Tom, my paternal grandfather, was born within the sound of Bow Bells. In cockney folklore this qualified him as a genuine London cockney (remember Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins?)….’Gaw blymeee Mehrry Pohppinz…chimmchimmineee chimminee cheeerooo’…ok, he wasn’t a chimney sweep, but I guess he may have sounded like one in a Hollywood movie..he became a skilled engine toolmaker and eventually moved to Weymouth in Dorset , where he met and married my grandmother, Annie, who was the daughter of a tenant farmer.
A few years later they moved to Bristol where Tom’s father had once lived. Tom worked in the early aeroplane factory on the same site where I now work. In all this excitement my father William (Bill) was born, in 1909. Tom somehow got involved in the early Labour Party, and basically blew the family fortune he had inherited on funding political meetings and such like (my precious, my precious…oh god, he blew the fortune!) I remember my Dad walking me through a nice part of Bristol to point out which streets (yes-streets!) his Grandfather (my Great Grandfather Thomas) had once owned before his idiot anarchic son had sold them for a pittance. I have never been told how my great grandfather amassed his fortune. My youngest son is working on the family tree and it appears that somewhere down the paternal line we owned a coal mine in Kingswood, now a suburb of Bristol . Kingswood was where John Wesley, the founder of the Methodist Church , first preached to the faithful. It is a bit of a mystery how Tom came to be born in London , and why he decided to go into engineering.
My father left England when he was just 17 to emigrate to Australia . He lived for some years on a farm owned by some Greek guy .The farm was a day’s ride from a place called Gympie. After some crazy adventures he worked his package back to good old Blighty, and in the process I guess decided he liked the cut and jib of the Navy uniform (what Blue?...with these shoes?) and eventually took the King’s shilling, enlisting at HMS Raleigh.
Many, many adventures, and a bit of a tiff with Hitler later, he met and married my mum Helen, who was fifteen years younger than himself (yikes, it must have been the uniform).
Helen was the outcome of the international pairing of her father James, who was born in a tin shed in Wales, and her mother Bertha, who would have liked to have lived in a tin shed, if only her father could have afforded it, in De Haan, an area in Flanders, which is a rather nice coastal part between France and Belgium. James was so busy avoiding death in the trenches he forgot the sensible military medical advice and ‘had contact’ with the locals. My uncle Mickey was born as my unknowing Grandpa James went over the top in Ypres , and amazingly came back over the top about ten seconds later without his helmet and a big mess in the underwear department, but thankfully still alive. He repeated this time and time again, poor sod, as did millions of not so lucky others. It was three years before he knew he had a son and had doubts of parentage before meeting the child, although this was forgotten as he instantly recognized the obvious genitical similarities, namely his son had no helmet, but he could shrewdly detect a mess in the underwear department.
Bertha moved to Bristol with James, which must have been really scary for her. She couldn’t speak a word of English, and James could speak no Flemish, so the situation must have been a nightmare. James, in those days, was a bit of a shit-bag, and spent what little he had on drink before giving his poor wife any food money. A local catholic priest, who could speak French and some Flemish, kindly took my grandma under his wing and taught her English, and by the time my mother was born she knew enough to say to James ‘you welsh bastard, I said no, don’t put it there…’
My parent’s first child (son) was born in 1948, the second (son) in 1950 and the third (daughter) in 1954.They all lived in the last house that my great grandfather had once owned. In 1961, wonderful news hit the family..’It’s an idiot’ they all shouted, ‘lets have a party’..in reality my Dad never wanted a fourth child, or so I was constantly told by my Mum, but never told by my Dad, whose version of events was slightly different ….apparently my Mum had womb problems and was advised to get rid of me before I was born, but being a good catholic decided that a gift from God was a blessing and that the risk and agony was going to be worth it. I am constantly reminded of this suffering, especially when there is a D in the day of the week. My Mum was eventually dragged screaming, crucifix in hand into the maternity hospital, closely followed my Dad, also screaming, cudgel in hand but thankfully restrained by the priest. My Dad once told me that when he was three he was mugged by a pack of particularly vicious nuns, who hit him so hard his ears bled. Why he deserved this beating I have no idea, but it was a fact he hated all things religious ever since, including my mother.
It was into this bedlam that I was born, on one side religious fervour, and on the other complete atheism. It was a balance that served me well. I could on any given day tell anybody who wanted to know which saint had been slaughtered on that very day, and why we should all pray for his suffering. At the same time I could tell you why he completely deserved it, and was no doubt lucky that he had got off so lightly with a simple disembowelment, with a side dish of hanging and quartering, all whilst being poked with a nasty looking sharp stick. One of my earliest memories is my parents reenacting the Battle of Crecy in the front room in what must have been about 1963.
