‘Hidden away in our Croydon glass cabinet…’
By Charles Barber
Hidden away in our Croydon glass cabinet is a small porcelain figure, no more than 10 centimetres high, of a young man and woman hugging each other. The figure is blue and white and both characters appear to be wearing traditional folk costume. My wife and I bought it on our honeymoon in Estonia, and it resided for twenty odd years in our first home in Woking and now can usually be found, hiding behind either our fancy Soviet Crockery set (courtesy of my generous mother-in-law) or behind elegant, cut-glass wine glasses that my wife likes to drink from. Although both glasses and crockery are probably worth more than our rather kitsch piece of folk art, both my wife and I have a rather sentimental attachment to it. As I look at it now, the man and woman seeming to grow into each other, yet keeping their respective identities, it reminds me of the early days of our romance, and how chance played such a vital role in helping me to find the love of my life.
If anyone had told my mother in 1987 that her younger son would follow in his brother's footsteps and fall in love with a Russian girl, start writing to her and eventually marry her in the Russian city of Kaliningrad, she would have thought that you must have mistaken me for someone else. Having first been to visit the doctor, suffering from depression when I was 17, I spent much of my 20s, hiding away in my bedroom, sometimes being too scared to even contemplate meeting up with friends, let alone trying to find a girlfriend. Indeed I showed so little apparent interest in the opposite sex, that my mum once tactfully and sensitively enquired as to whether I might be gay. I knew this wasn't the case but I was still painfully unable to shed much light on my miserable aberrant behaviour. Thus when a friend of my brother's suggested that I might perhaps be helped by seeing a Jungian psychotherapist once a week, I was certainly willing to give it a go. She was a lovely, kind and generous lady, and although perhaps I did not see her as many times as I should have, she helped me to see that perhaps there might be some light at the end of the dark tunnel. At the time I was living in Guildford, where she also lived and when she asked me if I'd like to come and meet a group of Russian teachers at the Quaker Meeting House for tea and cake on a Sunday afternoon, I had nothing better to do and said yes. I had been fascinated by Russian history at school and my brother's romantic liaison with a young Russian lady that had involved several visits to Russia, had probably strengthened my interest
I sat on the same table as a beautiful woman, named Lydia Nickolaevna Buravova, and asked her numerous questions about her life and where she lived. She even had to show me the location of Kaliningrad on a map on the wall where she and her uncle resided, and where she taught at the university. After two hours of exciting and stimulating conversation, I'd discovered that she was married, had a dog that she'd rescued from a lift and had probably read more English literature than I had. Yet as I walked back to my digs, I remember thinking that if I ever married, I'd like to marry someone like her. She'd clearly made quite an impression on me.
Thankfully we'd exchanged addresses, and so began an occasional correspondence,in which she appreciated that I occasionally veered away from the minutiae of everyday life. Thus when she returned with her sister three years later, she got in touch and we met up. Visits to a Guildford restaurant and Wisley Gardens led me to invite her down to my brother's cottage in Wiltshire. It was there, after admittedly a number of glasses of vodka, that a beautiful, exotic, sexy Russian woman easily breached whatever inhibitions a poor, shy, repressed English gentleman had stored up over the years. To be honest, those inhibitions didn't stand a chance. It took a few more letters and phone calls, a visit to Russia in the winter, a proposal in Moscow to lead to our marriage in Kaliningrad in the summer of 1991. I think I was perhaps the first foreigner to be married there since the 2nd World War, as when I'd visited Lida in the winter, it had still been a closed military city, from which all foreigners were banned. I was lucky though that I met my future wife at a time when the Russian Empire was beginning to thaw and the Soviet Union was swiftly disintegrating. This at least made getting married more possible if not easy.
We stumbled across the intractable bureaucracy of the old Soviet Union when we went on our honeymoon. It was still necessary for Westerners to get visas for the Baltic Republics, which were at that time but not for much longer, still part of the Soviet Bloc. For some reason after visiting Latvia for a few days, we had to return to Kaliningrad before taking the train to Tallinn, the capital of Estonia, Whereas my wife had remembered to get me a visa for Latvia, she forgot, on our brief return to Kaliningrad, that I also needed one for Estonia. Thus when we arrived at our hotel, I was refused entrance with the result that my wife had to smuggle me up to her room before 6pm every evening. Yet, although this was not ideal and caused some friction, it was in Talinn that we bought the figurine that now rests on the kitchen table in front of me. I like to think of it as our good luck charm, for after almost twenty eight years of marriage, we're still together. I like to think that as well as raising a lovely daughter, we've attempted to thaw some of the icy distrust that still exists between our two nations. If you spend any time amongst Russians in Russia, it is wise to make the occasional toast to show that you both appreciate the company and the vodka. After I'd made everybody laugh by reciting in my awful Russian accent one of the upbeat Soviet slogans the Government had placed around the walls of the city - 'Kaliningradski dadeem stranye boshoy ribnoy produccion' - (Kaliningradians - Lets give greater Fish Production to our Country), I'd often resort to my other regular toast 'To the Improvement of Anglo-Soviet Relations'. At a time when both countries have leaders that leave a lot to be desired, the friendship and love of people from these two great cultures can hopefully build bridges that will last longer than any government policy.
