Andy Vining’s Podcast: My Mother’s Diaries 1948 -1976: Episode 3 — March and April 1948

Image My Mother’s Diaries by Andy Vining 2026

Andy Vining shares his mother’s diaries in his new podcast. Listen to these beautiful stories on Spotify.

Andy Vining’s parents were John and Peggy (later known as Be Be).

Episode 3 — March and April 1948

March opened with sunlight.

On Monday the first, the weather was beautiful and all the washing dried by lunchtime — a small triumph after the long damp of winter. And it was such a lovely day that I went for a walk with Heather in her pram over to Flexford. It was a long walk a long walk down the Farm drive then up Hursley Road and left at The Baddesley Crossroads. I posted a letter there on the corner and walked along past the cricket field on the left and down the hill, over Monks Brook bridge and past The Hatley Sawmills on the right pp the hill and over the Railway bridge past Richardsons, Bridge House on the left and the farm cottages on the right where our cowman, Bill Wren, lives and then right, just before Mr and Mrs Trenfields house into the Flexford Yard where we had picked all the Snowdrops last month but now there are beautiful daffodils in abundance. 

Heather seemed to enjoy the walk although she has a bad cold; poor little thing. It is a lovely walk with no traffic and just the county sounds and birds singing to keep us company.

Mother Rang in the evening that Father was much the same without any change.

The early days of the month passed in ordinary farm rhythms.

Some snowdrop plants were carefully transplanted from Flexford yard to the bank behind the house and Clara, our goose laid her very first egg. Cows were milked and water delivered for us in churns every day. At Last Mr South and Mr Harvey the local Builders came to discuss the troublesome kitchen beam; not sure when they can start work.

A travelling salesman from McCloud’s called at the door and John bought himself a new suit from him and I brought three Stollen towels to turn into tea cloths — small household plans for the season ahead.

John and Leslie went to the Bar End Farm Sale in Winchester to look at some Farm equipment but did not buy anything and I wanted to go with them to see Father but  I could not go because I had caught Heather’s heavy cold and thought it best to stay away for a day or so.

Later in the week I did at last see him, but he spoke very little… yet he seemed free from pain, which felt like a mercy.

Saturday the sixth came wrapped in dense morning fog that cleared by noon, and Leslie left us to return to his own farm in Devon. It was sad to see him go as he had been good company but we wished him luck and good fortune in his venture.

On Sunday, John worked in the vegetable garden while I prepared a corner of the woodshed for Lassie, our sheepdogs, coming confinement.

That evening, I telephoned Beechcroft.  Father was still the same.

By Monday the eighth, I started spring cleaning in earnest. Rooms were emptied, Curtains washed, and everything turned about and it was keeping me really busy all day. I went to the hospital with Mother, father looked terrible. We both wondered how much longer we think he can last,  The next day the telephone rang with news from the hospital: Father was very bad indeed and that day was the hottest March Day on record.

Days of waiting followed and I kept busy Spring Cleaning. 

Doug and Marjorie West and Malcomb popped in for a visit and John and I went into Winchester shopping.

Cow being milked and the little chicks growing apace; John busy with spring planting corn and potatoes at Flexford while the weather stayed wonderfully bright — as though the world itself did not yet know what was coming.

Then, early on Friday the twelfth of March, Father died. 

Even in grief, life did not stand still. The clocks went forward an hour.  

The children Jennifer, Janet, Andrew and Heather still needed their school, feeding and looking after and the farm work had to continue at full pace while the weather lasted.

Betty came and helped look after the children and other visitors came to pass sympathies and commiserations. 

Bet, Fred and Uncle Big Fred walked over from Beechcroft In the afternoon and since the clocks went forward we put the children to bed in daylight which seemed strange but at least we did not have to use candles.

Then a small thing but, John Fortune our neighbour Farmer brought some beautiful forced rhubarb and we had that for Sunday lunch, pink and sweet against the sadness of the days. Really rather lovely.

There were busy hours baking tarts and sponges, fetching bacon, and preparing for the gathering of family and friends.

On Wednesday the seventeenth, nearly fifty people came for the funeral in St Boniface Church, Hursley Road, and Father was laid to rest in the cemetery on Pine Road just opposite the end of the farm drive.
The hum of quiet conversation filled Beechcroft. Hands were shaken, tears shared, flowers laid gently in place on the grave.

