On Crundale Road… it could have been any year in the mid 60s when the army turned up, red caps possibly. There was great excitement in the street as they escorted Peter Revell from his house and drove him away. AWOL perhaps.
On Crundale Road…sometime between 62 and 66 an engagement party was held at the Wrights, next door to us at 41, for Gloria – a relation of theirs – and Peter Revell. The racket coming from their record player kept us awake until the early hours.
On
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To the left of the front door, ours had a rarely used door that led into the alley. In there was an old kitchen unit in which Dad kept various tools and tins of paint. Other things in there were Mam’s sewing machine and the dog’s bed. We kept a hibernating tortoise in there too, one winter, but when spring came the only thing left in its straw filled box was an empty shell and a lot of fleas.
Next door to us at 41, the utility room served as Mister Wright’s office, where he typed the Twydall newsletter.
And the utility room at Kevin’s
house, I best remember, is where Mister Garlick kept his spare rolls of
wallpaper and Mrs Garlick worked her sewing machine.
~
My toy soldiers: like Jackie Paper, who grew to an
age where he no longer came to play with Puff the Magic Dragon, I was on my way
to secondary school and getting too old for toy soldiers. The army that I'd
spent years assembling, I passed on to Andrew – the only
brother to show a flicker of interest – to hold dear and to cherish as much I had, yet within weeks
he’d swapped the lot for a toy from David Webb.
~
Lumps bumps
and accidents: at
various times my brothers and I had our little mishaps.
Dave needed stitches after an accident in the bedroom. The airing cupboard door, held by a catch, was situated halfway up the wall. Climbing up to it was easy but Dave slipped and fell as he opened the door and cut his wrist on the catch.
Dave came unstuck again when he grabbed the big empty box from Mam’s grocery delivery, to ride down the staircase. A good idea, he believed, until he went bump thumpety thud.
Mike needed stitches too, in the back of his head. For ignoring an order not to climb on a pushbike Dad once had – that was propped against a fence at the front of the house. Mike took the consequences when he and the bike toppled back against the house. And an accident in the bedroom earned him more stitches when he tripped up and went face first into the wooden frame of a chair, which gave him a nasty cut above the lip. He came back from hospital looking like a catfish. Mike suffered again on the occasion that Dad, in temper, flung him against the living room ceiling. Lucky for him, his fall was broken when Dad kneed him on the way down.
As soon as Andrew was old enough he got in on the act too. He lost his footing when climbing in the alley and cut his head open. ‘I slipped on a banana skin,’ he told Mam.
Compared to my brothers, I came through childhood fairly unscathed, though a painful incident occurred one Sunday night after we’d had a bath. Why we should hop around the front room with our arms down the sides of our pyjamas is anyone’s guess but hop around we did, in bare feet, until I caught my little toe in the fireguard. The horror of going down face first, unable to put my hands out to protect myself was almost as bad as the hurt my poor toe suffered.
Dad losing his
temper wasn’t uncommon. A clip round the lughole was to be expected but sometimes
it went further. We’d all had a hiding at sometime or other. Mam of course, was
precious to Dad and safe from his rage. He could never shout at her. Could he?
The sight of Dad bawling at Mam was unknown and deeply distressing. In the middle of the front room with us kids looking on, poor Mam was in tears. Such was the ferocity of Dad’s anger that I really feared for her as I leapt from my chair and shouted ‘Leave her alone you rotter! Get out!’ Raising my puny fists was no defence against a left hander from Dad that smacked me in the mouth and knocked me back into my chair, bleeding from the lip. Though I cowered in his presence for days afterwards, little was said about what happened. No apologies, no reprisals, but I never saw Dad speak to Mam like that again so perhaps some good came out of it.
And finally… success and failure.
I learned to tie my shoelaces at the infants. I learned to skip there too… eventually. Forward and backward rolls were easy but I never did manage a handstand, not a proper one anyway. Cartwheels? Forget it. Growing up required some special talents and in some instances, a good measure of bravery, but for every plus there was a minus and an ability to cope with failure was a useful asset for any kid to have.
Riding a bike? Learning to ride a bike nearly killed me but I got there in the end. And I knew how to put a lolly stick in a bike’s spokes to get that joyful effect when the wheel turned. Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!
Climbing? I
wouldn’t venture too far up a tree. Halfway up the average drainpipe was as far
as my courage went but unlike our Andrew, who was much younger when he tried it,
I could zig zag up the walls of the alley between our house and next door, and
touch the ceiling.
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