I was fortunate enough to have been born into a family that valued
and encouraged the accumulation of story books.
Birthdays and Christmas always seemed to produce a varied collection
of ‘suitable reading.’ The Boys Book of
this and that, and the adventures of five imagined children, courtesy of the
famous Enid Blyton, come to mind. I was
never careless with my growing library, and items relating to railways always
dropped easily to hand.
Came the Christmas of 1952 and my parents accepted the opportunity
to take the family to my aunt and uncle in Melton Mowbray. After a wonderful but very cold Christmas
season, we all returned to our family home at Queens Road in Loughborough. The first clue that something was very wrong
was the sight of water running out of the front door.
I was told to wait outside while Dad waded down the flooded hallway.
Mum was in tears. The water pipes above
a huge cupboard in the living room had frozen and then burst. Water was cascading through the entire contents,
including all of my books, and most of my collection of toys.
The soggy mess that finished up in the dustbin sadly included (I discovered
years later) four first edition copies of Thomas the Tank Engine, now worth a
small fortune.
Like most good parents, promises of replacement items were made in
good faith, and the imminent arrival of the local plumper seemed to be upmost
in their minds. For me however, it was
the trauma that taught me a fundamental truth:-
Nothing in life is totally safe or secure; sad events must be
expected and endured with forbearance.
It is part of growing up!
David Taylor
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| Photo by Matt Collamer on Unsplash |
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