Part 4: A Remembrance of Things Past

A Remembrance of Things Past

That first evening in Touškov Jana and I took a stroll with dad. What we must have looked like, I can only guess. Babushka knowing that the locals would soon spot us had rummaged through our rucksacks and come up with another ridiculous outfit to attire us in. Back in England, dad was a member of a Czech club in Hampstead who, in turn, provided a place to meet colleagues who had remained in Britain after the war. They also provided a small homely restaurant of sorts where they could feast on their much-missed Czech food and have a catch up.  This club also had a link with Canada, since many had emigrated there.  These folk would send huge chests of clothing over for the Czech families struggling to find their way in London. It would appear from the amount of stuff we received that little sister and I were of relevant size to a lot of party frocks. These were delicious both in style and fabric:  a grey one with frilled sleeves and edged in a plum velvet ribbon in a fabric decorated with rocking horses; a red tartan-edged one with a pleated skirt; a white one with a cherry pattern and little lace collar. To these, add bright red and black patent shoes with little buckles and buttons. Babushka made sure we looked the epitome of western decadence that evening and finished off our ensemble with our “cat and fiddle” hair slides. Jana had the little “dish ran away with the spoon” and “the cow jumped over the moon”. These had been purchased in Woolworths for pennies but we loved how they told the tale:

Hey diddle diddle,

the cat and the fiddle,

the cow jumped over the moon. 

The little dog laughed to see such fun

and the dish ran away with the spoon.

The one telling the tale of The ‘little dog laughing” had been mislaid on the train journey from Nuremberg and was no doubt puffing its way back and forth across the border.

On our stroll through Touškov, we paused outside a fine big white house set on the outskirts of the village and looking out over the fields towards Kozolupy.  “Remember, Mařenka?” whispered dad.

Remember? How could I ever forget! It was in this very house I had spent nearly five years of my life. Jana had been brought here from Pilsen maternity hospital; a premature baby weighing under two kilos.  My first memory, forever etched in mind, as clear today as the day it happened, was inside that house: I look up a steep staircase contemplating an ascent but am halted by the sunlight beaming from a room to my left. There is a small occasional table between two long windows billowing with soft muslin.  On this table a kind of gold metallic thread cloth fashioned in the shape of a gigantic spiderweb.  Tassels of gold hung down over the table. In the centre, an exquisite decanter of lime green with an amber stopper, all surrounded by miniature glasses of the same colour. It was a home of somebody well-off and furnished in the beautiful 1930s German-esque way. It was the home of my parents and was literally “given” to them. Across the country, the Czechs had made a pretty decent job of getting rid of anyone who had a German name. The Czechs had suffered badly and retribution was in the air. These homes, previously occupied by doctors, dentists, lawyers, teachers and the like, were allocated to returning ex-servicemen. My father Josef Novotný, having been in the air force, was therefore ranked important enough to be given one of the most salubrious houses in Touškov. The original family in the dentist’s house were called Reimer and were German enough to be given 24 hours to leave. Thus, family Novotný moved into a beautiful, established home with cupboards groaning with linen, fine German “Thomas” bone china, elegant cutlery, Bohemian crystal and even a car on the drive. In the distant past, I hear my name being called, and I am awakened from the dreamlike state that accompanies first memories. 

It was here that I lifted my crying little sister from her pram in the garden and travelled to the kitchen door with my hands around her throat whilst the chickens kicked up a racket. Mum would often tell of the moment I appeared holding what she did not know until I lay my precious cargo down. Poor little premature sis lay purple and gasping for air before bursting into raging cries of indignation.

Here, too, I remember mum doing the weekly wash in the basement: a great tin bath filled with lukewarm, grey water stood beside a copper; a copper she had tried, unsuccessfully, to ignite properly. The waxy soap made for a disgusting film of slime on the top of the tin bathwater and I was fascinated. Whilst mum’s back was turned I got it into my head that coal, on account of it being very black and very dirty, could do with a thorough wash. In the corner, the coal bucket stood full and ready to be taken upstairs. Back and forth, back and forth I went until I had thoroughly completed the task of transferring the big lumps into the bath. Quite exhausted, I plunged my arms into the water and gave it a good stir making sure all the thick and embroidered bed linen which lay therein, got a swish too. Delighted at my handiwork, and seeking reward, I commenced to strip off and actually sit on top of the soaking coals and gave everything a good kicking. At this point, mum entered carrying a massive tin pitcher full of steaming water no doubt to add on top of the cooling waxy mass in the hope of a lather. I recall the look on her beautiful, young face as she sunk to the ground putting her head on her arms on the rim of the bath. A low groan emitted for her very core.  It had been a long and tedious job thus far already and the thought of having to start again was too much for her. What with that and her failed attempts at getting her yeast dough to rise, she longed to be back in the Putney of her youth and to go into a Lyons Corner House for buck rarebit followed by a cup of tea and a cigarette. She was beginning to take stock of where her mad romance, with this handsome Czech, had led her. Little did she know her day was about to get a lot worse…

To the side of the handsome house and looking over the fields lay a huge garden running parallel with a country road. The garden boasted a well-stocked orchard, vegetable plot and hothouse of sorts. Water butts were dotted here and there to catch the rain anywhere they could.  Broken watering cans and a row of beehives completed the scene. Here, I was playing when a little voice called, “Mařenka come, look I have matchboxes and we can catch ladybirds”.  I did not need asking twice. Squeezing through the twisted chestnut palings I cleared the ditch in one jump and burst upon the road straight out into the path of a big speeding motorbike.

I was hit full on, and worse, the mudguard on the front wheel, embedded itself into my neck and dragged me a few more yards before the rider could stop. What happened next was later regaled to my mother in detail by the little matchbox boy, hidden in the field on the other side of the road. The motorcyclist stopped and untangled my hair from the spokes in the wheel, and then, threw me into the ditch and rode off. Mum had put me in a red swimsuit, the only dry garment to hand which was awaiting a coloured wash. After sloshing off as much of the soot as she could, she had instructed me to run and get dry in the garden. She heard the screech of a motorbike and rushed out to find the little hidden comrade crying and saying I was further down the lane in a ditch. Finding me must have been traumatic for her. Added to my severe neck injuries I was covered in tiny pieces of gravel where I had been punctured a hundred times having been dragged across a shingle surface, each one causing its own mini injury. This, coupled with the tangled and bloodied hair and the blackish coal-tarred limbs made for an unfathomable sight.  Later that night and after I had been successfully stitched together, mum sobbed. “Josef, I want to go home”.  She had had enough and she meant it.