A BOXFUL OF LETTERS

My niece Angela and her husband spent the day with me a few weeks ago. It was a treat to have some young people in my house - and I love my niece. I thought she might be interested in some old photographs of her grandparents, father and uncles and so I retrieved a dusty box from the attic. Later when I investigated the contents of the box more careful I found a lot of letters that I had written to my parents during the early 60's as a student at University College London. It was interesting to read those old letters!

I wrote about my life with grandmother - because I lived with her in Richmond at the time. There were things my grandmother found amusing - like the new trousers I bought with one leg longer than the other. I have always had trouble with trousers being short in the legs. I can remember purchasing Chum's high-waisted trousers and found that the only way I could prevent them trailing in the dust was to hoist them up so far that I restricted the blood supply to my crotch. My grandmother was not the sympathetic soul grandmother's should be. One night I was watching television with her, drinking my late night coffee, when a dog barked so loud I jumped out of my skin and spilled the coffee all over my new pullover. It was ruined. My grandmother wasn't concerned about the pullover but complained bitterly that I had stained her best armchair. Living with my grandmother was cheap but trying. One Sunday on our way to chapel her suspenders malfunctioned. She slunk into an alley and posted me as gaurd whilst she fumbled with her underwear. I did not find it an assignment commensurate with my dignity.

I wrote about college life. One of the illuminating incidents I described, and had quite forgotten, was a brush with Dr Brown - the Reader in Geographer. I quote: "Last Monday during the Geography seminar Dr Brown got right worked up with me to the immense amusement of my fellow students. In fact, I was subject to a vicious attack in which he called me 'plain cussed' and 'thick skulled.' The topic under discussion was the origin of granite tors over which we were in disagreement." That is not the last time I got under the skin of those in authority!

I wrote about the people at Salem Baptist Church, Richmond, where my grandfather had ministered for over 30 years and which I attended with my widowed grandmother. Robert Smith was the pastor. He was a flamboyant, powerful, preacher and had a very kind heart - but, oh, he did tell some whoppers! His illustrations were far fetched in the extreme. He once told us that the buttercup used its yellow petals as reflectors and thereby focused the sun's rays upon its seed. He overlooked the fact that by the time the seed was shed the buttercup had long lost its petals.

I used, on my mother's instructions, to visit the Miss Haddlers who had been in love with grandfather and as such had been very attentive and gracious to my mother, his daughter. They weren't in love with Robert Smith, or me, but rather lavished what love they had on a cat of repulsive grossness and smelliness. So my mother and I did not share the same opinion of the Miss Haddlers. They did tell me, however, a story I have always treasured and which one of my letters reminded me of. One again I will quote what I wrote:
'I spent three hours with the Miss Haddlers Friday afternoon as they said that they would like to see me. I quite enjoyed listening to them talk about their father who was one of Charles Haddon Spurgeon's students. They told me a lovely anecdote about dear old C.H.. Mr Haddler wished to put up a church building in Sheerness. Spurgeon told him not to start until he had the necessary money. However, Mr Haddler was convinced God wanted him to start the work in faith. It was, of course, with great trepidation he went to tell Charles Haddon of his decision. On being given the information the great 19th century preacher stamped out of his study without a word. He returned a few moments later with a slip of paper and said, "Here's a cheque for £100 brother - for being disobedient."

Those old ladies told me that story with tears in their eyes. It did me good to hear it. Their witness to the generosity and grace of the grand old preacher was a living link with a wonderful past.

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