You may say that my Estonian figurine, the object that inspired the telling of my own personal story, hasn't itself had a very exciting life. Stuck away in cabinets and largely neglected, our pair of young lovers have watched the couple that bought them, do all the usual things - hang out the laundry, cook, eat, talk, laugh and occasionally cry. We're not so different from numerous other couples. We just happen to have fallen in love with someone from a different country. Yet both my own marriage and the marriage of two very different cultures has immeasurably enriched my life. And like the blue and white couple before me, I still look forward to hugging and loving my wife.
‘That little ink pot brings me out in a cold sweat’
By John Handscombe
I love these images – they’re a great reminder of what a long history the written story has. And then that reminds me that we’ve been telling stories a whole lot longer than we’ve been able to write them down. The Storytellers exhibition starts in the 1700s, but people have been sharing stories in Croydon a lot longer than that. Who knows what troupes of actors have passed through with a show? And there must have been a time when social media consisted of a guy with a lute standing on the street corner singing the news headlines at everybody.
But on a more personal note that little ink pot brings me out in a cold sweat. I was the generation when they taught you to write in little-school with a fountain pen. OK, I’m not so old we had ink pots (although the desks definitely had ink-wells to hold ink pots because they were that old).
No, our ink pens were the bang-up-to-date ones with disposable plastic ink cartridges destined for landfill. We might have recycled our milk bottles and taken our glass pop bottles back to the shop for our 5p deposit, but pretty much everything else got chucked away or burned into air pollutant.
Where was I? Ah yes, ink pens. I hated them. They slowed you down because you had to get the angle right to make ink come out and not just scratch a hole in the page. And I had sweaty hands, so most of it ended up in a blue blur across the paper and then I’d get told off for being messy. I was so happy when they let us use biros at big-school.
I was also pretty happy that I taught myself to type on my mum’s old portable typewriter. It definitely put me ahead of the game when everyone had to start using computers!
‘Teen Love During the War’
By Ben Szuts
World War II objects are a strange one for me. They always leave me wondering about the questions I could’ve asked Eva, my great-grandmother before she passed away. Especially I now work in a Museum that holds a lot of WWII history. The stories I’m sure she was bursting to tell me at a young age but being so young, the last thing I wanted to listen to was ramblings of how ‘times were hard’.
Over the past couple years I’ve heard some of Eva’s stories through my mum. When my mum was younger she lived with Eva for a while and had no choice but to listen to these stories which.
Eva Szuts was 14 years old when the WWII began. She was sent to a workhouse outside of London by her father as a means of safety, which she would have disagreed severely. Leaving London wasn’t the easiest for her as she had to leave her teenage sweetheart, Tom behind who was eventually taken away to fight for Britain. Eva returned to London a couple of years later to find out from her father that Tom had been killed during battle. My mum found a Robert Browning poetry book at Eva’s house in 2008 that I now own – The first page reads “All that Browning said about women that was good, does not sum up my feelings for you. With all my love, Tom.” Mum asked Eva about the love-letter and what happened between her and Tom as no man with such a name had ever been mentioned. There was a lot of unresolved pain here for Eva. The main reason being is that Eva found that Tom didn’t die in the war.
Tom was sent home from the war due to a leg injury. Once back in London he went searching for Eva only to find her father, who told Tom that she was no longer interested and had a new boyfriend. Of course she was in the workhouse and it was clear that Eva’s father saw Tom as an unfit suiter to his daughter. We’re still unsure if Eva found this out from her father but the memories definitely carried pain for her. She attempted to find Tom many times over the years.
My favourite memory that I have from her past is bonkers but amazing. Eva and her friends used to walk around fields with a green blanket. The blanket would act as camouflage whenever German planes would fly overhead to hide them from being gunned down.
‘My glove box’
By Tina Jones
My thoughts travelled back to a wooden box I had purchased some 25-30 years ago. It must have been from an antique fair or shop (time has gone by, together with my memory). My first impression was “what a handsome beautifully designed Wooden Box”. Not only was it appealing to the eye but the wood felt cool and smooth to the touch. I wanted to take it home with me.
I had no idea initially what it had been used for, then I read the tag - £85.00 Victorian Walnut Glove Box with Tunbridge Ware Bands with Mother of Pearl and a working key lock (I still have the tag). So the lovely design on the lid had a name, Tunbridge Ware Bands, which I now know is a form of decorative inlaid woodwork.
I still display the box and it has odds and ends inside now – the Mother of Pearl on top of the box has over the years come off and has been lost and the inside satin cushions are now even more faded. Nevertheless, it is still special – masculine but feminine at the same time.
I like to think it was used by a fine lady to protect her Gloves when travelling, or maybe it just sat on her dressing Table, protecting her favourite Gloves. It is strange to think that this box was once used for the designed purpose by someone I know nothing about.
The Great Adventurer
By Jessica Rayner
I love this item because I actually collect old cameras! I enjoy looking at the different parts and imagining who might have used them in the past.
I'd like to think that this camera was a gift to someone adventurous and creative. They might've been about to embark on a trip abroad and a friend or loved one wanted to give them something to help capture the memories of their trip. I could imagine the excitement as the gift receiver opens up the camera and learns how it works. Now they are able to take a real snapshot of the amazing things that they see on their adventure.
When they returned home, full of life and stories of their trip, they could develop photos taken with the camera and share them with loved ones. It would make sharing their stories and adventures so much more exciting.