John and I had left within about 18 months of each other. He had won a scholarship to England, and I had gone to France for a year. This was when my parents had managed to scrape together enough money as a down payment on a house. Only Peter was still at home, but, because he had been involved in a serious road accident, he, too, had “left home”, in a way. Poor Peter had been involved in a serious road accident which had landed him in hospital for months on end. He had almost died. None of us would ever wish such a fate on Peter, of course, but my parents, being pragmatic, had saved even more money and had sold what they could, too. The additional incentive to buying a bungalow was that when Peter came out of hospital, he would be on crutches for weeks to come, so he needed to be on the ground floor. He could not manage stairs to an apartment.
Nevertheless, I found it incredible that, after all these years, we had a house that we owned. This long, low bungalow sitting on an acre of ground, with its 97 fruit trees, was going to belong to us. We would never have to move again, or so I thought. I could hardly believe my eyes, when in August 1968, I saw the property for the first time.
When I had left for France, we had just moved to a very small, rather dismal apartment on a noisy road, in a somewhat run-down area of Salisbury. I didn’t know that this, too, was to save money to buy a house. Our parents didn’t share their plans with us children. I didn’t like the apartment, but I was there for such a short while. Now, upon my return, we had this spacious bungalow, with its beautifully maintained garden. Within a few years, my parents even saved enough money to add a swimming pool, too.
Having graduated the previous year with my French Honours Degree, and now studying for a Post-Graduate Certificate of Education (PGCE), I decided to live at home instead of going back into residence. I knew that the academic part of my course was relatively short because of two student-teacher placements in local high schools. I could be sent anywhere in Salisbury. I thought it would be easier to stay at home, where my parents could drop me off in the mornings on their way to work, and where Peter, who was in his final year of high school, could also help with my transportation. He had the use of my father’s motorbike and could come home when school ended at 1:00pm or so, and collect me, too. I wouldn’t have to wait several hours to be picked up after my parents finished their workday at 5.00pm.
My backache was unusual, especially since I couldn’t work out what I had done to cause the discomfort. I assumed that I must have hurt myself whilst swimming or diving, both of which I loved. Because I was in pain, my mother decided that I needed to keep my muscles warm, so she piled blankets on me, and gave me a hot water bottle to help with what she assured me was probably “just a bit of lumbago”.
