The Rhubarb Tree.
By Marjorie Kirkpatrick
(c) October 24th 2002
Chapter 3
Starting Primary School.
Image a water colour by
Chris Woodfield.
All
too soon, the great day dawned when I was to start school, in my blissful
ignorance, I looked forward to it, thinking it would be like nursery.
Elizabeth had already started the term before me, so at least I had a friend who knew what to do and was happy to show me where to put my coat and where the toilets were. Mummy took me to the big desk at the front, a middle aged, lady, sat in front of the class.
“Who have we here?” She asked, peering at me sternly over the rims of her tortoiseshell glasses. My Mother told her my name and age and left.
“Well sit down then Margaret.” and she shooed me to a seat without giving me chance to tell her that my name wasn’t Margaret.
“What do I do if I want to go to the Toilet?” I whispered to Elizabeth.
“You put up your hand, I'll show you.” Elizabeth put up her hand I did the same. The teacher, Miss Yates, asked us why we had put up our hands and Elizabeth explained in a loud voice in front of the whole class that I wanted to use the toilet, and as I did not know where it was could she show me the way?
“Come to the desk then
and I will give you some paper!” I went to the desk and picked up the roll
of toilet paper, [the old fashioned sort], in fact soft tissue had not
been invented back then I pulled off about five slices, in case the seat
was wet. As I didn’t really want to go to the toilet, this was what one
might call a dry run, it was only for future reference, for curiosity’s
sake.
Miss Yates snatched the
roll from my hand saying
“Greedy wasteful child,
you are allowed two pieces, one to wipe and one to polish! What on Earth
would you possibly need with five slices, two are enough for a little girl
like you.” The whole class went “ARRRRRH!” I was never so embarassed in
my life.
When we got to the toilets they were outside, dark and smelly and there was a gargantuan spider, waiting in the corner to catch me as soon as I pulled down my pants. I tried very hard not to use the school toilets after that, preferring to wait until I got home rather than suffer so much danger and embarrassment.
My Mother just could not understand why, at the age of five, I suddenly began to wet my knickers again. I would come in from school and run straight to the toilet, quite often just not quite in time. It was years before I told her about the reason.
Miss Yates continued to call me Margaret and I carried on trying to tell her that my name was Marjorie. I finally got it through to her and she accused me of lying, swearing that my Mummy had told her my name was Margaret. I just could not win either I had lied or my Mummy had lied; Miss Yates was not capable of error.
As time passed I noticed a puzzling activity was going on behind desks and under books. As I looked behind me, at my classmates I could not fail to notice that two or three children, were always pulling at their nether regions. With hands in trouser pockets and the folds of skirts, they fidgeted and appeared to derive much comfort from this activity.
I was very curious about it so one morning, having completed my work, and having nothing else to do, I decided to try it myself, purely out of scientific interest. I put hand to my knickers and did what I saw the other children doing. I had only just begun and I was wondering if I was doing it right, as I was still mystified, when Miss Yates's voice, called out my name.
”Marjorie Kirkpatrick! What on Earth are you doing.” Boomed Miss Yates in disgusted horror.
"Nothing Miss Yates.” I replied. Her tone warned me that I had better be careful with my answer. I couldn’t tell her what I was doing because I really didn’t know and nor could I say was just copying the kids behind me because that would get them in trouble.
Of course it was just my rotten luck that she saw me doing it but had never noticed half a dozen other kids who spent the whole day doing it.
“I’m waiting child! What were you doing?” I only had one choice.
“I wanted to go to the toilet Miss Yates.” She did not believe me.
“That is a lie. You know what you were doing. Don’t you ?“
I burst into tears and said again that I only wanted to go to the toilet. She still did not believe me and lectured me for ten minutes, on what would happen to little children who did something so naughty and sinful. That they should not be allowed to wait they died but should go straight to Hell, this minute for doing something so evil.
I still had no idea why she was making so much fuss but when she eventually told me that if I wanted to go to the toilet I had better go and not come back until I could behave myself like a good christian child should. I hung around the playground for the rest of the lesson, until the rest of the class came out to play.
