Was this something they insisted on; was it an aura they portrayed that caused others to be tentative about calling them Noreen and Austin; or was it just the era? Perhaps some of you can tell me?
Dad considered himself down-to-earth “low” church, and eschewed what he considered the pomp, hypocrisy, and rituals of “high” church. And, although coming from a military and church family background, I must confess that I have developed more than a little contempt over the years for the two institutions; especially easy when living in America.
As I'm sure you recall my parents loved to entertain. They were always so happy to see old boys and teachers come back to visit. Even when they arrived unannounced and late in the day, they were totally unfazed. Mother would always rustle up tea or a meal out of nowhere for them, and they would chat well into the evening. What always startled Dad most was to see those boys, to whom he'd given “six-of-the-best” on more than one occasion, turn up at the door. Afterwards he would say, “Do you know that “old so-and-so” (whoever it was), told me if I hadn't taken the action I did, he would never have got on the straight and narrow and become a success.” I'm sure others probably didn't quite see it the same way. But those were those days, and I suffered many similar canings at Cranleigh. Of course, today, the lawyers would be around in a nanosecond claiming multi-million dollar lawsuits!
This has been so much fun putting this all together. Thanks to all of you for helping shape my life in those critical early days. Again, I wish you all well, and a wonderful evening. I hope some of you can, and will, take the time to write and let me know about what you've been up to since we went our separate ways; and, of course, please include any memories of my parents and times at Elmbridge. Who knows, there may be a book in here somewhere - naturally, names will be changed to protect the innocent and the guilty! Funnily enough, when Dad's predecessor Albert E Clarke retired, the hope was that he would write a book about Elmbridge. It never happened, but in hindsight, after all that transpired later, he would never have been able to get much past the Introduction and into the first chapter.
And, if you ever make it out here to California, we would love you to visit. Caroline and I are no different in our love of entertaining; except that you might want to call, write, or e-mail first, in case we are on our travels. E-mail is best as I pick that up from any internet cafe, no matter where in the world I am. Although we have ideas to visit China, Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, Turkey, Morocco and India, etc, we have more definite plans on spending from 3-6 months each year in Europe - perhaps three months in the UK and three months “sur le continent.” If you can't come to us, perhaps we can come to you? We may also spend the winter months down in some lovely places we've found in Mexico, where the weather suits my body better, the people are friendly, the price is right, and it's away from the disgraceful corruption and politics that have become America today. As the billionaire financier, philanthropist, and Hungarian-born George Soros said not long ago “this is not the same country I called home about 30 years ago.” How true!
Contact details:
Nick and Caroline Day
239 Stanford Avenue, Kensington, California 94708-1103
Tel no: 510-524-6692
E-mail: dayplus@sbcglobal.net
Biography of Herbert Edwin Augustine Day and Laura Noreen Day
Herbert Edwin Augustine Day, born May 5, 1906 in Maulmein, nr Rangoon, Burma; died peacefully in his sleep after a third heart attack on March 26, 1977 in Brockham, Surrey.
Laura Noreen Day (nee Hanham), born December 15, 1906 in Secunderabad, India; died of angina and heart condition on September 16, 1976 at home in Rogate, Surrey.
Both are buried together at the small, and very old St.Peter's Church, Terwick near their “Yew Trees” Rogate house.
Austin (27) and Noreen (26) were married at St. Simon's Church, Southsea, on August 21, 1933 by his father, Edwin Henry Day, who was the Vicar of Stretton, Stafford.
Austin Day
Dad's mother was Ada Emily (nee Hatcher). He had one younger brother, Hillary; two younger sisters, Sylvia and Marjory; and one elder sister, Evelyn, who lived to about 98. Edwin had married three of his children: Hillary, Sylvia and Marjory; Evelyn never married. Hillary was also a vicar, and married Caroline and me. Sylvia became a Jehovah's Witness, and despite Dad being a lay reader in the Church of England, she never ceased trying to convert him every time they got together. Unlike most people who slam the door on JW's, Dad never did. He always invited them in, and with his voluminous knowledge of the bible, was able, without one of his own in hand, to parry any of their set pieces. Marjory and her husband Jack were publicans, mostly in the Portsmouth area. Although it was difficult for her not drinking all the profits - they were very sociable. Marjory was a brilliant bridge player, winning tournaments all over the country. Sylvia won competitions for singing. Eve, who at one time was senior nurse at Guy's Hospital, drove Red Cross lorries in several countries during the war.
