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I found a nugget of gold in the garden.
 

It was a wonderfully bright sunny morning. The cold winter days were finally over. It had been a very icy season, but now the sun was breaking through. The ground was starting to warm up, and the snowdrops and daffodils were starting to pop their heads up through the ground and turn their faces to the sun.

Blow the house work, I headed for the shed and found my gloves and fork. It was far too nice a day to stay indoors, and I decided to do some gardening The first thing was to do some weeding.  The weeds always seemed to grow quicker than the other plants. I spotted a dandelion, that needed to come out. I put my fork into the ground and put some pressure on it . The ground still being wet, was soft, so the fork entered easily. The dirt moved but the weed didn’t. Try again! I push the fork deeper into the ground, and Oh Bother!!! It’s struck a stone. I can remember my Mum saying that she thought the stones grow as well as the plants, and  I was inclined to agree. I levered the stone out of the soil. Hey!! Its shinning, it must be the sun, no, it’s in the shade here. Someone must of painted it? I pick it up It looks real, but it can’t be. Is it a real nugget of gold??

Wow!! I’m rich, is anyone watching, quick hide it. I go indoors and wash the nugget. It does seem real. How do I check it? How do I find out were to go? Is it a one off, or is there more? My mind is in a turmoil.

Have a cup of tea and sit down and think. The first thing I can do is have a look on the computer while I drink the cup of tea I’ve made. Not a lot of help! Why can I never find what I’m looking for? What other key words are there besides gold and nugget, and assay.

Try all three together! I find an office not too far away and make a note of the phone number. I’ll give it a ring in a minute. First I’m going to give that bit of the garden a dig, maybe there is more?

Now where to hide this piece? It is getting far too hectic, I need to slow down. I put it in a saucepan in the cupboard. It should be safe in there, I am only going to be in the garden.

I start turning over the ground were I had found the nugget. It is more relaxing, and I begin to feel better not so worked up. I wonder how it had got there, was it dropped, or was that how they found gold. I thought you had to mine it or pan for it in the rivers. No someone must of dropped it. Would it be Treasure Trove? Would it be taken away from me? Would I be cheated out of it? Now slow down you are getting all worked up again.

I give up digging the garden. I have not found any more but I have dug up a lot of weeds, and stones. I am quite please with what I have done.

Time to go and ring the assay office. First I deserve another cup of tea. I call and a gentleman answers. He is very interest in what I have to say, and tells me to call into the office at my earliest opportunity and he will weigh it and let me know if it is pure or fake.

Before I know it I am in the assay office. He seems a very pleasant, honest man, and   offers me a cup of tea which I gratefully accept. While I am drinking it he examines the nugget, and tells me its real. With the weight of it is worth quite a bit of money. He says that I should report it as it could be lost property. If I get to keep it could be worth more if it is kept as it is, because of its large size. I say I will think about it for a few days, and then I will come back to let him know what I have decided.

Next thing I know I am back home and I have an urgent need for the toilet. It’s all that tea I have been drinking. Then I’m awake and, yes you’ve guest it, it was only a dream. It seemed so real, but how could it be, but I will do a bit of gardening just in case.

Another piece of writing from one of our members.

Beware of the Dog.

“Beware of the Dog” seen in the rear window of a shabby Ford van with number plates so covered in dirt as to be unreadable. Opening the door the nose is assaulted by a number of smells: stale body odour, dust, traces of other detritus built up over years of neglect. On the dash board was a half eaten sandwich, cigarette stubs, and a squashed paper cup. The seats were shabby, stained and the colours were indistinguishable after years of use and neglect. The baby seat was a shock, stained and damaged and very badly fitted and the baby was grizzling.

Looking into the rear of the van, I saw a large metal cage surrounded by cans of paint, tools, a bag of cement.

Looking up to see the owner coming, one is aware of a thin man in stained working overalls, who immediately becomes very aggressive.

“What the hell are you doing,” and the large and very ferocious dog he is pulling on barks and snarls. A hasty retreat is called for.

I REMEMBER - I REMEMBER.

1933. We were taken to a photographic studio by my mother. There were 5 of us. My elder sister, eleven years old, myself, approaching my 5^th birthday, my younger sister who was 3 years old, and my twin brothers who were one year old. My mother had lost one boy so when the twins were born prematurely ,she fought so hard to rear them and I suppose that was one reason she wanted a family photograph, and I suspect with hindsight, she needed to give my father something tangible to remind him that he was first and foremost a father. Sadly we only had one very fuzzy picture of the boy she lost, the child called Frankie, the child she referred to a great deal.

On the way home we stopped at Stamshaw Infant School to enter my name for school in the following September. I was intrigued and wished I could have started then and there.

Eventually the great day arrived and I remember so many mothers and children milling around, but I was very confused. Why were so many mothers weeping and why the children all seemed to be crying too! Some even screaming!

Forward 6 years to September 1939 – a mass exodus of children from cities all across the South and East, and of course from London. I knew from newspapers and news reels that all sorts of evil things were happening ,but to children it was all so far away., so it was a great shock when my mother packed what few clothes we had into kit bags my father had stitched together from sail cloth (he was a seaman). We had no toys but we had gas masks in cardboard boxes slung across our bodies and later we had luggage labels pinned to our coats with our names and the name of the school.

My mother couldn’t take us to school- there were four of us – because she had two babies as well, but she watched us slowly dragging ourselves reluctantly to school. Every few feet we turned and waved though I couldn’t see her through my tears. There came a point when we had to turn a corner and lost sight of her. We didn’t see her again till the end of July 1940 . This time I could understand all the tears that were shed that day and for a long time after.

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Diane Hiley