I was
not sure how long it took, to return to being a good Christian child but
I was sure it would take at least till playtime. She made me so ashamed
of myself even the memory made me blush, it was years before I dared touch
myself again, even in the bath for fear of instant retribution.
One day at school, I sneezed a couple of times. Miss Yates, Noticed.
"Marjorie Kirkpatrick! Have you got a cold?“ I replied that I hadn’t.
“So why are you sneezing ? You must have a cold or you would not be sneezing. If you have got a cold your Mummy should have kept you at home!” After lessons as I was putting my coat on, she said to me.
“ Do not come in tomorrow, giving that cold to everyone else in the class, tell your Mother to keep you at home until that cold has gone.”
When we got home I told my Mummy what she had said, her exact words as far as I could remember so Mum kept me at home for the rest of the week. The following Monday, Mum took me into school.
"I kept her at home as you recommended, but really I don’t consider her condition warrented it, she was not really ill.” Said my Mother.
"Mrs.
Kirkpatrick. I made no such recommendation. It is entirely up to you to
decide if your child is ill or not.” Replied Miss. Yates. My Mother looked
at me in disbelief then told me she would talk to me me later!
I could hardly believe
my ears. I had never heard a grown up tell a lie before at least not deliberate
one.
I was shocked. Why had she done it to me? I eventually convinced my Mother, that I had not lied to her but I could not convince her, that my teacher had lied. Mum decided that we must have got our wires crossed. I must have misunderstood what Miss Yates had said.
I know that I hadn’t misunderstood what she had said, though, she was quite clear and concise, there was nothing to misunderstand. Of course time did pass and in the end the awful year under Miss. Yates was over and joyfully we came through it, (scarred perhaps).They say ’what dosn’t actually kill you, will make you stronger’, and it is true.
The next class had a brilliant teacher — Miss. Turtin, and she made up for Miss. Yates, as much as anyone could because another thing that is true, is 'the first cut is the deepest'.
After school, our gang would all meet up to play, as soon as we had had our tea and changed from school clothes, into playing clothes. Then we would go to the den. We usually had some project or other like gathering wood, for the bonfire we were building for Guy Fawkes night.
The talk of Guy Fawkes had given rise to the mention of tunnels, a fascinating subject to any child. Someone, had the brilliant idea of building, or rather digging a tunnel of our own, a secret one of course. We all rushed off home to see what tools we could ‘borrow’ and came back with a usefull assortment of spades and forks. We decided to begin our digging, inside the tent that we had been using as den since the summer.
After
a couple of nights it became obvious that we needed a couple of buckets
as well to remove the soil there being no more room for it the tent. Night
after night the hole grew, deeper and deeper it became and the buckets
were replaced by a wheelbarrow. In time, the hole was considered to be
deep enough and Paul said.
"I think it is deep enough, it’s time we started to go along.” We all cheered. the boys took it in turns to go down and dig, and we girls hauled up the buckets of soil on bits of rope. (Yes it was that deep about 6ft.) and tipped them into the waiting barrow. When it was time to go in, we would put all the tools inside the tent, beside the hole and tie-up the Flaps.
Of course we did not have the sports field to ourselves, we had to share it with the people who worked for the Sports Club, the groundsmen. We enjoyed an uneasy truce with them most of the time. As our parents were all members we were tolerated, as a necessary evil.
We had to watch out for them when trundling our barrow of soil to the ditch where we were gradually disposing of the heavy clay soil. We were not absolutely certain that tunnelling under the Sports field, was against club rules but we would not be surprised, to discover it to be a forbidden activity. So we were all sworn to secrecy and in any case, it was a ‘secret tunnel’ after all.
On Bonfire night we didn’t go to the tunnel, we were too busy with the other things on offer. Like fireworks and sparklers. Treacle toffee, parkin, hot baked potatoes and sausages. It was a wonderful Guy Fawkes night, we all forgot about digging for one night, in fact some of us were getting bored with the whole tunnel idea, altogether.
