MOAT HOUSE, OLVESTON
Near Thornbury Castle and Aust Ferry, there is first
Tockington, and then, Olveston. I approach the
long-forgotten familiarity of Church Lane:
its turns and gradients.
Over thirty years on, Moat House looks heavier,
rather than lighter. Its occupant answers the door:
Reginald Crouch; recently retired Methodist lay preacher;
ninety-three.
He does not know me, but recollects my late parents;
together, we remember his late wife, Daisy;
through her, I remember myself – my inner child:
I bring my stilted past into the doorway of the present.
Daisy, fresh as infancy, is imploring me to play more,
to put on shorter dresses; to be open-throated.
Moat House has an aroma of home-cooked meals,
floral soaps, pre-motorway hedgerows.
The place seems heavier now, like its owner: who slowly
uncovers his past; embraces his present – those visits from
middle-aged sons; grandchildren. Safe on his threshold,
safe within the frame of Methodism – he begins his goodbye.
Copyright © JENNY JOHNSON