Return To Blankney - Part 1

A wonderful story appeared in the March 1982 edition of Lincolnshire Life. It was written by Reginald Williams who was stationed at Blankney Hall during the war. He was there on that fateful night when the Hall burned down in July 1945 and he describes the scene in vivid detail. Fifteen years after he was demobbed from the RAF he returned to Blankney and the story of his visit evokes a roller coaster of memories and emotions. This is Part 1 of his remarkable story which takes us back in time to what was probably the most important day in the history of Blankney.

Return to Blankney by Reginald Williams

It was a showery July morning when I arrived at Blankney village, fifteen years after I had left it to be demobbed from the RAF. Much of the village looked the same: the white railings at the crossroads, the school-house on the corner, and the telephone kiosk outside with the little cottage village post-office. Higher up the road between Lincoln and Sleaford-was the entrance to the Park and golf course, the grass verges had been trimmed, with cottage gardens displaying their roses. These Tudor-style cottages, laid out by W. A. Nicholson in the 19th century, looked even tidier and cleaner than they had appeared when I was here fifteen years earlier.
But on this day of my return to the village my focal point was the fine Palladian Hall: where I had spent over twelve months during the Second World War. Arrived at the gateway to the drive. I looked across the intervening land towards the Hall: the effect was uncanny. I felt as if I had slipped back over the years and was, once again returning from leave. The Hall looked almost the same-with the roof still open to the sky and the breeze blowing through the unglazed window frames, a monumental shell in ruins amid a setting of increasing wildness: standing there waiting.
I walked up the main drive. Pools from recent showers reflected the building against the still threatening sky. Where grass lawns had been there was now barley beginning to turn golden. I became conscious of an unnatural stillness pervading the place.
The place appeared to have become an embodiment of the past. The heavy facade of the building seemed to be gazing out along the drive-waiting-waiting for whom?
I walked over to that part of the building which juts out at right-angles to the front of the Hall on the south side: it used to be the billiard room. The windows were dirty from neglect but one was open and I looked through it into the empty room. There was the fireplace at one end which in winter, in spite of it being filled with fire, never seemed to warm the room. I said the room was empty, but as I gazed and my thoughts wandered, I saw the figures of three of my erstwhile companions of the RAF-Lindsay Costeloe from Stockport, Jim Conway from Glasgow and Mervyn Bush from Birmingham-all moving around the billiard table with cues in their hands and laughing at some unlikely shot that had uncannily 'come off'' to the surprise of all.
A cloud passed over the sun and the vision faded back into the past. Once more the room was empty and silent, with the bars of the firegrate cold and uninviting and the damp walls now beginning to lose their shiny surface..
Lindsay Costeloe and I came from Cheshire, were both interested in music and drama and, towards the end of our stay at Blankney, we produced jointly a stage show called "Loud and Clear" for which we found a great deal of talent on the camp. We were particularly fortunate in having the help of one of the WAFF's-Peggy Hale, who was a first class dancer and is now principal of a dancing school in Kettering.

Part 2 of this memorable story will appear in the Journal tomorrow.