The grand mansion of Mersham-Le-Hatch must surely hold echoes of the hundreds of children and adults who passed along that sweeping driveway, under the beech trees and up the broad stone steps that led into the imposing entrance hall. Children at Mersham-le-Hatch were not allowed to use this main entrance as a rule, and had to take the longer route to the rear of the building. I often wonder what changes have been made to the place I called “home” for six teenage years. The place, or the Community, was for many years my refuge and it is never far from my thoughts. The vista across the front lawn from the steps, past the giant Wellingtonias, to the paddock beyond, still features in my dreams. I have a recurrent dream, shared by another ex-Hatchite (as we call ourselves) of a wildly burning building and a crowd of children, disinterested and emotionless, standing in rows across the front lawn watching the conflagration from where they had been hurriedly assembled. And it is raining. Why should we both dream this, with almost exact details?

Here are some of my memories of that imposing building and of some adventures, and maybe they can help feed the quest to conjure up the erstwhile existence of children in that great house and in the grounds beyond.

The “prep” room was in the stable block. Some of us had to do our homework here after school and in the winter, when it was pitch dark, make our way back to the main house, usually alone, in time for supper. Stopping along the driveway under the trees I often stood perfectly still, staring up at a clear star-studded sky, wishing and hoping to see a shooting star. When I did see one I would be so overwhelmed by the awe and infinity of space that I’d panic, heart racing as I galloped to the safety of lights from the kitchen. Is the sky still as clear now as it was in 1958, and can you still savour that mystery of deep black space going on forever? And do the bats still flit about high above, echolocating with high-pitched squeaks, at the north facing side of the house?

Sometimes, late in the evening, a ‘train’ would rush down the alley-passage leading to the boiler room and the west wing. The first time I heard this I was scared witless. Then I was reassured that it was ‘only Michael’ who was train mad, and this was probably the only place that he could let off steam, so to speak. Steam trains were still the norm in the 1950’s. If you listen carefully on a still dark night, you may yet hear him whooshing along at great speed.

Do the house martins still build their nests high up under the eaves and in the corners of the dining room windows? In summer they would fly in through the open windows and flutter around the dining room, forgetting which way they had come in. The huge Canaletto of Venice’s Grand Canal would be spattered with white patches and I wondered who would have the delicate task of cleaning that valuable painting. (I’ve learned since that it was probably a reproduction)

The girls’ dorms were in the attic (‘Top Floor’) – the old servants’ quarters, and all the sash windows had wooden blocks to prevent them from being opened wide. The younger girls slept in three dormitories separate from the over 14s, who had the centre dorm with skylights one side and windows that overlooked the dome. Occasionally it was necessary to contact a girl sleeping in the dorm that looked over to the west wing, usually to plan some naughty nighttime escapade. To do so we younger girls had to run the gauntlet of creeping through the senior girls’ dorm without getting caught; impossible as those girls had ears like bats’ and eyes like hawks’. So one night, in pitch darkness, I climbed out of the window of the dorm that looked over the east wing. It was possible for a small person to squeeze through the narrow gap of the open window – are those wooden blocks still there? I crept along below the parapet till I reached the gables above the front steps. From here I removed my slippers, climbed onto the outer sloping ledge so as not to be heard by the senior girls, and walked up one side then down the other to reach the dormitory on the far side. I think I was the only child stupid enough to do this, but at the time I thought nothing of it. The next day at breakfast one of the boys asked me what was I doing walking on the narrow ledge carrying my Bible (slippers!). A member of staff overheard & then I was ‘for it’! Only a ticking off though. Whenever I returned for reunion at the mansion house I would look up at those gables and sense an adrenalin surge – at the thought of what I had done all those years ago and no wonder the staff were perturbed as it was a dangerous escapade.

There was the ha-ha at the far end of the second front lawn. We used to have great fun swinging across the ha-ha to land quite a distance further into the gymkhana field, using a rope slung in the tree above; is the rope still there? And here I found a dying rabbit, infected with myxomatosis, its face swollen and its poor little body thrashing in its death throes. I just had to put it out of its agony.

There were grass snakes in this field.

Our walk to the school bus stop was through the Rookery. High above in the topmost branches, a whole army of raucous rooks had built their great untidy nests, no doubt used year after year. The Rookery floor was carpeted with enchanter’s nightshade, with delicate white flowers that open at dawn; and there were violets and primroses in Spring. The return journey in the dark during winter was at the gallop as it was a spooky place at night. Once through the Rookery, and passing through a gate in the wall, to the right was the Stinky Pond, although why it was called that I have no idea when it was never smelly. I wonder if it has ever been drained. The last time I saw the pond was on a glorious summer day that enhanced an idyllic picture of clear water reflecting a blue, blue sky, and flowering water lilies jewelling the pond’s still surface. But what lurks in the muddy bottom? In 1960 I lobbed a kilner jar of disgusting looking jugged rabbit into the stinky pond. I had made it at cookery class and we had been instructed to take it home to eat, but no way was I tempted to have that for supper. The jar may still be there, along with football boots, school bags, textbooks, dodgy homework and other unwanted items.

On a small private lawn just before entering the Rookery, a statue of a maiden featured in the centre of what appeared to have been a fountain, but one that was no longer functioning. One of the maiden’s arms was loose, and we used to spend hours trying to twist it off, or to point it in a different direction. We were convinced that if we got it right, either the fountain would play, or a door would open in the ground and reveal buried treasure, and that we would be so rich!

I could go on for pages but will stop there, as I believe you have been looking for clues to prove that children were once in your house? There was an iron mark burned into the floorboard on the Top Floor –scorched by a soldier in the army that occupied the house during WW2, so nothing to do with us. I believe the Stinky Pond may be the best place to start, and then perhaps have a look at that maiden’s arm if she is still there – you never know!

Regards

Val Flint