And on that very same day, as though life itself refused silence, Lassie gave birth to seven tiny puppies —five little bitches and two dogs. New life, arriving beside loss.

The days that followed were gentler. We went to the cemetery to see the flowers. Harry Hoskins, John’s cousin, took photographs of Father’s grave.

One night the cows broke out at Flexford and poor John was called to get them back in the dark, it took most of the night but it had to be done. Children came to see the puppies; all very excited to see the lovely little things. All squeaky and just opening their eyes. Lassie is a really good Mother.

Spring moved steadily forward. Friends and family called. Betty helped spring clean our bedroom, turning it inside out very thoroughly and moved the furniture around. John was very grumpy about it; he didn’t like the change round.

John and the men were all planting potatoes at Flexford, opposite the Flexford Yard under Knightwood. I spent some time digging out old rose roots from the front garden with a neighbour’s help. And Jennifer, Janet and Andrew picked loads of primroses.

And celebrations too. It was Stanly Bazeley’s birthday. My sister Norah’s Husband and then on the 26th March.  It was my Birthday and I got loads of lovely presents, a rose bush, stockings, lipstick, boots, and shining horse brasses from the children.

It was lovely with the longer evenings and I walked with the children to Beechcroft where hair was washed and dried as we can’t do that at Hiltonbury yet with no running water. I spent the evenings writing letters and making new curtains. The weather turned bad after the lovely spell with a big storm with wild March winds so strong that they broke the window in Jennifer’s bedroom. And then, one afternoon near the month’s end, a moment to hold onto: Heather walked TWELVE whole steps. Amazing. 

So March of 1948 became a month of sunlight and shadow.

Of doors opening to spring…and one door gently closing behind us. Of grief carried quietly…while washing was still done, seeds still planted, children still growing, and puppies opening their eyes to the world.

Because on a farm, in a family, and in the turning of the seasons life goes on — softly, faithfully, one day at a time. And as March slipped gently away, the weather turned cold and restless again, yet the house would stay full — of birthdays and visitors, children’s laughter, small worries, seeds planted hopefully in the soil, and the steady, ordinary work of carrying on after loss. But that is a story for the next episode. 

April 1948

April came in cold and wet, and we started it as we seemed to start most things: by getting on with the house. Bet arrived and set to washing and painting in the bathroom, determined to bring it up fresh. I had my hair permed — curled all over — and I remember thinking that once I got used to it, I should rather like it. John went off to a meeting in Eastleigh, and the day went along in that familiar pattern: family life at home, and John dashing about with his own responsibilities.

The weather stayed bitter — rain again and a biting cold — while Bet finished the spring cleaning in the bathroom. Leslie Martin came and put more glass into Jennifer’s windows, which was a relief after all the trouble we’d had. John brought fish and chips for supper (a proper treat), and I made sugar ears for Leslie’s birthday. Even in the cold, there were always these small, cheering moments.

But the wind and rain did not let up. Andrew had tummy pains one day and it upset me to see him uncomfortable, though by later he seemed better. Bella and Mother came in for tea which always made the house feel warmer. We even had the nuisance of two ducks missing, but by the next day—after I’d spent the morning cooking for Andrew’s party—first one duck turned up, and then the other, as if nothing had happened. Bet and Fred called in, and I even managed to read a little.

I washed early as usual when the weather gave us a chance, and by dinnertime everything was dry. I planted my sweet pea seeds—hopeful little things—while John fetched Andrew’s jeep and Andrew went to Norman’s, delighted. I spent that evening cooking again, because the next day was Andrew’s birthday.

Andrew was so pleased with his jeep—so proud of it—and his party was quite a success. The weather was rotten, but children don’t seem to mind that if they’re happy, and they were. Those are the days you remember: tired feet, messy kitchens, and the sound of children enjoying themselves.

Midweek I took the children to tea at the Inges’ and Bet kept on, cleaning and painting on the landing. I had a tooth stopped, and on top of everything I was feeling very fed up. John still wouldn’t do anything about his blasted relations, and it got to me badly—one of those moments where you feel boxed in and wish you were older, wish you could get a job, wish you could just step sideways into a different life for a day.