It was taking too long to get there, wherever ‘there’ was. Elizabeth and I, were beginning to get Fed up with getting told off for going home muddy every night. The boys were expected to get muddy so no one remarked on it very much but we girls felt we running out of excuses and we couldn’t keep saying we had fallen over.
The night after Bonfire night, we went to the tent and were frightened by a strange noise, coming from inside them tent. We were afraid to go in and look so we waited for Paul.
"It might be an animal that fell down the hole and got trapped.” said Kenny.
“It doesn’t sound like an animal. It sounds more like a man!“ I said.
“It cant be a man because a man could easily climb back out again. Unless he was stuck down there for some reason.” he added.
“Get
out of the way you lot, I’ll look if you’re all too scared” Said Paul
Paul went into the tent
as we all stood back to let him through. It was very brave of him really,
he must have guessed what was making the noise. When he came out he told
us all to get off home and say nothing to the G.U.s He told Elizabeth to
go home with us and come home later.
“It looks as if there are going to be more fireworks tonight Johnny. You go and take the girls home. I’ve got to go and tell my Mum to phone an ambulance. The Groundy has fallen down the tunnel and he thinks he’s broken his leg. Don’t say anything about it I’ll take the blame, as the tunnel was my idea.” Paul said, bravely but John wasn't going to be shown up.
"No
Paul, I was just as keen as you, to dig the tunnel. If there's going to
be trouble I'll take my share. Come on Elli and Titch. You two and Kenny,
don't know about it. OK Paul." John said. I thought he was daft, not to
let Paul take the blame but I was proud of him.
And
two young heros walked bravely away, to face the music, as we ran home
to escape. There was probably more trouble over that, than any other thing
that we did as little ones. The tunnel was swiftly filled in and we were
warned not to ever try to dig a tunnel again and we didn’t.
One Sunday afternoon Mum would not let us go out to play, as usual. She said that she was expecting visitors and we must be on our very, best behaviour.
“These
people are very old Friends of mine from when I was a little girl in Newcastle-on-Tyne.
I’ve told them all about you, so show me how grownup a you can be and make
a really good impression.”
We were
waiting for them to arrive, both done up in our best clothes, pink skin
shining, hair brushed and a brand new ribbon. Sitting waiting, wondering
who we were waiting for. I had an idea. I had just started school (my Mum
had been reading The Guardian) I set the paper in front of me, hoping they
might think I was reading it, then I would look really grown-up.
I pulled
the paper over to my side of the table, when Mum went to answer the door.
Mum came back with a big man and a very pretty lady. Whom she introduced
as Freda and Harry Kinsman and their 14 year old daughter Helen.
“Hello
are you reading the paper. Oh and the Guardian” said Helen. I beamed with
pride my ruse had worked and it was not, telling lies. I hadn’t actually
said I could read, had I. Mummy looked at me and the paper.
"Is
Marjorie reading already, Anne?“ Aunty Freda, as she became, asked. Mum
laughed. I squirmed and my eyes pleaded with her to keep quiet. I knew
she wouldn’t though. No way would she.
"Of course she isn’t reading she’s only just 5.” Said Mum to my disgust.
"If
you are reading, you must be really clever, you’ve got it upside down!”
She added, to my total
humiliation. Of course all the G.U.s howled with laughter as I blushed
with embarrassment I was only trying to do what Mum had said and make a
good impression by acting really grown-up. Exactly what she had told us
to do, wasn’t it?.
Anyway these lovely people, as they did turn out to be were very understanding about my attempt to deceive them. Over the years we got very close to them.
As we
grew older my brother and I made sibling rivalry into an art form. Our
poor Mum practically had to use a ‘micrometer’ if she was to divide anything
between us or we would both shout out ‘ It’s not fair he/she’s got the
biggest piece’ .
Mum would try putting the pieces behind her back.