It was during father Edwin's missionary work, setting up schools and churches (he was also a mason) in Burma, that Dad was born. I believe he was there for about the first eight years of his life before returning to England.
Dad then attended Somerville prep school in Cheshire and I have one of his old school reports, for summer term 1918, when he was just over 12. He studied 13 subjects, and they reported good and hard work, where he excelled in drawing, dictation, and composition (good ideas, expressive, but sometimes careless). He found geometry difficult, lacked sufficient concentration in history, and at times succumbed to bouts of laziness (I seem to remember identical reports for myself). He later attended Kimbolton School and then Winchester Teacher Training College in 1926. I believe some of his first teaching jobs were in the coal field areas of South Wales, where he joined miners' choirs and developed his wonderful tenor voice, and love of singing descants. He had a strong penchant for whistling, as I'm sure everyone remembers!
I think his first job as a headmaster was at Brockham School, Capel, Surrey. It was there, at nearby Dorking, that I was born and later attended the kindergarten school. I still remember all the teachers' names and faces. Dad first had me kicking a soccer ball there, at age three, with the bigger children, but it was at Elmbridge that my love for the game really took off. He was very active in all community events, chairing YFCs (Young Farmer's Clubs), local parish councils, Dorking council, helping run Tooting & Mitcham Football Club, and acting in several plays for the Brockham Players in the 1940s. It was during those first two years of my life at Brockham that we endured the last severe throes of the German bombing. Right on the path to London, many of the doodlebugs fell short and landed in the area. At least twice a night my mother would grab me from my crib and rush me down to the bottom of the garden and into the dark, dank air-raid shelter. Dad, as an Air Raid Precaution Warden, was always out and about, ensuring locals were all blacked out. One night he was blown off his bike and into the ditch by a bomb that exploded close by.
We moved to Elmbridge somewhere around the end of 1949, and the rest is history as you know it.
Dad was 5'-10” tall, but always seemed taller than that as he stood up so straight, and was always impeccably dressed. His hair had gone thin on the top as early as 22. He had all his suits made-to-measure, as a broken collarbone, from playing rugby, had left one shoulder lower than the other. Even on holiday it was difficult for him to break out of that suit, tie, and handkerchief in the top pocket. Eventually, after many years, we managed to get him into shorts and open-neck shirts, and very English-type sandals. But, of course, these had to be worn with dark socks, which allow any foreigner to recognize a Brit from a mile away. Even then he would only wear this very uncomfortable style for him when sure he was well out of sight of anyone he might know. That was somewhat difficult, as nowhere we went, even in Europe, did he not bump into an old boy, teacher, council member, sports team colleague, or old school chum, that he knew. As a young impressionable lad, he seemed to me to know everyone in the world. Given more time on earth, I think he really would have done!
His main vice was smoking, 40-a-day from his early twenties, until a spell in hospital, I think in his early 50s. As he was recovering, the doctor showed him around the path lab, and pointed out jars of pickled brown lungs from patients who had died from smoking. That did it! Talk about shock therapy! He never smoked again. But he then pursued a life devoted to Polo mints and other sweets, gained a lot of weight, and took less exercise. Not a good combo! But I'm sure it was easier after that to set an example and discipline those boys who were wont to smoke on the school grounds on occasion. In the past, he had been quite good at tennis, football, table tennis, cricket (where he bowled many a googly - do I remember correctly Bill Arthy bowling them as well?). I also have photos of him back in his 20s, in plus-fours, playing golf.
Although always the supreme gentleman and gentle man, he could get very angry and lose his temper. To this day, I don't really know, or perhaps remember, what “pushed his button” as they say. He hated unfairness, unjustness, and put great stock in integrity and honesty. These same traits were passed on to me by osmosis, and my two boys are no different--paramount above all else to all of us. Dad felt that you should always treat others in the way that you wished to be treated. “Always treat someone as a lady or a gentleman,” he would tell me, “until you find out otherwise about them.” But, he never told me exactly how to treat them if I did find out otherwise!
