The Mayor, in fact, was, as the Americans say, something else. Alderman Elsie Kimber was a legendary figure in Newbury. She came of the respectable family of Kimber the grocer’s and was middle-aged and unmarried. She had rimless glasses, wore a heavily-skirted, brown belted garment, sandals and no hat, and she rode a motor-bike. She was emancipated, bizarre, no fool and excellent company, even to a small boy. To me it seemed entirely natural that the Mayor should look somewhat unusual, as did, for instance, Beefeaters. I vaguely supposed that that was what mayors looked like.
To illustrate my mother’s gift of identifying with children, I must instance another time when we were down in the town together: I suppose I may have been five or six. We were walking up Batholomew Street from the southern end, by the railway bridge (and Kimber’s). In those days Newbury still had the sort of Thomas Hardyesque atmosphere which I have been trying to evoke, and there were still many dwelling-houses actually in the town, from working-people’s trim, small houses, fronting the street, to Dr Hickman’s beautiful house and garden (of which more anon) and the Dower House, long since become business premises. People lived in the middle of Newbury because they preferred to. (It was quiet then, see.) We were walking past a row of neat little dwellings, near Vincent’s the ironmongers, when suddenly, for some reason, I was greatly taken with the whitened step, the polished brass handle and gently gleaming panels which comprised a front door. Whoever owned it was obviously house-proud, but I didn’t consciously think of that: I just felt I liked it.
‘Look, Mummy,’ I said. ‘What a wonderfully good door for knocking on!’
‘Why, so it is, dear,’ answered my mother. ‘A very good door for knocking on.’
I knocked on it with my knuckles. My mother knocked on it with her knuckles. We became absorbed.
‘A very good door for knocking on!’
‘Yes, yes!’
All of a sudden the door opened, and I had a glimpse of a lady in carpet slippers and an apron. But only a glimpse. My mother clutched my hand and together we sped away up the street - simply hared, as she herself would have said. Five minutes later we had forgotten all about it, and were watching a horse repeatedly tossing his head to get the last out of the bottom of his nosebag, while at each toss the chaff flew round his ears and the flies buzzed up in a cloud.
We were not, of course (ah! those class-conscious days), on visiting terms with tradespeople; you didn’t ask tradespeople to tennis parties or anything like that. Nevertheless my father – and my mother – had many friends among tradespeople in the town, most of whom were always ready to oblige Dr Adams. One of these was Mr Tufnell (old Tuffy) and his protegee, Miss Rowle (Rowley, as everyone called her). ‘Do you mean Miss Rowle?’ snapped one of the lady assistants one day, when I asked for her. She (rightly) thought it disrespectful for a little boy to use the nickname. ‘No, I don’t: I mean Rowley,’ I replied. And I got away with it.
Mr Tufnell was fond of telling how he had first come to Newbury as a poor boy with a shilling in his pocket. (That would have been in the eighteen-eighties, I suppose.) He was now the proprietor of a thriving newsagent’s and toyshop, a tobacconist’s and also of one of the town’s two cinemas. I believe he was unmarried. So it was Rowley — dear, kind, unmarried, middle-aged, bubblingly cheerful Rowley — who ran the newsagent’s, supplied us with newspapers and helped my father and my mother in all sorts of little ways. For example, on the strength of a telephone call she would pick up a prescription which had been made up at the chemist’s, and it would be delivered with the newspaper next morning. Or she would take charge of a basket of shopping (Tufnell’s was near both the club and the ‘bus terminus) while my mother walked the length of Northbrook Street to buy something else. When I wanted to buy cigarettes (half a crown for fifty) for my father’s birthday, Rowley would buy them for me, as I was, of course, under age.
The last favour which Rowley ever did for me was in 1946, at the end of the war. I had learned of the death of my dearest friend in Tunisia, and had there and then sat down in the College Bursar’s office in Oxford and copied out his commanding officer’s account of his death (no duplicating machines then) in my own hand. Returning to Newbury I gave it, weeping, to Rowley and she typed it for me.
Mr Mann was the floor manager at Toomer’s, the ironmonger we favoured. He was middle-aged, tall and shiningly bald, in a long brown shop-coat buttoning down the front. He seemed just right for the arrays of smooth, flashing saucepans, spades and pails over which he presided. I liked the shop because it was spacious, light and full of hard, clean things which could be touched and even played with, without anybody minding. (They couldn’t soil or break.) Also, it stocked exciting goods like clock golf sets and mousetraps (both box and break-back).
Mr Mann was another friend who was ready to do anything for my father, and I think with good reason. At one time he was not well and that, of course, is as much as I know about his illness, except that we can presume from the story that it was something internal, like rupture or hernia. He didn’t seem to be getting any better and accordingly he wasn’t confident in the treatment he was receiving or the doctor who was prescribing it. Being afraid, he spoke in confidence to my father and asked his advice. This was a ticklish situation, since he was someone else’s patient and, if there really was no more that could be done, didn’t want all the invidious trouble of changing doctors. My father connived at the secrecy. One evening, after the shop was shut, he privily joined Mr Mann, who pulled down all the blinds of the display windows and stripped off. The big display window had powerful electric lights and here, among the trowels, frying-pans and mowing-machines, my father gave Mr Mann a full examination. All I know is that his diagnosis was a different one from the other doctor’s, and that whatever ensued made Mr Mann better. One day, several years afterwards, I remarked to my sister that Mr Mann seemed devoted to my father. ‘Oh, yes,’ she replied, ‘I rather think Father saved his life -or something like that.’