“Left
hand or right hand?“ she would say. We still argued. ‘He/she picked first.'
or 'It was my turn to pick first’ . We would each shout.
The mistake Mum made was
to have absolutely no favourites. This of course, was the totally wrong
thing to do. She should have picked a favourite and thereafter given the
bigger piece to whichever one of us she picked.
She
could have let us take turns to be the favourite. Or made one of us the
favourite, on a permanent basis or tied it in to good behaviour. That would
have stopped all the arguments over who got the biggest slice of cake.
Wouldn’t it? Of course it wouldn’t. Nothing could.
Mum
caught on to this eventually though and out-smarted the pair of us, by
pretending to each of us that we were the favourite one, knowing that neither
of us would ever get her in bother by telling the other one, she dish out
the sweets [or whatever] saying -
“One
for you and one for you”. Then she would wink at me and slip me two sweets.
I never said anything to Johnny of course. I have often wondered if she
was doing the same thing with John and of course, he would never have said
but were we both getting an extra sweet?
Just
before Christmas the G.U.s took us to town to see a Pantomime. It was Aladdin
and it was wonderful. We all cheered Aladdin and booed his wicked Uncle,
when the genie appeared out of a puff of smoke we children were captivated.
For months after that, we would rub no end of things, hoping to find a
genie of our own.
Strangely
enough we never did but it was not for lack of effort. Mum couldn’t work
out why we suddenly developed an interest in cleaning anything made of
brass especially if it resembled an old lamp.
Another
treat was to be taken to see Peter Pan. We had seen the cartoon at the
pictures but this was in a proper theatre with real people on stage. We
watched Peter sprinkle Wendy and her brothers with fairy dust and teach
them to fly, by thinking beautiful thoughts. For years after that I would
climb up on to anything that was over two foot high and think ‘beautiful
thoughts’ then jump off.
I was
surprised every time to find myself back on the ground. I was sure that
if I could just hit on the right thoughts, that it would work. The Fact
that I could not get hold of any fairy dust did not deter me in the least,
and no amount of failure ever dashed my hopes that one day I would fly.
In the
end though, I eventually gave up and faced the fact that the fairy dust
was essential, beautiful thoughts alone were not enough. If anyone reading
this book happens to know where fairy dust can be obtained, I would be
very grateful if they would let me know or send me some.
Just
after Christmas my parents took us to see another house and told us we
were going to leave Cheedle and move instead to a place called Timperly
which was a few miles away but still in Cheshire. We were never going to
see our gang of friends again and their insistence that we would make new
friends did nothing to soften to blow. nor did the sight of the huge new
house [ big enough to get lost in] or the big garden to play in.
What
is the good of having a big garden if you have no friends to play in it,
with you. Our parents pointed out the size of our new bedrooms and the
great big room at top of the house, that we could have for a playroom.
The central heating and the massive kitchen that Mum fell in love with,
also meant nothing to us.
The
loss of so many good friends was a hard blow for us and for a while my
brother and I were inconsolable. In our loneliness we pulled together for
a while forgetting our sibling rivalry and the fact that boys/girls are
silly and became good friends, at least until we made other friends.
We started at a new school, Navigation Road. We both hated it, none of the kids there, lived anywhere near us. In fact there were no children in our road at all the houses were very old and so were most of the occupants, or so it seemed to us. One day I was looking out of my bedroom window and I saw a little girl, about my age playing in the garden next-door.
I put on my coat and dashed downstairs and out into the back garden.
“Hello
I'm Marjie I live here. What’s your name?” I said to the girl.
“My
name is Patricia , we have come to live here. We have moved into the flat
above our grandmother. I’ve got a brother his name is Victor, he’s
eight and I’m six. How
old are you?" She said.
“I told her I was six too and that I also had a brother, who had just turned eight last month. Trish, as I called her and I became friends, we did not go to the same school, but we spent every minute together that we could after school and during school holidays.
Between the four of us we had the makings of a new gang. Timperly was looking up. We found another friend next-door on the other side, a few weeks later. David Williams, he had an older brother too but Ian was too old to play with us he was taking his ‘O.Levels. then.
