The Visitor from Australia

It seems outrageous that I live less than an hour from Stratford-upon-Avon and have only visited this beautiful, notoriously historical place once.

My niece came for a visit from Australia. Her mother had considered that getting to know her relatives and the English way of life/weather would be character building. I suspect that it was also considered a safer option (and cheaper), to be here with relatives rather than with girlfriends in Thailand or some such exotic paradise.

Mary was aged seventeen and recently finished in full-time education. This was to be her gap year, though, as she did not attend University, we did wonder - gap between what?

The slender, spindle legged, Betty Boop lookalike teenager arrived in the most minimal of skirts.  A shock of bright red hair the first thing that came into view.

Known as a challenging child, I suspect her mother welcomed six weeks of relief from the rants and huffs of her eldest daughter. Perhaps it was the outdoor lifestyle in Australia that facilitated this overconfident child? She was certainly a far cry from our quieter children, who were positively shy in comparison.

It was arranged that Mary would stay with her grandmother. Within a week of arriving however, she upset her to such an extent that she was no longer welcome to stay in her home, the responsibility too great for an almost 80 year old.

Mary’s welfare, therefore, became ours - her aunt and uncle. We provided bed, food, and taxi service. We also had to try to keep her entertained, not so easy in an English winter. We knew we could not compete with the outdoor summer she had left behind in Sydney. Mary was used to a swimming pool in the garden and access to Bondi, Manley and other beautiful beaches, not to mention the lifeguards.

 Our Christmas was spent inside with the heating on. The curtains were drawn by 4 pm to block out the frosty nights. Electric blankets were a new phenomenon to Mary, an artificial heat source she quickly grew very attached to.

For New Year’s Day, a trip to the seaside seemed a good idea. After a two-and-a- half hour drive we pulled onto the car park in Hunstanton. Before us, just visible on the horizon, lay the brown, choppy sea. Half a mile of brown sand and mud stretched before it, the tide right out as it always seems to be in Sunny Hunny.

With earphones removed, an Australian twang rang out from the back seat - “Is this it, do people really come here for pleasure?”  Mary refused to get out of the car into the infamous East Coast wind. The offer of a brisk walk along the beach was dismissed out of hand.

The next task on this not-such-a-good-idea was to find an open Fish and Chip shop. No an easy feat during the closed season and on a miserable New Year’s Day. Challenge achieved, we devoured our lunch hidden from view behind steamed up car windows, the car heater still pumping out heat.  

All that remained was the return two-and-a-half-hour trip back to Leicester. An unimpressed Mary still in the seat she had left only briefly to visit a public toilet.

My days off from work were now taken up with trips out for Mary. Her love of history was a saviour. Castles and stately homes are not in short supply around the Leicestershire area.  Personally, I see no excitement in viewing a pile of derelict ruins but if there was furnishing and artefacts displaying the way people lived in the house, I enjoyed the visits immensely. Had history lessons at school not centred around battles and dates, instead covering social history, I could have greatly enjoyed the subject.

Towards the end of her holiday and running out of places to go and money to fund it, we headed out to Stratford. We saw signs for William Shakespeare’s birthplace and made our way there.  My education at a Secondary Modern School never ventured into the realms of Shakespeare or his works. The gardens were of greatest interest to me, even at this dormant time of year. This proved too cold for Mary and proved very short lived.

The house was interesting to us both. As we entered the kitchen, the floor space was consumed by a polished dark wooden baby seat. This was attached to a long pole, which in turn was connected to a pivot. With a child installed, William could have run around in circles like a pony on a lead rein. His mother could then complete household chores unhindered, apart from stepping over the pole that consumed most of the kitchen. Unable to venture further than the ‘turning circle’ the child was safe, if not a little bored with the repetitive view.  

I doubt my fascination with the device was of interest to Mary, but we both enjoyed the visit for our different reasons. We had a nice lunch overlooking the River Avon. Mary warmed up considerably and became more content with a glass of red to hand.

It was a long and expensive six weeks.  The money her mother had provided for her keep was kept firmly in Mary’s charge and she happily spent every penny. The responsibility for this seventeen-year-old weighed heavily. My sister-in-law was on the phone daily enquiring after our trips and seemed satisfied that we were fulfilling her wishes to expand her daughter’s education, if not her family roots.

The return trip to the Airport was a relief for all the Blighty contingency. Smiles of relief replaced the usual shedding of tears as the Singapore Airlines Boeing 747 lifted to the skies above Birmingham, thankfully heading back to Sydney.

CW

Jester, Stratford on Avon
Photo by A Mott