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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

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