Before
we knew it he was off to Cambridge or Oxford or both, then he went to America
to study at Yale or Harvard or both and ended up a professor or PhD, probably
both. Anyway we hardly ever saw him again but we heard about him from David,
and his Mum. He be a research scientist, somewhere in America
Timperly had lots of places to play in, the local school playing fields were one of the best. They had old air-raid shelter s all across the back, which were brilliant for games like hide and seek. There was a ditch behind our garden and a strip of ground, with woods and a stream.
About a quarter mile from our house was a small area that was too marshy for building or farming, so it was just left to grow. Huge willow tree s grew and they were great for climbing, there were wild marsh buttercups. and flag irises.
Frogs and newts lived in the little ponds and in the spring we could collect tadpoles to take home and watch them turn into tiny froglets, which we then had to turn loose back in the marshy place, as we called this natural wildlife sanctuary.
When we broke-up For Easter holidays our parents took us away to Keswick in the Lake-District. They hoped it would take our minds off losing all our friends in Cheedle. We stayed at an old Inn right on top of the biggest hill The view from the room my brother and I shared was awesome.
I fell in love with the place, the hills, lakes and bubbling mountain streams inspired me. Everything is so vivid to the eyes of children, I’ll never forget how green the newly opened leaves looked. The pink blossoms winning the race to open first and the smell of the wild spring flowers, growing wherever they pleased.
Most beautiful of all though to a little girl, was the sight of the hundreds of new born lambs, running and jumping in the meadows so full joy to be alive and spreading that joy around. Infecting everyone who saw them. I would have loved to have been allowed to keep one and take it home with me to be a pet.
My parents pointed out that it would be cruel to take one away From it’s friends and family and promised me that I could have a goldfish instead. The biggest treat of the whole holiday was actually to be allowed to feed one of two orphaned lambs, using a bottle with a teat.
I held the bottle, like the shepherd showed me, and fell deeply in love with the tiny lambs, all my innate maternal instincts rose in my heart, as I held the bottle and watched the milk greedily being drunk.
Early the next morning we were awoken by a strange sound, it was a hunting horn and it was quickly followed by a mêlée of clattering hooves and the yelping of eager hounds. I jumped out of bed and went to the window, there below in the courtyard was a pack of about 30 hounds and red coated, hunters on horse-back.
They were filling there brandy flasks from a jug which was being passed around by the landlord of the inn. Each huntsman then took glass and toasted the fox, the inn-keeper collected the glasses.
Thirty or forty, whip wielding, huntsmen [women] rode off. the dawn sky it looked as if they were riding into the fires of Hell, with the hounds running ahead of them. My parents had joined us by now, and we asked them what it was all about. They told us that a big fox was killing lambs and even a full grown ram had been killed, while trying to defend his ewes from the murderous fox.
I immediately hated this evil creature, who was threatening the lives of the sweet innocent lambs that I loved so much. Of course it did seem a bit unfair to send 40 men on horseback, twenty or thirty foxhounds and twenty or so rifle carrying, shepherds, all after one fox, but he had eluded the hunters all Winter.
Fox hunting season was over at the end of the month, so he had to be caught today or left until the Autumn. All day long the hunt continued, we would hear the dogs howling and yelping, from time to time as they passed near by. Then we would hear the horns of the hunters signalling that they were once again on the scent.
Then,
in the late afternoon, a Land Rover arrived followed by three or four more.
The hunters had caught the fox and were driving around, showing off their
prize. Now in ordinary clothes they were toasting each other and the hounds
and the fox. They asked my father if he would like to see the body, my
Dad pointed to us.
“I have the kids with me and I don’t want them to see anything too gory. I will be in trouble with their Mum if it puts them off their tea." Dad said.
”Oh! It’s alright. the dogs did not catch it, it was shot by one of the lads so it just looks as if it is asleep. Come and look it’s the biggest fox I ever saw and I’ve been hunting foxes all my life.” Said the huntsman.
