The House At The Crossroads

This is the story of a house, a wee girl and a love affair that was to last the rest of her life.

The house was at Toxside and stood at the crossroads near Gladhouse Reservoir. Thick-walled with narrow windows, its two storeys were impervious to the prevailing winds, snow and rain sweeping across the moors. It was the sort of house a Border reiver would have been proud to call home. And, as guardian of the crossroads, it nestled into the shelter of a small wood, watching clowns and elephants, lords and ladies, the grocery van and my father all pass through over the years.

It was part house, part school and my mother the only teacher. She arrived there, not long qualified, with two small children and a husband back from the rigours of war, determined to make it work. And for the first six years of my school life, it was the centre of my ever-expanding world.

Our home was through a wide front door, wooden and heavy as befitting such a building. It opened into a stone-slabbed hallway, always cool in the summer, freezing in the winter. I’d open that door, step into the flagged hall, gaze up at the worn stairs and let the comforting smell of the house hug me and welcome me in. That familiar smell of paraffin, acid and eggs, a strange combination, thanks to the large cupboard under the stairs; home to the paraffin that filled our lamps and stoves, home to the deep tin pail of eggs being pickled so they would last and home to the large glass accumulator batteries used by my father for various men-only tasks he would do, kept well out of our way.

The long curving flight of stone steps led to our home which was the flat above the schoolroom. There was a narrow kitchen, a small bathroom and two bedrooms. The living room had an open fire which I hated. I was so scared of it, scared of the way it would spark and flame and roar up the chimney as if it had a mind of its own.

My sister and I shared a bedroom and above my bed was a funny narrow window in the thick wall, looking out over the crossroads. I could see along the road, past the hall, to the trees by the reservoir and across the aqueduct to the Moorfoot hills in the distance. They were rounded, rolling Borders hills, speckled with white sheep and filled with the promise of adventure.

And from those thick stone walls, I would set out on unknown journeys. Dressed in shorts and jumper, I’d cross the aqueduct onto the moors, pushing through swathes of tall rosebay willow herb drowsing in the hot sun, the air filled with the continuous drone of gathering bees, darting from one laden head to another, smelling of pollen, heather and summer.

Stepping onto the purple hillsides of heather was like stepping into a newly-opened pot of honey. Those hills with their sheep and tumbling burns, their soundtrack of curlews, larks and peewits brought so much pleasure and strength.

Away from the hills, there were adventures to be had in Heathery Wood, tree houses to make, picnics to have. And the naughty, forbidden things like pinching turnips and trespassing in the woods around the reservoir. Things which held dire consequences as we discovered to our cost.

And all the while, the house sat, strong and watchful over the comings and goings of the crossroads; my father setting off daily to his work in Penicuik; the poor soul in her nightdress appearing one day, having run away from a psychiatric hospital; Lord Roseberry and entourage taking a break during the shooting season; performers, including an elephant with mahout, taking a quiet traffic-free route towards Edinburgh and their circus; and sadly, Bruno, our boxer dog, knocked over and killed.

Six years passed, full and eventful, then we moved on and the moors, woods and hills were left behind. But not forgotten.

For how evocative is the smell of paraffin. The briefest hint and I’m that wee girl again, back in the house, breathing in the familiar welcoming smell. And as for the hills, I am drawn constantly to them, finding the same strength, peace and fulfilment.

The house at Toxside, no longer a school, still stands, strong and weathered, in the encroaching woods, holding safe its precious secrets and memories.