Willows and Roses

What was it about that house that scared us so?  It didn’t look at all scary now.  Now, it looked just like all the other empty houses in Condor Road.  Lonely and dejected - waiting for the inevitable march of progress -  its’ boarded up windows reminding me of sad, heavy-lidded eyes. 



With the exception of the scary house - which stood alone next to the corrugated fence that closed of the street at one end - Condor Road consisted of two rows of red-bricked, slate roofed terraced houses.  Built at the turn of the century they were home to the workers of the nearby shipbuilders’ yard. The scary house stood alone with ‘the cut,’ running between it and one of the terraced rows that led to Wharf road near the river. 



I had come to take one last look at my childhood home before the bulldozers moved in.  We - my parents and I - had lived in number 15, and it held many fond childhood memories for me. 



The scary house didn’t have a number, just a name - Willows - and I felt somehow drawn to it.  I walked along the path until I stood in front of it, the paintwork now brown and peeling with age; the front gate hanging on one rusted hinge.  The tiny front garden was overgrown with weeds but to my astonishment there were still roses growing by the side of the porch. 



"Roses…roses…" I was trying hard to remember something about roses. Distant memories from my childhood came tumbling back as I stared, remembering the old woman that had once lived there. 



It was 1950 and I was seven years old.  Back then the house was painted in bright vivid colours but as far back as I can remember the old woman was always... well, old.  Dressed in black, she would stand out on the porch, and raise a beckoning, skeletal hand to us children playing outside in the street.  Someone would shout then, more often than not Jimmy Holland the eldest and self-proclaimed leader of our gang

“It’s the witch! Ruunnnn!!!”  And we would run as fast as we could.  We never knocked to claim any balls that happened to bounce over her garden wall.  Even Jimmy Holland didn’t have that much courage.



But the old woman wasn’t just {i{any witch. To us impressionable children with over-active imaginations she was the witch from ‘Hansel and Gretel,’ and the brightly painted colours of her house was an assortment of sweets pressed onto the brick façade in order to tempt unsuspecting children to her door. 



Then one day when we were playing, a man accompanied by two policemen knocked very loudly on the front door of the 'Hansel and Gretel' house.  The old witch hadn’t been seen for sometime.  There was no answer.  The two policemen then proceeded to force the door with their shoulders.  Eventually, with some reluctance, it groaned open.  A small crowd had gathered and among those assembled low whisperings could be heard.

‘Thought I hadn’t seen her for a while...,’ ‘wondered if she was alright...,’ and ‘I was only thinking this morning of knocking to see if she needed anything.’ 



Later, an ambulance arrived, and everyone gasped and shook their heads when the witch was brought out on a stretcher covered with a blanket. 



'Rrruth, what are you doing?' I heard from somewhere behind me, and recognized my mother's lyrical Welsh lilt, and the way she always rolled her r's when calling my name. 



She pushed through the crowd to where I was standing and followed my gaze.



'What have I told you about staring?' she admonished. 'It’s very rude!'

'But the witch is dead'



Don’t be so ridiculous! A witch indeed!” railed my mother as she grabbed me by the arm and marched me inside our house.



“But she is” I protested, 'she was always trying to get us to go into her house so that she could put us in her oven!'



Releasing her grip on my arm mum stared at me in disbelief, while an involuntary shrill laugh escaped her lips.  She sat down at the kitchen table and took a very deep breath before she spoke again.



'So..., Mrs Ryland... is a witch,' mum , 'and she was going to put you in the oven.'

'Mrs Ryland?'

I had heard that name crop up in conversations between mum and our neighbours but never knew who they were talking about

'Yes, Mrs Ryland. Charlotte was her first name, and her husband was Charles.  They moved into 'Willows' just after they married in 1915. The Great War had been going on for two years at this time. and two months after they were married he was sent to the France! He was killed in the Battle of the Somme.





“No more play for you today!' mum said,

I didn’t argue even though it was early and my friends were still out playing. 

“Now sit down Amy and listen to what I am going to tell you!' 

“Mrs---,” 

“Mrs Charlotte Ryland.  Her husband was killed in France at the Battle of the Somme.  They had only been married for six months.  Charlotte was devastated; they had planned to start a family when the war was over but sadly it wasn’t to be.”

“Why didn’t anyone help her?  Her family?”

“Neither of them had any other family.  Their parents were dead and neither had brothers or sisters.  That’s why they were so keen to have children.”

“But what about everyone in the street?”

“They did offer help but she just wanted to be alone. Everyone would take turns to leave groceries and other things on her porch. Eventually she became a recluse but people were still leaving things. Bill across the road would clean her windows every so often”



I was so ashamed I broke down in tears.  My mother softened a little and took me in her arms planting little kisses on my forehead.

“Ruth, love! You weren’t to know but you must be more considerate in future.  Cruel rumours can hurt terribly!” 

Tucked up in bed later with a hot cup of cocoa I made a silent promise. Tomorrow I would ask mother if I could have a cutting from one of her roses and plant it in Mrs Keston’s front garden.



A loud noise shook me out of my reverie.  The bulldozers had arrived.  I made a hasty retreat to my car and drove away without looking back.  I could not bear to witness the destruction of my memories.