The fox was lying on it’s side in the back of a Landover. The man was right it did just look as if it was asleep and it was huge, as big as an Alsatian dog. I looked at the poor beast and almost felt sorry for it, until I remembered how many lambs and sheep it must have killed to have got so big. So I was glad that this evil villain, was dead and could not hurt any more poor lambs.
The next day was Easter Sunday and after Morning services, at the little local church, our parents gave us our Easter eggs, and an Easter present each. I opened the parcel and inside was something I’d wanted ever since starting school, a skipping-rope.
I was overjoyed and I skipped off down the road as full of joy as the newborn lambs that I’d come to love so much. As I skipped along, like on of the lambs, happiness I felt, overwhelmed me, I made a promise to myself that, even if I lived to be a hundred, I would remember the moment forever.
I did remember and that taught me something about memory, I realised that remembering is a conscious act. If you decide to remember something, you will! It is not something that happens accidentally.
Sunday lunch at the inn was to be a special treat, my Mother told us.
Locally bred lamb, roasted with mint sauce. I felt my mouth water, but not with hunger. I was almost sick on the spot, right there in the dinning room.
"Mummy I can’t eat lamb, it’s horrible.” I was almost in tears.
“ Don’t be silly darling. It’s beautiful, fresh lean meat look at it. Not a bit of fat or gristle on it. Come on now eat it all up like a good girl.” My Mother was becoming embarrassed, as I was beginning to make a public spectacle of myself, I began to cry copiously and swore I would never eat lamb ever again.
I suddenly
saw my bewildered parents as monsters as they tucked into the baby sheep,
and poured mint sauce onto its poor dismembered leg.
No amount of explaining
that they only called it lamb because it sounds nicer than mutton. Or that
they were really quite old sheep, about to drop dead from old age.
It made
no difference to me how old they were, my little friend, that I had been
bottle feeding all week, would be old one day. How could I eat lamb knowing
that it might be him, that I was eating. I did after a few months, start
to eat lamb again, my stomach having got the better of my principals, but
I was never really able to enjoy it the same as before.
It was just after we moved to Timperly that my parents decided to send me for’ elocution lessons, with a lady in Sale, the point of this was to eradicate an embarrassing lisp, which still made me sound like a baby.
My parents were worried that my speech impediment would make me a target for bullies, which were around even in those days. In fact, being’ the kid with the lisp was not half as tease-worthy, as being the kid with the lisp, who has to have elocution lessons’.
“Come
on love! You’ll be late for your elocution lesson.” Mum would say
as every other kid was
getting ready to go out and play, on Saturday morning
I had
to dress up smart and be taken for my lesson, which I hated. My whole Saturday
morning, wasted, every week, and no! they were not fun.
Sitting there, in a silly
dress, saying.
"Papa’s car is a Jaguar" and “Seven, saucy, sausages sizzling in a sauce— pan.” especially as my Dads car was an old Austin and everybody knows that you don’t cook sausages in a saucepan, it was quite good fun learning to do to though, like:
Betty Botter bought some butter but the butter Betty Botter bought was bitter, so Betty bought some better butter, she put it with the bitter butter, to make the bitter butter better than the bitter bit of butter Betty Botter bought.
It was a long time ago, but I think I got it right. I had two years of wasted Saturday mornings. Followed by five years of speech and drama classes, after school, and I still had a lisp as bad as ever. Years later I had a riding accident and lost my two front teeth. When I returned From the dentist, my husband said.
“What’s happened to your lisp? It’s gone!” I was amazed to find it really was gone, in one hour, after thirty years, and I never lisped again.
Trisha and I used to love to make club—houses in the cellar, like a secret society. We’d temporally fallen out with the boys and decided that this club would be girls only. I bought a John Bull printing set, with club funds [ and Trisha’s pocket money) and tried to think up a name for our club.