While not exactly vices--more ways of winding down after a tough day--he would pop off to the pub for a pint or two, sometimes with another teacher, or just to meet outside friends there. He might then come back and “veg” (vegetate) out, as we say, in front of the TV, and watch some awful sitcom. Barely a few minutes into the show, he was snoring and fast asleep. He loved Tom & Jerry cartoons (as do I - far too good and clever for most kids), and would laugh uncontrollably. He was also a big fan of Gunsmoke, Harold Lloyd and Groucho Marx. His favourite Groucho lines were, “Television is very educational. Whenever someone turns it on, I go in another room and read a book,” and “Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read.” After dinner he would usually walk back to the office for a couple of hours or so to get in some quiet time and catch up. Occasionally he would have a glass of Johnny Walker before bed, which was seldom before midnight. Usually he was the epitome of tact, but one evening, one couple just stayed and stayed until very late. My father disappeared for a few minutes, returning in his pyjamas. “Well, I don't know about you,” he said to them, “but I'm going to bed.” They took the hint!
I would potter into his office when at a loose end, and he would show me how to type on the old Olivetti. It was a lucky day when I was allowed to run the Gestetner and print off the next school bulletin.
Both parents were sticklers for punctuality, another trait I've inherited. It can be a burden at times! I'm not sure where Dad's came from, but Mum had a story. Her uncle Frank had just retired from the navy in Portsmouth with the rank of rear admiral. He would sometimes invite young Noreen to take tea with him somewhere on the promenade. She was to be there at 4pm sharp. When she was early he was annoyed; when she was late he was annoyed. “My dear Noreen,” he would say, “when you are late, you are wasting my time; when you are early, you are wasting your time. Please be punctual in future.” Well, in future, she always made sure she was early, then simply waited around the corner, out-of-sight, til the appointed hour.
Noreen Day
Mum's father was Harold Edward King Hanham; her mother, Helena Grace. She had one sister, Nancy, who was five years younger, but they looked very much alike. The family was from the Southsea area, where they were either in the navy or military. Harold was in the Royal Fusiliers, and it was while he was commanding a Ghurka regiment in India that Noreen was born. He was in several campaigns there, winning awards for bravery and coolness of action during emergencies. They returned to England, also when she was about eight years old.
She told interesting stories of her times there, not least of which was of the cobras that kept climbing up through the bath tub drain hole (no covers then), and the pet mongoose they had to keep. She retained all her original teeth until the day she died, something she attributes to her Indian Ayah (nurse/nanny), who rubbed a combination of soot and salt on her teeth and gums every day. The love of curry obviously runs in my veins from her early days there.
Her father Harold was in the campaigns in South Africa, again winning various Queen's and King's medals in Orange Free State, Transvaal, Relief of Ladysmith and Natal, etc. Moving much further north, he eventually suffered two injuries at Gallipoli, the last one from an explosion that blew out one of his sides. He returned to England, where he remained in hospital until his death in about 1954. He actually finished his days at a mental asylum, where the injury had virtually turned him into a vegetable. The government maintained it was nothing to do with his injury so refused my grandmother her rightful pension. After much petitioning by Noreen and Nancy, who amassed glowing reports by former commanding officers from all over as to his previous brilliance and no sign of mental trouble, Helena got her widow's pension. Although I was 11 when he died, and two of my cousins (Nancy's children) were older, we never knew of his existence and assumed he had died long ago. Such was the stigma in those days - even despite the circumstances - of someone being in a mental asylum, that my parents, and Nancy and her husband Bert, never let on. It must have been a tremendous strain for them, never being able to talk about it, and nipping off to see him on occasions. In Dad's words, when I asked where he was going, it was “just to see a man about a dog.” It must have been terrible for them to just visit a vegetable who probably didn't recognize them. I didn't learn about all of this until the early 1980's, when I met up with my cousin Roger (Nancy's eldest boy) who lives not far from us in Santa Cruz, California, and had been told by his father Bert during a visit after Nancy died.
Uncovering, a letter recently from Bert to Roger, Bert recalls Austin's extraordinary ability to pump people for information. He goes on to say, 'Your uncle Austin was always inquisitive, and I wondered if he passed any of this (family information) onto Nick.' Well, the answer is, no, not much. I remained largely in the dark, but I did inherit his curiosity. Unlike most Americans who tell you more than you want to know, even after just being introduced (how many times they've married or divorced, etc, etc), Mum and Dad were fairly private people. Nothing much is written down. Everything resides in my head from snippets of conversation I overheard, even if I wasn't supposed to. Like both parents, I'm still curious, asking lots of questions. I still can't believe planes fly. I suck up information like a sponge. The more I know, the more I realize I don't know. By that premise, soon I will know nothing at all!
