Clive
Imprinted deep within my memory are the endless, wonderful days of boyhood activity in the sixties. The blue, cloudless skies, from early sunrise until late sunset, provided times of unceasing adventure and activity. We were free from the tethers of all of adulthood, especially parents, who packed my friends and me off with a packet of sandwiches and a glass bottle of orange juice. We wandered across the local heathland on the outskirts of northwest Sheffield, bounding through the heather and bracken with barely another soul insight. The gently rounded hillocks sapped our vast reserves of energy until, tired and hungry, we returned back home in time for tea at 5.30pm.
We constructed dens in one of the many hollows beneath young birch trees and declared them ‘HQ’, Command Centre or simply Our Hideout. Each lair was covered with fallen branches, upon which fern foliage was piled up, sometimes to a foot or more in depth. No speck of light crept into our sanctuary and therefore, we hoped, no rain would penetrate our cosy retreat.
We filled the days raiding each other’s position, chasing away friends to other parts of the moor. We were Knights, brandishing wooden swords and hardboard shields, duelling in the midday sun. We fought with water, squirted from empty washing up liquid bottles and replenished from the ‘The Dog Pond’, a shallow, clay hollow.
A corner shop, selling sweets and groceries, provided for the essential provisions of our active day. One penny – that’s 1d, would buy a finger of Cadbury’s chocolate wrapped in purple foil or 4 Black Jacks or Fruit Salads – delicious chewy sweets. 3d would buy a frozen Jublee (a triangular carton of frozen juice) and 6d a full bottle of fizzy pop. No Coke, Lilt or Fanta, just honest flavours such as Dandelion and Burdock, Jusoda (Orange) and Tizer. The drink was passed around each child who would swig it whilst munching on his or her sandwich. With some thought, we would rub the neck of the bottle to cleanse it before gulping down, but strangely, we never noticed the crumbs and other debris floating around inside.
During the balmy evenings, Father, having returned home from work, would drive us to the country pub, - a real treat. A bottle of ginger beer, (always with a straw) was ordered together with a packet of either plain or cheese and onion crisps (the only two flavours available). Each greaseproof paper wrapping contained the potato delights and small, twisted, blue parcels of salt. It was strange that the packet always had several salt sachets or none at all!
‘Half day closing’ of shops would be spent with picnics on the moors, picking the wild, very dark blue, pea size bilberry. Hours of harvesting would be rewarded with mother making homemade apple and bilberry pie, a flavour that still lingers upon my palate.
Other expeditions included standing on railway footbridges and engaging in conversation with the signalman who was drawing on a cigarette outside his signal box. We would find out when the next train was to pass and so linger to gaze at the locomotive and its train. We would breathe in the delightful aroma of steam and oil as an engine puffed beneath us. We would wave wildly with our handkerchiefs as ‘The Blue Pullman’, a then cutting technology diesel train, zoomed through a Derbyshire station. Our aim? To be recognised by the Driver with an acknowledging toot of the whistle or a blast of the two tone horn.
If we were really lucky, an outing would be rounded off with fishcake and chips from the local chippy. Total cost? Six old pennies. A fishcake was not what most people know as a fishcake. It was the tail end piece of fish sandwiched between two potato slices, covered in batter and deep fried. Smothered in salt & vinegar, it was delicious. (While I am on the subject of vinegar, why is it that chip shop vinegar always tasted much better than the malt brew at home?) We would always eat our supper with our fingers, which would smell of the sharp, sweet acid.
Singing was a major part of my boyhood. Choir practice was five times a week and at least 4 regular services. The best services were the ones that occurred during school time. Two of the rehearsals were after school and so a sandwich tea with cake was served. There was so much glorious music sung and the complete soprano (treble) part of Stanford’s Te Deum in b flat remains part of my repertoire. ‘Bully Bass’ would poke the choristers through the lattice like choir stalls with a view to quieten down our sotto voce chatter. Well, there had to be some way of relieving ‘sermon tedium’! Processing from the service took us past a side chapel which housed a gigantic organ. The intense vibration of the lower notes, in Widor’s Toccata, still throb and reverberate through my body.