We wanted something original but not too long winded. It took us several hours to decide and agree on a name and then we set about the long business of printing out membership cards and making badges. We decided to really splash out on the badges and raided our Mum’s sewing boxes for embroidery silk, beads and even found some gold braid.
It took us hours to sew the two matching badges and fixed little safety pins to the back so we could pin them proudly on our shirts. When we were finished we went upstairs to show our Mums what we had made, fully expecting them to be awed by our brilliance we were quite put out when they both collapsed in fits of giggles.
“What
are you laughing at?” we asked in injured tones. As we looked at our hysterical
Mothers. Of course it was our club’s initials.
‘Secret Ladies and Girls
Society’.
My Mum, when she could regain her composure explained that it would not be a good idea to walk around with the word SLAGS on our badges, so crestfallen, we returned to our club to think of another name, and change our badges accordingly.
We decided
to keep it simple, this time and just call it the Womens Club. Surely we
couldn’t go wrong with badges that simply said W.C. could we? We changed
all stationary and proudly painted our club initials on the door,
then we went upstairs
for our tea, wearing our new badges.
I began to show my Mum my new club badge and was bewildered when she burst out laughing again and so did Trisha’s mum. We didn’t bother with clubs again, for ages and ages, a kid can only stand so much ridicule.
My brother and I were beginning to make friends at our new school, and so after school we would go and meet them. At the time my brother and his mates, were keen on train spotting and would go to a place called Skeleton Junction, to watch the trains go past.
I never could see the point of this occupation, but the boys would spend hours watching the trains and writing the numbers down in their little notebooks, as if their lives depended on them. The fuss they would make if they ever saw the same number twice, well you would have thought they had won the pools.
I don’t remember whose idea it was, to stand on the tracks and play chicken with the trains but you know how kids are when someone says.
“Go on I dare you”. That was all it took to have the boys risking their lives. When someone else said -
“Are you going to have go Marjie?” I replied,
“No. I’m not.” and that would have been that but someone said;
“She doesn’t have to. She’ only a girl.” ‘Only a girl‘ I thought. I’ll show them, deaf to the warnings that they shouted after me, I ran to the track. I stood my ground as the huge goods train roared towards me.
When the train was too close for comfort, I went to run away but I could not move, my silly sandal had got caught under the sleeper and I was trapped. It was too late to undo the buckle and free myself, I had only one chance and one second to save my life. I yanked off the shoe, snapping the buckle in the process and ran clear of the track.
After the train had gone, I retrieved my broken sandal to the sound of loud cheers from the other kids.
“Don’t you ever do anything like that again. I thought you were going to be killed, what would I have said to Mum if I had to take you home in bits." John said.
Of course nothing was said to the grown ups about my adventure and the railway chicken game was never played again. No one would ever be able to beat my death defying record at it. Real courage, however was needed to face my Mum with a brand new pair of sandals ruined.
I told Mum the buckle had just broken while I was playing, which was the truth, wasn’t it? Mum was furious, with me and took them back to the shop to complain. She spoke to the manager and persuaded him to replace the sandals, after threatening to write to head office about their shoddy workmanship. Shoddy wormanship, which had saved my naughty little life, thank God for shoddy workmanship, said I when I said my prayers that night.
Trisha’s cellar was much more interesting than ours because her grandma had lived in the house for her whole life so the cellar was full of things collected over generations. We spent many blissful hours poking through it all.
There was boxes of old clothes and curtains, which we used for dressing up, and a whole roomful of things to use as props when we went into our theatrical era. Putting on plays for our parents and the other children. We wrote the scripts ourselves and everyone had to sit quietly and watch, as we performed them.
Mercifully they had one good quality, they were very short. To Trisha these games were only games, as she had no ambitions of an artistic bent, she wanted to be a secretary, in her Dads firm, unlike me, I wanted to be a film star or a singer or maybe a dancer dancing Swan lake, like Margot Fontayne.
Even being a circus clown, would be better than an ordinary office-type job, anything in front of an audience would suit me even, if it meant being broke. I was totally stagestruck.