My Dad had forgotten to wear his armour, and had no reserves of brave archers, and so lost the early skirmish, rewriting history in the process. Had the French in the original battle had the foresight to throw cheap Woolworth plates at their enemy, then I would be speaking French now. My Dad retreated from the battlefield by going on nightshift, and met some poor bloke who was down on his luck and needed a place to live. He invited him into the family home in return for a reasonable rent, which in turn covered the repayments on my Dads 1000 cc Vincent Black Shadow motorcycle, and of course paid for replacement ceramic stock for my Mum’s arsenal in the kitchen. The lodger repaid this kindness by taking advantage (no doubt whilst dressed as a priest ) of my mum, and a night of passion ensued, which was unfortunately interrupted by my nightshift returning Dad., who went berserk and stepped up the battle by kicking the enemy, complete with a badly beaten lodger, out the front door into the street. The local policeman, on his beat, was apparently outside the front gate when it all happened, and was a later perfect witness in the divorce courts, much to the eternal shame of my Mum, who blamed the whole episode on the Devil himself, namely my Dad.
A new episode in my life began. The courts, in their infinite wisdom, awarded custody of myself to my Mum and her drunken ex-lodger, whilst my dad had custody of my two elder brothers and my sister. I recall the misery of sleeping in a cupboard that was led on it’s side as a makeshift bed, whilst being kept awake by Mum, in the real bed, who it seemed was being blessed by the ex-lodger .It certainly sounded like that, for all I could hear was ‘Oh God, Oh God, Oh God……’. It must have been quite a blessing, because the bed springs were being exorcised at the same time, if you pardon the pun.
The courts eventually saw reason, and by the time I was four I was safe back in the custody of my Dad, aided by my two brothers and sister.
The next years saw us move from home to home, my Dad trying to cut the ties from my Mum, who followed us like a boomerang drenched in eternal sin (her words), trying endlessly for forgiveness. By the time I was seven I had started and left about eleven different schools, in all parts of the South West of England. At times my Mum would appear for a few weeks, teach me some new saints, and then leave again for a quick blessing by still lurking ex-lodger. At each school I quickly learnt that there was a simple choice. I could either be cheerful and fit in quickly, or be quiet and fearful and be targeted by the inevitable thugs. To stay ahead of the game I learnt quickly, both in educational terms and in social awareness, and when to punch and when to duck and run. I could quickly determine how to adapt to any new school or situation, and realized that by being friendly was by far the best option. We eventually settled in a cheap house in a relatively poor area of Bristol , and at about seven years old I began a stable period in my life.
Burton Hill was for many a scary no mans’ land between the poorer areas of the city and the vibrant city centre. You wouldn’t walk through it by choice, unless your car was broken and you had wanted to visit one of it’s many car scrap yards. It was the area the city elders had forgotten, entire streets were empty of residents, and the area was a lattice of war torn flattened houses strewn with a million dusty red house bricks which lay basking in the sun. Burton Hill was a forgotten child of The Industrial Revolution, and had evolved from a poor working class area into a gritty, hard working class area where it was not unusual to see the weathered rag and bone pushing his cart along the cobbles, his feet hammering the cobbled granite streets in a rich melody that was unmistakable. Daily the housewives polished the brass thresh hold of their doorsteps in a morning ritual that was taken for granted by us kids. White hand washed sheets were erected high on lines lashed between the houses back yards, each line boasting it’s wares as the whitest whites for miles around. Defeated washers would take to beating their old rugs on the line instead, scattering a cloud of dust sky-ward in an effort to grey the winning white sheets. It was washing war, where the only respite was a rainy day. It was the nineteen sixties in most parts of the world, but for Burton Hill it was still for many the last century, for many it was hell, for me it was a heaven of discovery I had always dreamt of. It was home.
The daily school routine was simple. My brothers and sister still lived at home, and they were my night time guardians. I would wake early to welcome my Dad back from nightshift with a cup of tea. A quick wash and a slice of toast and I would walk to school, where I enjoyed having the same friends and teachers as the month before. At lunchtimes I would walk back home, let myself in with the key that was hanging on a string behind the letterbox and pick up the two shillings that was left on the kitchen table by my now sleeping Dad. I would walk up to local corner shop to buy a small tin of Heinz Spaghetti Hoops, and about three candy shaped pink shrimps. Once I was home again, I would cook my meal, without waking my Dad, devour my shrimps, wash up and dry the saucepan and plate, and then happily leave for afternoon school, quietly closing the front door behind me. I did this for years, same meal every day. The local corner shop guy knew me as The Spaghetti King. He would have my tin and shrimps waiting for me every day. I don’t think in all the years he served me that he ever once put the price up.
In the evening my Dad would cook the evening meal, He loved routine, and you could tell which day of the week it was by which meal was on the table. I have long forgotten the order of menu, but for some bizarre reason I remember that Wednesday was always stewed steak (from a tin), boiled potato’s and broad beans. It coincided with Casey Jones on the rented black and white TV. Happy memories. Bliss.
