A recollection of a life changing event. by Aileen Cleave

    

I remember my drive south.  I remember my elation, my anxiety, my hopes and my doubts.   It was 1983 and we were returning to live in London, now a family of five distinctly different from the excited, carefree newly-weds who made the same journey northward 13 years previously.

We loved the North;  my husband, a Londoner borne and bred, especially so.  He loved the openness of the people, and their  genuine interest in others,he loved the easy access to beautiful countryside, and, inevitably,  the low cost of living, especially of housing.  But this was the early eighties and the recession that was to devastate so many the length and breadth of the country, was already wreaking havoc with companies, jobs and livelihoods in the North East.

It seemed to happen overnight.  One day our company was doing so well, life was good, then quite suddenly no-one had money for home improvements, our company went to the wall and tough decisions had to be made.  With three children to feed and educate relocating seemed to me the only solution, I knew only too well the difficulties of finding employment in an area where, were you lucky enough to get a job, you probably stayed for life.  My husband applied and was accepted into the Metropolitan Police Service and our house was put up for sale.   That’s when i knew it was really happening, the house i loved up for sale!  I loved the high ceilinged reception rooms,  the wide, curving  staircase, and there was even a breakfast room (which i rather pretentiously christened the morning room).  It took a year to sell, a year in which our options to buy were rapidly narrowing.  The Church of England bought it eventually to house  an incoming vicar, and totally ground us down on price.   I was quickly learning to be philosophical.

I drove our new Chrysler Sunbeam, with the children in the back (no seat belts yet, of course) and my brother with me to share the driving.  My husband would arrive later with his newly acquired motor bike.  His first posting was to be Kennington so this was deemed the cheapest way to cope with the shifts he would have to work and the traffic into London.

The children, then aged 9, 7 and 3 were wonderful on the journey, as though they knew it’s was a momentous step for us all.  They didn’t want to leave their friends, or their school, but leaving at this stage would give them time to settle before moving up to senior school.  That was our optimistic thinking.

I paid them scant attention on that journey, I recall.  My mind was full of of other matters, such as the mortgage we had just tripled, the half-house we had just bought - a pretty house, white stucco, leaded windows and Cyprus trees in the  front garden, but tiny, and our children were growing.  Their school had already been arranged,  just a 15 minute walk away, their uniforms bought and a pre-school kindergarten organised for our 3 year old - because, of course, I would have to work.

Suffice   to say, it was a move that worked out well, but to this day I consider adjusting to it one of the hardest things I have done in my life.