To this end, or maybe just for the fun of it, we would spend hours working on scripts and little comedy routines. I was given a portable radio, for my seventh birthday. I remember it had a battery the size of a brick, being one of the first transistor radios.
I used to put it under my bedcovers and with the volume really, low, I would listen to all the evening comedy shows on the light program and the plays on the BBC Home Service, which is now radio 4.
In the morning, I would write down all the best jokes that I could remember and learn them off by heart. My Mum used to say that if only I could learn my school work half as well, I would be top of the class.
Trisha and I became as close as sisters, in spite off going to different schools and that Summer our parents decided that both our Families would take our Whitsun holidays together. We were overjoyed and could hardly wait For the holiday to start.
Trisha’s Dad Ted, was very keen on sailing and had promised our Dad that that he would teach him how to sail a dinghy. We went to a place in North Wales. called Deganwy, it is just across the bay from Conway castle, and very sheltered making it a safe place to swim or sail.
We had all been having swimming lessons since we were 5 years old, as a kid I would have quite happily lived in water, as long as it was not for washing in. If I had my way humankind would have stayed in the sea with the dolphins and the whales. I would have had a few sharp words, to say to whichever, ancestor made that fateful decision to crawl up onto the shore and grow legs.
The first morning we went down to breakfast, all togged out in our brand new “suitable off sailing” outfits, keen and eager for our first try at sailing. Of course I’d had my ‘seven year old' ideas of what it was going to be like, but they had not included the boredom of waiting ages for the boat to be got ready, then waiting my turn. The boys had to have first go, then my Dad, [looking an absolute scream in his ‘smart' new shorts.]
“Be careful! Harry” warned my Mum [ I mention she was the original worrier princess, long before Zena] who had visions of us all getting drowned or eaten by sharks or at the very least stung by jellyfish, thank God she hadn’t heard of lamprey.
“Don’t worry Ann, I’ll look after him.” said Ted. Trisha’s mum just got on with her knitting, I think Ivy had long since given up waiting for her turn on the boat, saying she was just as happy to watch.
Ted pushed the boat into the shallows and deftly jumped in. Saying to Dad.
“Careful! how you climb in Harry, sit on the opposite side to me so you don’t tip us over. That’s the way now slowly.” Dad sat down but as he did the boat swung round and the whole lot turned turtle, both Dads were thrown into the water.
“What happened are you alright?” said Mum as they walked back to the beach soaking wet and dragging the boat, which had to be emptied and dried before any more sailing could be done.
“I changed
my mind. I decided to have a swim instead.” said my Dad.
I realised that sailing
might be fun after all, especially if it meant that we got to watch grown
ups making idiots of themselves.
By the end of the holiday, my Dad was completely hooked on sailing and so was John, but to tell the truth I never really got into it that much. I could not, see the point, of sitting on a wet bit of wood holding a piece of wet rope, sailing up and down the same stretch of water. Only to end up, back in the same place. When I travel, I like to go somewhere.
On one of the days, probably one when there was no wind, we all went for a drive to see Snowdonia and the pretty little villages on the other side of the mountains, to the Llynne Peninsular, where my Dad had spent his holidays when he was a child.
We were, enchanted by the beautiful little fishing village, Abersoch and the still unspoilt, Welsh countryside around it. We would only leave, after making our parents promise to take us back there soon.
The first thing Dad did when we returned home was, buy a sailing boat, and from that day onwards, Sundays, were never the same again. In the spring and summer, Sundays were spent at Winsford Flash, a small stretch of water, between two rivers, in Cheshire. Winsford is in the heart of the salt mines and all the buildings are built in the Tudor style, half-timbered.
I was
told it was to help them float; in case, the underground sea, that caused
the salt mines, should decide to return. I was never sure if this was true,
my Mum told me, it was, and I have no reason to doubt her but it just sounds
a bit, far fetched. I just can’t imagine, it would work, but then I am
not an engineer. In the Winter Dad would sandpaper it and varnish it, to
have it ready, for summer.
