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children or her morose husband.
    Two weeks later, when we moved to our new home, it seemed that my mother’s wish was to be granted.

Chapter Eight
     
     
    T he week before we left the tiny cottage that my mother disliked so much, I helped her pack up our meagre possessions. Bits of kitchenware poked out of cardboard boxes, bedding bulged out of stained pillowcases and clothes had been crammed into two battered second-hand suitcases.
    I refused to put either my collection of rag dolls or my beloved blonde-haired favourite into a box. She had been a present from my aunt and I had named her Belinda. Instead I wrapped each one up carefully in whatever scraps of material I could find and placed them in a brown carrier bag that I refused to be parted from.
    Two vehicles, a maroon car that had seen better days and an equally battered white van, both driven by my father’s friends, arrived on the morning of our departure. My mother, my small brother and myself, still clutching my precious bag of dolls, were placed in the car, whilst my father and our ragged assortment of possessions went into the van.

    Sitting in the back of the car I wondered what our new home would look like. My mother had told me that a young couple with two small children lived in the adjoining cottage. A boy and a girl, she said, but to my disappointment they were still only toddlers, so too young for me to play with.
    The husband was a mechanic. He serviced all the farm’s vehicles and that was why the farmer allowed him to rent a cottage on his land. She had only seen him briefly, but his wife was very friendly.
    As my mother chattered away about our new neighbours with more animation than I ever remembered hearing in her voice, I looked out curiously at the flat scenery of Essex flashing past. First, there were large farmhouses with pretty gardens and then clusters of farm workers’ cottages with unkempt gardens and broken wooden fences. Then we drove down a long country lane where clumps of flowers added colour to the hedgerows and cows grazed peacefully in the fields on either side. Just as I was craning my neck to see more, the car slowed down and we knew we were there.
    In what looked to me more like a large field than a garden stood two red-bricked cottages with fresh paint-work on the doors and windows and a sweep of gravel in the front, large enough for the two cars to park.
    My eyes were drawn to the cottage next door. There were pots of geraniums on the front step, pale curtains hung in the windows, wisps of smoke curled out of their chimney and on their lawn a sturdy swing had been erected.

    When my father pushed open the door of our cottage it smelt fresh and welcoming. A shiny black stove was at the end of the stone-floored living room. Flowers patterned the newly papered walls, and when we walked through to the kitchen I saw a sparkling white sink.
    My father and his friends started unloading the van, and within minutes, it seemed, it was empty. The beds had been carried upstairs and the rest of our possessions were piled in a heap in the centre of the room and finally my father’s bicycle was removed and propped up against the outside wall.
    My brother, tired and grizzling, had been placed in the pram and thankfully had shut his eyes and fallen asleep.
    ‘Anyone for a cuppa?’ my mother asked brightly.
    ‘Thanks love, another time. We had better be off,’ the men said without any further offer of help, and we watched from the doorway as the van and car drove off up the lane.
    ‘Done all I need to,’ said my father. ‘I’ll just go down the pub and buy those two a couple of beers for their help. They want to introduce me to a few of the regulars, now that it’s going to be my new local. Marianne’s old enough to help you now. Anyhow, arranging furniture and stuff is women’s work.’
    Before my mother had a chance to protest he mounted his bicycle and pedalled off in the same direction his friends had taken.
    I put down my bag