The wind picked up again. Margaret Haskell came for lunch and tea, and while the children went for a walk I cycled over to Beechcroft. John was drilling the hill field. Then Bet finished cleaning the upstairs passage and stairs; Jennifer and Janet went to the Bazleys at the Summer House in Eastleigh, while Andrew, Heather and I went to Mother’s. Phyllis and Eric called in the evening, and the week carried on in visits and comings and goings.

Big Uncle Fred came to see us and I presented him with one of Clara’s eggs. Marjory and Malcolm came too. John went off to Hursley Masonic, and when he came home he moved 128 chicks—so many of them, and such work. The next day Eric brought Gay and Pete to see the pups, and John put eleven duck eggs under a hen. We all went to tea at Marjory’s and had such wonderful tea, and such a jolly time, that it felt like a proper lift. I wrote letters that evening, trying to keep up with everyone and everything.

Betty spring cleaned the dining room while John finished off potato planting. We set a broody hen down ready for goose eggs, and then another lovely day came: Jennifer and Janet went to play at the Hoskins’, Judith and Veronica came for tea, and John put four goose eggs under a broody chicken. The house was full of that busy, layered sort of life: children in and out, visitors for tea, eggs to set, meals to make, rooms to scrub, and always something waiting just behind the next door.

Bet worked through the bedrooms, and I did a spot of gardening. I helped John move bulbs from the little bed in the vegetable garden, and I cut out that green-and-white striped frock, sewing whenever I could steal a moment. I went into Eastleigh and met Bet, and John took her to the Labour Exchange. I bought flower seeds and carried on with my frock—small steady work that makes the days feel as though they’re going somewhere.

Some days were bright but bitterly cold, and I tried to get the front garden into shape. John went off—John V and another, to John Buckett’s farm—and I was left at home as usual. Doug called one day and Malcolm wasn’t too well. Jennifer took Heather to Mother’s, and John made Andrew a trailer for the jeep. We even drove the car up the lane—little adventures that felt grand to the children.

Sunday came and I was cooking again in the morning. John went with South to collect two pigs. Peggy and Eric Inge and the family came to tea. We got two more broodys ready for goose eggs, and Bet and Fred called in the morning as well—so many people passing through, and yet the days still needed to be held together with meals, cups of tea, and calm voices.

I washed early again on a lovely day. Mother, Bella and Betty came to tea, and thunder growled towards evening. Mr Monkton came to see the pups. John went to the L of Irish (as he called it), and we put down eight goose eggs. The next day I cut the front lawn and the children had tea out there, and I spent a good part of the evening simply seeing to broodys—four of them—because they take up far more time than people think. I managed a little needlework and heard talk of a mighty gale.

Bet brought George for the day. Mother, Bella, Nora and the children went to Bournemouth, and John went to football. We had lovely rain in the evening at last, and I planted gladioli bulbs. Then it was Norah’s birthday, and Mrs St John came to tea. John went to a Growmore meeting, and I did a spot of needlework.

There were hectic days too. One broody left her eggs, so I replaced her quickly and worried the eggs might be chilled. The ducks played up at night and refused to go in, as awkward as anything. John spent one day dressing kale for fly, then went to football and the pictures afterwards. Jill came to tea and I planted more seeds.

A nasty cold wind arrived. Bet and Fred called in, and John Fortune came about a puppy. We drove to Flexford with John and Heather, and Mother and Bella called in later. I put duck eggs under a hen and hoped for the best.

Then came Royal Silver Wedding Day. I washed early and Bet, John and I did a great deal to the front garden—at last it looked much better—and Joan Buckett came to tea. The next day was hot again. I walked round to Mother’s. The children started school again, and Bet and Fred had to go to London for an interview. And still: the fly on the kale.

Bet came and did the kitchen one day, and it turned colder again. We were actually glad that it rained in the evening. Mr Monkton called for a hen, and I had to change a hen on goose eggs—only to find the eggs had chilled, which was not good at all. The vet came another day and chatted away with his wife and kiddies. We still needed rain, and I went up and down the drive twice in the car—one of those odd little things you do just to feel you’ve had a moment out of the house.

By the end of April I went up to the village with John and bought new knickers, then went to school and taught them country dancing. I had another drive up and down the drive. The pups were still causing a stir—two phone calls about them—and the month ended as it had been lived: in wind and weather, work and worry, visitors and tea, eggs and broodys, and the constant effort of keeping the household warm, fed, and moving forward.

Thanks for listening and I hope you again next week for May and June 1948.