We lived in a close community, on a small social housing development, in the relatively affluent town of Fareham, in Hampshire. Me, my brother, Mother and Father resided at number 6 Nashe House, a bottom floor, two bedroom maisonette, in a development of 16 dwellings. Today was Silver Jubilee day, June 1977; it was windy and raining, typical English weather, and it was one of the coldest, wettest June's of the twentieth century. It was twenty-five years, since HM Queen Elizabeth ascended the throne, and the Country was celebrating in typical British style. Jubilee Day was exciting, it felt like Christmas; hearing crashing and banging outside, shouts and laughter, people milling about, talking and chattering, I ran to my bedroom window. The small lane in front of our block was a hive of activity; people outside preparing for the day's festivities. Different tables, all shapes and sizes; wallpaper, trestle, brown wooden, gate leg, modern 70s Formica, all being laid end to end, creating a slightly unsteady, unsightly looking workbench; odd, mismatched, all different heights. This was a stage for the events ahead; this was our homage to the Queen, our street party surrounded by neighbours and our chance to play a small part on this momentous day. The tables were duly covered with a sea of table clothes, the Queen's face emblazoned on each setting. Union flags, red white and blue bunting, banners and lanterns began filling the space between each flat, in the small gardens and in the washing area in front of the building. A sea of colour on an otherwise drab, grey day. I sat looking out of the bedroom window, nose pressed against the glass, elbows on the window sill, hands supporting my chin, peering down looking at the mayhem outside. With butterflies in my stomach, I made my way downstairs to join the growing crowd. The tables were decorated with balloons tied to the back of each chair. Children and adults sat side by side, on the table nearest their door. Local residents started bringing out plate after plate of food and drink – a buffet fit for a Queen; sausage rolls, biscuits, cakes, jelly and ice cream, Swiss rolls, all piled high in front of our eyes. As children, we were awestruck, open-mouthed, exuberant; we had never seen anything like this before. Party hats were handed to each of us, followed by a flag with a photo of the Queen, fluttering with gusto in the unseasonably high winds of the day. The wireless was playing in the background; patriotic music, old school party songs and the National Anthem. We began waving our flags, throwing streamers in the air, cheering and shouting; ‘God save the Queen, God save the Queen!’ With party games in full swing, our glasses were topped up with orange cordial. Face covered in chocolate and a plate of pink blancmange in front of my eyes, I leant back on the squeaking wooden chair, swinging my legs back and forth, satisfied at the day's accomplishments. I don’t recall seeing Mum or Dad, I was too busy playing with friends. I can remember the fun everyone had and the Silver Jubilee mug we were all given; something I haven’t seen for many years. Also, I remember how tired I felt, as evening turned to dusk, and the sun set over the school fields in front of our flat. Finally taken to bed and tucked in by Mother, others older than I, partied the night away. As my head hit the pillow, eyes slowly closed, I could still hear voices and singing outside. I felt happy to have been a part, of such a memorable day. The Silver Jubilee was over forty years ago now; we have had a Golden, Diamond, and Sapphire one since. I can still remember this day so well, because it was special. It was the first street party I ever went to and wouldn’t be the last. It was the beginning of my life outside the security of home, during my first year of school. Above all it was a joyous time spent with friends, neighbours and family, a part of me so sadly lacking today. Laughing, enjoying the most carefree time in my life; so different, so long ago, the memories remain as vivid as ever, a precious part of childhood, at an altogether different time!
