A Life More Ordinary

The small village of Poundsgate is situated on Dartmoor and has quite the reputation. It is to be found on the road between Ashburton and Princetown and at the very least is thought to date back to the 13^th century, when it was arguably little more than a cluster of farms and cottages surrounding the Tavistock Inn. The village was once said to have been visited by the devil, way back in 1638, but that is another story for another time for someone else to tell. But if you are so inclined, it’s at the very least worth a few minutes of your time.

This story, however, is a much smaller and simpler affair. Details may be vague and a little florid and it’s probably a taste of things to come. But in a time of anguish and constant turmoil, this was a moment in my life that has forever stayed with me and ingrained a woman who I barely knew into my heart.

My father didn’t talk much about his family when I was growing up. I recall a long journey and a short holiday up to Durham to see his mother, Annie and his sister, Carol and her family, but the trip was unremarkable, certainly in comparison to other memories that I can recall, and very little has stayed with me over the years. I wish that I could recall more, or at the very least, imagine some happy reminisces from the trip. I spoke to Carol years later after my father passed away, but our contact was fleeting and I learned that both she and her husband, Brian, passed not long after.

There was no talk of my paternal grandfather, also Thomas Hepburn, and as I grew older, I understood why (to be discussed in a future post) and my father’s struggles began to make a lot of sense. His own grandfather was a violent man and he suffered at his hands during a childhood that probably mirrored my own in many ways.

However, the one member of his family that did occasionally warrant a mention was his sister, Margaret, who lived on a farm in Poundsgate. She had horses, I think, as well as numerous cats and dogs and I recall an enormous Alsatian who was almost twice as big as I was during this visit. If I were to describe Margaret to you, I would say that she was larger than life, a looming woman whose vastness of bosom hinted at a heart full of love beating beneath. Her house was cluttered but warm and inviting and she would welcome us with a booming, husky voice and a twinkle in her eye. Her hair was a very light brown and it always seemed to be engaged in a constant battle with time, struggling to keep the greyness at bay. I think that she may also have been a smoker, which in my head suggests that the greyness she battled against may well have been imbued with the smell of tobacco. Regardless of such detail, which my fallible memory may be recalling incorrectly, she was a fine woman who I admired greatly in silence.

In her lounge, there was a piano, which I’m reliably informed Margaret played and taught with a passion and ability that has remained unmatched within our family ever since. I often got the feeling that she would have liked to have known us better, to have enjoyed a stronger affinity with my father. Now that I’m older, with an occasional pining for impossible relationships myself, I understand that circumstances can often make those wishes unachievable.

So, on this particular day of this particular visit, I was in the doghouse. Not literally, for the gargantuan canine inhabitant of Margaret’s house lived in a kennel outside in a courtyard that was more often than not littered with shit. No, I would have done something wrong or something that I wasn’t supposed to do, probably based on social niceties that I had no idea about relating to the somewhat Victorian view that children should be seen and not heard. Knowing me, I was probably tempted by the piano and maybe snuck a little tickle of the ivories that would have resulted in neither tune nor melody but likely raucous chaos. And that would have infuriated my father to the point where if I hadn’t received at the very least a clip around the ear, I would have been promised one later in the day and that promise would have been very much followed up on. Margaret either saw this exchange or she sensed it; such is the esteem in which I hold this woman that I wouldn’t put anything past her. However it caught her attention is largely irrelevant because what matters the most is that she was kind to me. I’m sure she saw my father for what he was in that moment and in all likelihood, she saw history repeating itself. I wonder if this was the first moment where I understood that kindness mattered more than anything else, that I didn’t have to walk in the violent and aggressive footsteps of those who had gone before me.

I would have still received the inevitable rebuke to alert me to the consequences of my actions, but the kindness from Margaret, the softness of her voice and the tenderness of her embrace gave younger me some hope for the future and when you are downtrodden or trapped in hell, that can be the greatest gift of all.

I never forgot that day and many years later, when we visited Margaret as she neared her end of days, I had the opportunity to tell her. And once again, she hugged me to her chest, a grown man still full of those doubts and insecurities and she told me that I was a good person, that there was still hope for the future, even when she had none.

Sometimes we meet remarkable people and we don’t know it at the time. I wish that I had known her better and I hope that she knew of the difference that she made to my life. I think of her often and am always grateful.

Copyright Alec Hepburn, 2025.