Junior School
Avon Valley Junior School was a wonderful old building that once nestled in the shadow of the old cotton mill. It lay in confused slumber between nineteenth century Victorian England and the onset of the nineteen sixties council redevelopment. The mills’ over worked and underpaid workers’ terraced houses were to the east and west, several towers of ‘social housing’ flats soared a full twelve stories high to the north, and a lush green playing field spread southwards down to the ever-stinking and ever-murky Feeder canal. The old cotton mill was called The Great Western Cotton Works. It was a monstrous factory that was built using compensation money the government of its’ day had paid to already rich slave owners .The abolition of the slave trade meant that the slave owners would be out of pocket, so they received the money to ensure they could continue to live in the luxurious style to which they were accustomed. It was particulary ironic: slavery was simply stopped in one sense and continued in another: cotton production started in 1837 and by 1840 employed 923 workers, including 609 girls and 113 boys .Their rights were pretty much non-existent. In 1845 children who missed a day’s work were imprisoned. This was a difficult choice, the legal maximum working week for children between 1819 and 1833 was 72 hours per week, that’s 12 hours every day, if they had Sunday off. Work or prison, which one was best? There was no legal upper working limit for adults. And they said slavery was abolished….I am not so sure it ever was. The evil transportation of slaves was stopped, but nobody ever questions how the workers in the mines and mills of England were treated. The mill was finally pulled down, as I recall, in the 1960’s…for the first time ever the sun shone in the playground of our school, the mill had been the cause of the shadow of discontent and misery ever since it’s first foundation stone was laid. I remember my neighbour crying as the huge iron ball of the demolition crane smashed into the side of the mill. I never understood this, and still don’t. It should have been a time of celebration……
To us kids the school represented many things…order, discipline, generally dry classrooms, an endless supply of Plasticine and a crazy collection of teachers. The craziest of these was Miss Slider…..
Three years before I had come to Burton Hill I had started nursery school in a different part of the city. My first school was called High-field’s, the nursery class being an after thought that was tagged onto the lower Junior School in what was basically a large shed. The lower school headmistress was Miss Slider. She scared me then and when we moved from that school I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to see her again. I was not to know that she had been promoted to the rank of a full blown headmistress, and was now the commandant of Avon Valley Juniors. I had to pinch myself when I realized we were now both thrown together.
She was eccentric in the extreme. At morning assembly the entire school would sit cross legged before her, the cold varnished parquet flooring chilling our legs. She would stand at the front in one of many billowing blouses, her face like a demented Liberace on a bad day, brilliant red lipstick smudged on her lengthy teeth. The scary bit was waist down. Her pleated grey skirt was only knee high, and when she walked you could see the top of her red bloomers, tightly elasticised and holding her fat thighs in check. From our vantage point at ground zero the red bloomered thighs would wobble past, a sinister threat of authority. It was a playschool legend that if you were naughty she would sit on you, and bloomer your face until you couldn’t breathe. Only one kid ever pushed her to the limit, and that was years later. For the time being she was the highest authority in the land. Nobody crossed her, nobody dared to. Miss Slider was in complete control.
Her first lieutenant was Miss Archer. She was the music teacher and suffered from a mystery skin complaint. Her whole body seemed to be swathed in an endless supply of creamy crepe bandage, which often became unraveled at different places on her body. She loved all the girls, each one had a special place in her heart, each one was like a daughter to her. It was different for the boys, she hated each one with a pathological loathing, and each one was like a bad dog to her. She would sit at the piano with her body away from us, her head turned like Medusa to face us with both an angelic face for the girls, and a stone turning grimace for the boys. She would thrash out a few notes of some ancient song and expect us to sing in perfect unison, the words etched into our minds in total fear. You only forgot the words once. One cold morning a kid named Rob Butcher lived up to his name and carved up the lyrics to ‘Early one morning, just as the Sun was dawning, I heard a maiden singing, in the Val’ below…’ Rob managed to spoonerise ‘morning’ with ‘Sun’ and ‘dawning’ to create a whole fresh, new song that had the poor maiden spawning early in the drawing. Miss Archer saw this as an act of total disobedience, and it was to her utter dismay that such treachery could not be immediately punishable by death by stare. She resorted instead to her ultimate deterrent, the haberdashery yardstick. This was her metal edged wooden ruler, the sort that the curtain shops would use to cut cloth .It was a beast of a ruler. Rob had to stand and hold his hand out before us, and the whoosh as the rule cut though the air was only slightly more sickening as the noise of contact as the rule hit his fingers. To this day I cannot understand how his fingers were not amputated, his hand was forced down with the wicked force of the thrashing teacher, and had it happened today it would have made headline news the world over .I can only think that Rob’s Dad must have been taught by Miss Archer as a child, and was too scared to complain. It was for certain that Rob’s hands must have been damaged in some way, and it was for certain too that ‘Early one morning…’ was never to get into Rob’s lifetime top ten of songs to smile about. Miss Archer was as evil as Miss Slider was crazy. They were the demented duo.