0 Comments
As a child, I gave each day of the week a colour; Wednesday was blue; a happy hue, vibrant and full of life. Blue reminded me of a summer sky; dreamy, bright, sparkling in the warm glow of the sun. This was my favourite day; sausage and chips for lunch. Slouching, slumped on my desk, arms folded, supporting my head, watching the clock tick slowly by; a momentary glance out of the window, told me it was nearly time to go; the caretaker opening the rusty gates at the end of the school drive, to herd the throng of children running quickly home. With one minute to go, I began to pack away my pencil case, haphazardly throwing it into the dark recess of my bag, hanging from the back of my chair. Finally the bell sounded, chairs noisily scraped backwards, as we all scrambled towards the door; unruly, disorderly; ignoring our teachers plea for quiet! On the way to Nanny’s house, we took a slight detour, stopping at the local takeaway on Fareham Park Road. The smell of fish, battered sausages and chips, steak and kidney pie, pickled onions, pickled eggs, pea fritters, everything fried; wafting up the street. Salivating, licking my lips, I anticipated my lunch. A leisurely walk turned into a hurried sprint, as I tried to reach the head of the lunch time queue; skating, precariously around the glass door, briefly tripping on the front step, hands firmly gripping the frame, stopping my fall. I made it, I was first; standing proudly waiting to be served. Barely able to reach half way up the counter, I shouted my order, jumping up and down, waving furiously. The lady smiled back warmly, a wink from her right eye; she knew me, like everyone else who came in each day. She was large, with red rosy cheeks, booming voice, imposing laughter; jolly, jovial and jaunty; hands folded, tucked neatly under her chest. It was a short walk to Nanny’s house; running in the door; hands stretched outwards a big hug my reward. Nanny was a remarkable, extraordinary woman with blue and purple hair, bright red lipstick, perfectly manicured nails. She always wore high heeled shoes, a string of pearls around her neck, sparking rings on her fingers, immaculately dressed. The plates were warming in the oven, as our newspaper packages were handed out. Climbing up the stool towards the breakfast bar, I always sat in the corner, next to the green rotary phone, that hung on the wall. I could see the television from the corner of my left eye, in the sitting room beyond; perched neatly on the end of Nan and Grandads stone fireplace, quietly talking away to itself. Leaning slightly backwards I would try and watch ‘fingerbobs,’ ‘Charlton and the Wheelies,’ ‘Rainbow’ or ‘Button Moon,’ occasionally taking a bite, more often not, distracted, preoccupied! Everyone was there on a Wednesday; my Uncle and Aunt who I went to school with, Mother and younger Brother; everyone chatting away, in the middle of their own conversations, discussing the latest local gossip, the price of groceries or which member of our rather large family was pregnant again. These were indeed happy times, spent in the comfort of my Nan’s house; innocent fun filled days, where a fish and chip lunch was enough to satisfy all my dreams and aspirations. Wednesdays were a special part of my life, because the memories are still there, burning strong. As I write these words down, I am immediately transported back to 1978, listening to the voices chattering around me, the smell of ‘proper chip shop chips,’ magical children’s television and Nanny’s face peering lovingly down towards me, chuckling to herself as I ate my meal. My blue day was never quite the same again, faded into the past. As I moved ever onwards, far from my home town, Wednesdays have become a tradition once again, remembered fondly, whenever I eat fish and chips. Memories come flooding back, as I sit, thinking about those happy School days, spent with family at Nanny’s house. Memories are precious; I’m glad I lived the life I have; I wouldn’t wish for anything more, just time, to go back and relive them all!
