February 2021
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<strong>February</strong> <strong>2021</strong><br />
63<br />
<strong>February</strong><br />
by Jean Medcalf<br />
<strong>February</strong>: lipchap nipnose dripnose<br />
Frostbite chilblains and boys’ mauve knees;<br />
<strong>February</strong>: steam breath ice crack hoarfrost<br />
Fern windows leaf rime and falling silent snow.<br />
<strong>February</strong>: crunchgrass snowcreak stiffmud<br />
Stonesong on iceponds; sheets rigid on the line;<br />
<strong>February</strong>: hot toast warm slippers muffins<br />
Coalfires scorched legs and pictures in the flames.<br />
<strong>February</strong>: hotmitts earmuffs greatcoats<br />
Balaclava helmets and warm woolly vests;<br />
<strong>February</strong>: snowdrops primrose crocus<br />
Blacktwigged almond blossom, pink before the leaf.<br />
<strong>February</strong>: candlemas purify expiate<br />
Barebranch stripbare nothing to hide;<br />
Daffodils greenspear upthrust through the earth<br />
Trees deciduous decide to bud again.<br />
The Nightingale pub was run by a landlord<br />
called Jock. The corner door of the pub was<br />
for off-sales; it led through to a tiny woodpanelled<br />
corridor, where there was a jar of<br />
arrowroot biscuits, a penny each. The landlord<br />
kept white doves in a dovecote in the little<br />
garden behind the pub.<br />
There was B. Forster the builder further down,<br />
and at the bottom of Elmcroft Avenue was a<br />
rag and bone yard with a horse and cart. The<br />
horse was called George and the children<br />
used to give him apples.<br />
Going up Nightingale Lane, on the right-hand<br />
side was a junkyard called Cardy’s run by an<br />
elderly chap, and on summer days, he would<br />
often close early and hang up a sign to say<br />
‘GONE FISHING’!<br />
Further up, near the top of the road, was<br />
S.E. Bamforth, the clock and watch mender,<br />
a little, venerable white-haired man with<br />
a collarless shirt, who peered over the top<br />
of gold-rimmed specs. The shop was tiny<br />
– filled with ticking clocks – and very dark,<br />
illuminated only by a hissing gaslight.<br />
So, we could get most of our shopping just<br />
around the corner. Once a week I would push<br />
my heavy pram up Nightingale Lane to the big<br />
High Street shops. I will tell you about them<br />
next time.<br />
Jean’s book To Everything There is a Season<br />
is available in paperback (£4.75). Visit<br />
wnstd.com/jean<br />
Please mention the Wanstead Village Directory when responding to adverts