Jumping back to Noreen. Until she had me, she was slender, weighing only 90lbs and petite at 4'-11¾”. Helena Grace was even shorter. Her size never prevented her from sticking up for herself, and although in many ways the ultimate, original feminist, if alive today she would have had no truck with modern women complaining about “glass ceilings” and inequality with men. Of course they had their arguments, just like most other couples, but there was always complete equality, and 'give and take.'
Like Dad, Noreen was a very accomplished artist, and at 16, was the youngest person ever to win a medal at the Royal Academy for Dramatic Art (I think I have the name correct). Early photos in the late 1920s show her as a very attractive girl, with film star looks. She was a very accomplished dancer, and with her partner (Dad wouldn't, or couldn't dance that well), brought the new Charleston dance from America to Portsmouth society. Finding work during the depression was hard, but one day, while standing in line at the labour exchange, she was asked about her typing and dictation skills (which were exceptional), and pulled out to work there. She then helped others find jobs. She knew just about every word in the English language and could spell anything. Her knowledge and love of English rubbed off on me, as did being a stickler for precision and correct usage. She was the original Lynn Truss, author of “Eats, Shoots & Leaves,” and was usually around cooking or sewing so that I could always ask her about difficult words. She worked part-time while at Elmbridge as Dad's secretary.
During the long holidays at Elmbridge, when all the boys had gone home, it could get lonely as an only child. There were no neighbours' children nearby. When I had explored “the rookery” and woods as much as possible, making life a misery for the raucous rooks and rabbits with my home-made catapults, bows and arrows, or .177 pellet gun; annoyed Andrews, the gardener, by digging up the wrong vegetables; and driven chefs/cooks Andre and Victor (?), from Amalfi and Positano, to distraction; I would settle down on the lawn, or in my bedroom, and read the English Dictionary starting at the letter “A.” Unfortunately, I never got beyond the letter “F”, and, to use four of mother's favourite words, sometimes get flummoxed, flustered, frustrated, and frazzled from “G”onwards. Perhaps this will be a crusade in my retirement - to make it from G-Z; and if time permits, revisit A-F!
But, as most of you know, when Noreen wasn't helping out matron in the hospital, especially during flu, mumps, measles, chickenpox and other epidemics, she was making clothes well into the night for the school plays, or coaching boys in flower arranging for the various competitions. And what success they had, often taking first place over girls' schools or adults. For school plays, I particularly remember “The Importance of Being Earnest”, “Arsenic and Old Lace,” and “The Winslow Boy.” I remember her telling me one time that David Le Shirley's wonderful attention to detail had caused him to seek out the Royal Muffin Maker in Reading (?) to bring in real muffins for Oscar Wilde's play. Unbelievable, and coincidental as it seems, they just showed the original “The Importance of Being Earnest” film last night on TV (with Michael Redgrave and Dame Edith Evans), the first time I have seen any performance since at Elmbridge.
Mother's vices were cream cakes and lovely desserts. They were not kind to her figure, and she gained too much weight for her own good, and also took less exercise. She was a wonderful cook, but always apologizing to us and explaining to guests, that what she had just served up was either burned, done for too short a time, or lacked the right ingredients. Of course, no one really noticed that it wasn't absolutely delicious. I watched her cook a lot, and picked up so many tips that have stood me in good stead over the years. It is of quite some surprise to their various respective girlfriends, that both Austin and Ashleigh, the supreme “renaissance” men, can whip up interesting meals for them, whereas most girls today can't even boil an egg, or know that broccoli grows in the ground in the garden rather just found in the frozen section of Sainsbury's. Can the Day/Hanham genes really run that deep, transcending a generation, and for grandparents they never knew?
Despite Mother's many talents, she never learned to ride a bike or drive a car. Dad, or sometimes friends and teachers, had to take her when distances were large. Otherwise she would either take the bus into Cranleigh or Guildford, or walk all the way to the shops, returning carrying shopping bags in both hands. Of course, for the first four to five years at Elmbridge, we still had rationing books, so she couldn't buy too much.