The old railway line was full to bursting with blackberry bushes, laden with plump, ripe fruit. Negotiating ones way through the bramble and stinging nettles, was always a difficulty; arms stretched out, hands filling an old ice cream container full of produce, on the way to the village. Growing up on the outskirts of Titchfield was idyllic. This was my families home; small, traditional, oak beamed Tudor cottages, centuries old church and memories from a childhood, spent peacefully playing in open fields, as far as the eye could see. I always enjoyed the gentle stroll, past ones school, under the Victorian arched bridge, along the old railway line, long since gone; stopping at the local Public House opposite Titchfield Abbey. This is a journey I haven’t undertaken for many years; my life too busy, taking me to far away places, a life time away from the village, where I grew up. My brother, Mother, Father and I would sit outside ‘The Fisherman’s Rest;’ Dad would have a pint of cider and my Mother, who never drank, a schweppes tonic water, with a slice of lemon. My brother and I were happy with a bottle of coke and a packet of Golden Wonder; In front of us, a panorama; a vista like no other. Here was situated, the glorious historic Abbey of the White Connons; a large country house visited by Charles I and frequented by Shakespeare; writing sonnets from the battlements, towering above the village below. Averting ones eyes to the left, Abbey Gardens came into view. As a family, we would frequently walk up to the estate, where we could pick our own fruit and vegetables, often eating more than we harvested; face covered in sweet sticky strawberry juice, fingers a deep shade of red, clothes stained, shoes muddy. This was our pitstop, just a short walk away, from the place I still call home, even to this day. Today, our family no longer live in this characterful Hampshire Hamlet; an oasis surrounded by urban sprawl. As a child my Great Granny Light, lived in the centre, in a cottage many hundreds of years old. I remember fondly visiting her, sat on her knee. She had a hairy chin, that tickled my face, as she kissed my cheeks. Great Granny would always produce a pressed glass bottle from the kitchen. I swear it contained alcohol; a little nip of something, even for me, as a very young boy; I recall the taste distinctly and have never savoured it since. Great Granny’s lounge was small, dark, cosy and beamed, hunting scenes on the wall; tiny cottage glass windows, reflecting the dancing light of the fire; warm and inviting. This was Granny’s house, part of a local community, where everyone, knew each other; neighbours passing the time of day and children playing in the village square. A short distance away lived my Great Aunty Peggy, in a tiny terraced house; Edwardian in style, outside toilet, perfectly manicured back garden, always clean and tidy. When Granny died, we would visit Peggy often, especially on Carnival days. Titchfield Carnival was colourful, vibrant, encompassing everyone who lived in the village. Taking place in October each year, we would stand outside our Aunties house; warm woolen mittens, scarf, bobble hat, waving a Union flag. Peggy would bring out home made cakes, orange juice and an extra layer of clothing in the winter chill. Fireworks and a bonfire would end the festivities, acrid smell in the air; finally retiring inside, falling asleep, curled up on the sofa, covered in a rug from the bed. Titchfield has changed a lot by all accounts; not the village of my youth. Memories of this period grow vaguer, as time passes quickly by. I am grateful for my upbringing, surrounded by a large family and friends; I am thoughtful recalling events, when others have forgotten; I am hopeful I will return one day, to visit my old hunting ground, as I like generations before me, tread the cobbled streets of Titchfield once again
A trusted middle aged woman, who had dedicated her life to the children she taught; dressed in twin set and pearls, tight fitting light tweed jacket and accessorised with a brooch on her left lapel. Her sensible court shoes were patent leather, shiny and gleaming, just like her deep set eyes; hiding behind a pair of thick 1970s spectacles, that usually hung around her neck, on a golden chain. This was my first teacher; a lady I have fond memories of. She was patient, firmly spoken, clear and articulate; her air of authority, respected and rarely questioned. As a young boy attending my first class, Mrs Brooks was the best I could have hoped for; others were not so lucky. She was unassuming, approachable, a little dour but enthusiastic in her role; a position she relished, a job she loved. As a five year old boy, I felt secure in her presence; important during those first few years, away from home and the safety of a Mothers arms. The caretaker pulled his wooden cart with T shaped handle, along the echoing corridors of the school; wheels squeaking, clanking as he went about his business. Breathing heavily, muttering to himself under his breath, he diligently delivered the warm quarter pint glass bottles, of Co-op milk, to each class. The classroom door would spring open, our eyes averted briefly, as he left the rattling crate of blue top, perched precariously in a corner. I hated this time of day; warm milk was just not palatable. My stomach churned at the thought of having to drink yet more of this white stuff; feeling queasy, gulping deeply, anticipating frantically! Milk would forever be the bane of my life, the smell of it, made worse from the heat of the day; sun pouring through the great expanse of glass encasing the school. The bell signaled morning break; the silence of the room suddenly became loud and noisy, as chairs were scraped along the wooden parquet floor. Children began chattering to friends on the other side of the table, a play fight by the door, a handball thrown in haste; all the while, Mrs Brooks calming the fray. The milk monitors walked to the back of the class, taking each small bottle in turn, handing them out to each of us, without exception. In front of me was also a straw, used to pierce the foil top, spitting residue over my freshly laundered clothes, lingering on my turtleneck knitwear, proudly sported each morning. The liquid soaked through the wool, as I tried to brush it away; a familiar odour protracted, until I could leave at the end of the day! I sat there looking at the bottle for a minute or two, thinking about how I could drink the contents fast enough and make the taste more appetising. Gently, not wanting to upset a single drop, I removed the top and straw, looking down at the milk inside; jiggling the bottle gently, left to right. Gripping the flagon tightly, I retched ever so slightly, as the rim of the bottle touched my lips. I closed my eyes systematically, pinched my nose securely, and quickly poured the opaque white liquid down my throat, spilling most of it in my wake. It wasn’t unusual for me to make a quick exit to the toilet at this point, roughly putting my head under the tap, drinking water as fast as I could, trying to take the taste away. As I look back with affection, at those halcyon days; the lack of stress and worry, playing in the fields, so green and lush in this new and wondrous World. I am reminded that not everything was great back then; bad memories loitering longer. I have never drunk milk since that time and was glad when Mrs Thatcher ‘The Milk Snatcher’ took it away. A difficult part of childhood remembered with fondness, as I write this memory today.