The visit to the barbers, every six weeks, was loathed. Short hairs travelled down the back causing a pricking and itching that could not be scratched. The noxious smell of ‘Brylcreme’ still lingers, causing cold shivers. The agony became torture when customers slowed down the styling process. They interrupted to buy ‘something for the weekend’. What on earth?!
So has this nostalgic recollection of childhood experiences any correlation to today’s life? I think there are many. The length of each day is drawing longer as we reach the summer solstice. We have been fortunate that there have been so many sunny warm days with numerous clear blue skies. Enforced incarceration restricts freedom of movement and routine. Time within these conditions is somehow misplaced, out of place or erroneous. One day can very much seem like the last one, and the one before that. Days become as endless as those heady, stimulating childhood times. But this time, there is a loss of enthusiasm or zeal - unless, that is, you recreate that pleasure for yourself.
The Garden Railway has reached a pinnacle in its operation. The track, much to the envy of Network Rail, has never been in such a good condition. Leaves on the line, uneven track and shabby station buildings are problems of the past. Wooden, warped level crossings replaced with modern structures, thus allowing traffic to flow more freely. Points have been electrified and ‘sequenced’. One push of a button can change several points to select the chosen route!
Timetable running is very efficient. Passengers are no longer delayed with derailments, wrong location of rolling stock or inclement seasonal adjustments. The ‘Social Isolation Train’ delivers its cargo of hot drinks, biscuits and cake from kitchen door to ‘Isolation Halt’. And, yes, you can still wave wildly at the trains as they steam along.
The experience of a thrilling, exhilarating, childlike adventure is not confined to former times. To write about exploits is to relive them. The second book closely based upon my childhood incidents and encounters has now been published, having been composed during duller ‘lockdown’ days. Chasing foreign spies, engaging in mediaeval battles with friendly foes and undertaking mysterious detective work still remain the ingredients to stimulate children’s minds. Grandchildren adore the many true tales of ‘their boyhood Gumpi’ at bedtime. I am so grateful to these wonderful children for rekindling my earliest, carefree pleasures.
Food and drink still play an important part in these Covid isolation days. ‘Pop’ has been superseded by alcohol. ‘Zinfandel’, ‘Gruner Veltliner’ and ‘Sauvignon Vert’ are the new labels of choice. In the interest of experimentation, at least one new variety of wine is sampled each week. Well, there are so many varieties it would be discourteous not to try them.
Drinking afternoon mugs of tea with cake is an age old English custom that has been resurrected to make these difficult days more palatable. Flour, a very rare commodity nowadays, can usually be sourced from the petrol station and eggs from the farm within the village. An explosion of over ripe bananas within the household, necessitated the discovery of banana cake recipes, thus reviving the tradition. Imagine the additional delights when a recipe for banana and Nutella ice cream was discovered. That’s it! Just frozen banana and Nutella, mixed and refrozen. Absolutely delicious!
Singing still continues. It’s not so intense these days, but it still thrives. The local Community Choir rehearses for 45 minutes on a Thursday, before the 8 o’clock clapping. In reality it is each chorister singing a solo in their own homes, but it does generate a feeling of togetherness and a sensation of purpose. Summoning up courage one week, the neighbours were ‘treated’ to a duet of ‘We’ll Meet Again’, sung from the front of the drive. Villagers were, surprisingly, delighted. For 200 yards, they listened, applauded again and beamed with the largest of smiles. The singing of a new song has now become a minor tradition as two dozen or so residents awaiting the week’s musical rendition.
Returning to a previous subject, this damn virus has stopped all forms of professional hairdressing. Will someone please cut my hair! Not since the early seventies has it been so long. It may be thinning on top but it is luxuriant at the neck. It is greying in colour yet curving aggressively around the ears. Tresses are becoming a mop, a mane, a definite ‘shock’ of hair. Nothing here has changed since my childhood. I hate my hair! At least, I suppose, there is a modicum of comfort in knowing that I won’t have to suffer the agony of being interrupted for that ‘something for the weekend’!