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Laying in bed, I could smell the joint of beef cooking in the oven; potatoes boiling on the stove; it was Sunday, not my favourite day of the week, with school coming up the next day, but I did love my roast dinner. Mum was a great cook, spending most of the day preparing Sunday Lunch, while Dad and I went to the pub with Nan and Grandad, when Grandad was on shore leave that is; he was in the Merchant Navy and away quite a lot. At home, he always liked a drink or two in ‘The Club,’ a short distance walk from their house. ‘The Club,’ was a C.I.U working men’s club; It looked like a tired, warn industrial unit, perched on the side of an Edwardian house; a meeting place, where membership was a must. Drinks were cheap, conversation in abundance; a welcome break from the drudgery of life.
I could barely see in front of me, the air was thick with smoke; the smell of stale beer, cheese and onion crisps, Old Spice and cheap perfume punctuated the air as we walked in. Music was playing from the stage; voices chattering, laughter, children running around the tables. Holding Nan’s hand, we approached the table between the bar and the hall, separated by a plastic screen, facing a long wooden bar. People were sitting on stools, pint in hand, talking about football, politics and the state of 1970s Britain. As a child I hated being there, holding my nose, trying to avoid the smoke, being blown from every direction. Dad and Grandad stood at the bar, talking to people as they waited to be served, waving at others who walked past, shaking hands with this person or that. Hill park was a small place, everyone knew each another, even if they didn’t always get on. Like most small towns and villages, it had its fair share of drama!
Nan was talking to Aunty Pam; she wasn’t a real Aunty, but we always referred to her in that term. Pam had a large booming laugh, that echoed throughout the bar; the more she drank, the more she laughed, the funnier she was. I had a lot of Aunties and Uncles at ‘The Club,’ Aunty Jean, Uncle John, Aunty Vera, the list is endless. All of them would come over; kissing, wet saliva all over my cheeks, the smell of alcohol on their breath; rubbing my hair, throwing me up in the air, bouncing me on their knee. It was a brave new World for a young boy; faces everywhere, the clinking of glasses and those foul-smelling ashtrays in front of my face. It was a place so different from the security of home; smells, tastes and sounds. all merged into one, in this mayhem of Sunday life.
I sat at the wobbly table, playing with beer mats, flicking them up in the air, bored waiting for my bottle of coke and crisps to arrive; Nan looking left occasionally, making sure I was OK, as she continued talking to Pam and Uncle John. Dad and Grandad returned with a tray of drinks, poised to put them down. Nan lent over, taking a beer mat from my hand, folding it into quarters, placing it under the offending table leg, before the drinks were handed out. Finally the table stopped moving and the tray was emptied. I always had a fizzy drink and packet of salt and vinegar Rock ‘n’ Rollers, my favourite crisps of the time. Nan would have a packet of ‘Big D’ peanuts and probably a gin and tonic, although I can’t quite remember what her tipple was. Dad had a pint of Skol or cider and occasionally a cigar, the smell of which I loved; Grandad a very large whisky!
Wearing a lime green turtle neck, short orange skirt and fur coat; Nan would dance the afternoon away; her perfect back combed hair standing tall, Windsor style, just like The Queen. Her manicured nails and high heel shoes gleaming, under the lights of the hall; laughing, joking; a social butterfly. This was my Nan, not sat at home knitting or reading a book, but part of the fabric of ‘The Club.’ A place full of fond memories, spent with people long since gone; happy times celebrating, family milestones, Weddings and coming home parties; ‘The Club,’ where their laughter lives on!
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"If loonies & nutters could fly, my friends would be the air force!"
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I sat there shivering, in grey tailored shorts and a wide collared shirt; fiddling with the bottom of my woolen tank top, neatly attired to compensate for the chill in the hall. Looking up towards Mrs Hat, squeezing my right eye tightly, I did my best to avoid the shouting above. I lent my head to one side, trying to cover my ear with my shoulder. Mrs Hat was mad, more angry than I had ever seen her before. Bending forwards, a shadow cast across my brow. I could feel her peppermint breath on my head; her big round face, obscured by her red felt hat. I could just make out her tiny little eyes, peering over her cheeks, as she moved closer and closer, nose to nose. She wore cats eye glasses, suspended on a golden chain, always tangled around her neck. They kept hitting me on the chin as she continued her screaming, bellowing ever louder. Finally I placed my hands above my head and pulled the top half of my body towards my chest; curled up I hid from her rage.
It was Wednesday and the Gospel Hall was filling up; children, all shapes and sizes, were once again attending an hour long session, of religious instruction and music. Mrs Hat was in charge; in all honesty, I can’t even remember if that was her name, or we called her that because of the ostentatious headpiece, she wore each week. She was stern, strict and without humour; a portly lady from an altogether different time. Sat in the pews, next to my friend from school, I was in a rather fidgety mood, not wanting to comply with the teachings of our Lord. I began kicking the bench in front, with my brown clarks sandals; a constant tap, as Mrs Hat began her sermon. I was in no mood for listening. Slouching, my head hit the backrest behind and I began to slide down the hard wooden seat; legs wide open, tapping my knees together, back and forth, making a clicking sound with my mouth.
Mid flow, Mrs Hat, looked up from her notes; removing her spectacles forcefully. Grasping them tightly in her left hand, she began banging them on the lecturn in front; the sound gradually getting louder, radiating throughout the hall. She glared across the auditorium, quickly picking up on my uninterested composure; eyes wide open she stared candidly in my direction. I looked around the room, to see if anyone had noticed our posturing. Gingerly I put both hands on the seat, either side of me and gradually lifted myself up, trying to look innocent and interested; all the while, Mrs Hat focused on my demeanour. As soon as I was upright, she popped her glasses back on her rather commodious nose and restarted her laborious rant. It wasn’t too long before my head began to nod in front of me; barely able to stay awake. I fell forwards, banging my head on the seat in front, knocking a bible, placed precariously on my knees, to the floor. Screeching loudly, I rubbed my throbbing temple, trying to ease the pain.
This time Mrs Hat was in a rage; once again she removed her eyeglasses, getting her thumb tied up in the chain around her nape. Even more enraged, she shook the adornment free, all the while looking at me full on in the face. After a deep breath, she lifted her arm in the air and pointed towards my position; I looked around quickly, hoping someone else was in her line of sight. Everyone else was looking downwards, not wanting to catch her eye. I just froze and realised the game was up; I was in trouble and waited silently, patiently as Mrs Hat began her descent from the pulpit.
She walked down the isle, towards the back of the room, where I was sat, all the time pointing, breathing hard, muttering to herself. As I waited patiently, I looked up towards the stark white ceiling above. Maybe God would intervene and whisk me away from this place, before her wrath and damnation; no such luck. God deserted me and I was left to the mercy of Mrs Hat; my career in the church was over before it started; my worst fears confirmed. There was no God, just her, her rage and displeasure and the unabated fury for the children she thwarted!