The precarious placed metal fence swayed gently in the soft summer breeze; diamonds dancing in the intense afternoon sun. The distant cries of children playing hopscotch, indistinguishable from the faint Mexican ripple, of the metal enclosure that flowed for miles, as far as the eye could see; separating us from them. I was aloft, like Repunzel in her tower or a King in his castle; observing the green fields of the school, displayed in front of my eyes. As I looked back towards Mrs Rogers bungalow, there was no sign of the strange old lady, that lived inside. Scared of hurtling towards my certain death, I tried to alight my vantage point. Quickly I threw out my right arm, trying to grab hold of the tree, that helped me climb to the top of my World; higher than I had ever been before. I missed; Instead of a branch, I grasped the stem of an over ripe apple, scarcely in-situ; both of us awkwardly balancing with fear. I was perched dangerously, on the edge of the cage, wire gouging through my shorts, piercing the skin below. My badly bitten finger nails barely touched the shell of the fruit, which like me was sent tumbling, cascading towards the ground. A patch of beige corduroy was left, attached to the turrets above, A battle war torn flag, scarred, frayed and covered in blood; fluttering there briefly, before being blown away into the gardens beyond, I hit the grass with an unceremonious thud; briefly stunned, shocked I took a deep sigh of relief. My repose was short lived, as prostration turned to pain, blood oozing from my leg. The wire railings had done their worst, leaving destruction in their wake. Tears began to well up in my eyes, as I gritted my teeth tightly, trying to ease the pain. As I sat there, looking up, towards the treacherous tree above, water cascading down my cheeks, crying turned to anxiety, worried about what Mother would say! Suddenly Mrs Rogers returned, she caught my bloodshot eye, just as I caught hers. She must have been a thousand years old; always wore black, her white, grey, peppered hair, tied back in a bun, accentuating her pointy, grimacing, scowling features; weather beaten, characterful, a life long lived. I was in trouble now; I was a gonna! Mrs Rogers had always scared the living daylights out of me. When Mother and I used to stop and talk to her in the street, she would always brush her bony fingers, along my jaw, finally flicking her nails upwards, as she met my chin. I remember her Smiling, from the corner of her wrinkled lips; her stained, yellowing teeth snarling towards my face. Squinting, hiding, circumvent, I always avoided her stare as she endeavoured to kiss my brow. I tried to move my bleeding leg, attempting to run away, but to no avail; so tightly shut my windows on the World, laid back on the grass at the corner of the field; putting my fingers in my ears and drifting away to that place I often went, In times of stress. A beautiful setting that exists today, one I still visit from time to time; comfy, soft, squidgy, nurturing; a World of security and fun, existing only in my dreams! This was my safety zone, away from the schoolboy pressures, the drudgery of life in class and the disappointments of the day; a positive aspect of childhood that I keep as a reminder of things to come.
|
Author47 year old Author, Columnist and Blogger. Archives
May 2021
Categories
All
|