Mrs Mann was expert in making wine, and we used to come in for this in a considerable way. Much later, during the war, whenever I managed to get home on leave in summer, I used to fill my father’s silver hip-flask with Mrs Mann’s dandelion or cowslip and take it trout-fishing with me. It was extremely potent. You had to watch it, and I seldom, if ever, emptied the flask.
The most spacious shop premises in Newbury at that time were Camp Hopson’s, who covered everything from haberdashery through men’s and women’s tailoring to carpets, upholstery and removals. (They still do.) As a little boy I was always impressed by the air of quiet, controlled activity and order, carried on by what seemed a great many black-clad, committed people intent on the tasks of the business; by the division of the place into different departments and the differences in atmosphere between each. The rooms seemed huge, extending back deeply from the street front almost like corridors, and the old-fashioned wooden counters very broad and solid.
In several of the departments there were ‘overhead railways’ which carried cash and bills from the counters to the central cashier’s office at the back. When a purchase was made, the bill and cash were put by the shop assistant into a screw-top container, about as big as two fists, made to run along an overhead wire. This was then ‘fired’: a spring was released, the head of which struck the container and impelled it hard along the wire. It fairly flew off on its course, with a characteristic swishing noise which I can hear now, and you could watch its flight to the cashier’s - a good, long way, too. Then, after a brief interval, it would return with the receipted bill and the change, arriving back with a loud ‘ping’ and a sudden stop. Sometimes there might be as many as four of these containers in flight at once, their frantic speed dominating the otherwise quiet department. I was always sorry to leave. I could have watched them for half an hour on end.
At times one would meet with the imposing figure of old Mr Camp, now well on in years, stout and impressive, an Elgarian figure with a dark suit, white hair and moustache and a rubicun
d face. He walked slowly, in a majestic manner, seldom speaking much. I realize now that he must have been born some time during the eighteen-fifties.
After the close-set chessboard of the haberdashery, the carpet department appeared vast - by far the biggest room I had ever been in. It was all open and unencumbered, with a large, low central platform on which carpets were laid out for display. It seemed as big as a field, and was filled with the true smell of carpets - the strawy smell of the new backing - as with the scent of grass. The carpet department was, I could sense, unique: there were no overhead wires and no money ever seemed to change hands. The shopmen were different, too. A few were ‘proper’ shopmen: others wore caps and green baize aprons. (They, too, of course, were in the correct uniform for their job.)
Yet another acquaintance of my father was Mr Gibson, a jeweller and watchmaker in the arcade. Mr Gibson was urbane and polite, a pleasant, courteous man; imposing, too, for he was on the large side and always wore a dark suit, with a waistcoat and a thin gold watch-chain across it. It was he who once said to me, quietly and positively, ‘Of course, Dr Adams has got more brains in his little finger than all the other doctors at the hospital put together; only he can’t get them over.’ It was true: my father’s reticence and practice of saying what he had to say and letting people take it or leave it confined those who liked and trusted him to such as had the sensitivity to perceive what lay within. He was often brusque, but he was usually right as well.
With certain tradespeople in the town his friendship was warmer, involving an element of the comical which drew him out of his customary gravity; and of these I remember particularly the Merry Mosdell and the True Messiah.
My father was always extremely careful about money. No doubt he had to be. For instance, he himself never used toothpaste, which he considered a waste of money. Using nothing but water and a toothbrush, he succeeded in keeping his teeth into old age. Although he advised me against toothpaste (‘Only making some nasty old millionaire richer, my boy’) he didn’t actually prohibit any of us from using it. I’ve always preferred to use it myself, but I never asked him for money to buy it.
Another expense which annoyed him was that of having his hair cut. To have it done at home was not an option, since that would have been low class and bad form. The best hairdressers in Newbury charged about one shilling and threepence, as far as I recall - too much for my father, anyway. What he wanted was a working-class hairdresser who would nevertheless understand who he was and treat him accordingly. After a good deal of reconnaissance, he discovered Mr Mosdell.
Mr Mosdell cut hair at sixpence a time. He cut it most acceptably. He was a quiet man with a low, pleasant voice - I suppose he may have been about fifty at the time - and I think he was probably deferential to everybody as part of the job. His shop, complete with striped pole outside, was conveniently situated at the junction of Bartholomew Street and Market Street. In the window was a canary in a cage, and most months of the year the gas fire was on. The shop had a characteristic, warm smell; of shaving soap, bay rum and some kind of emollient jelly used for cuts or sore necks and chins. It was a cosy place, and I never minded waiting there.
I realize now that it was chiefly the sound of Mr Mosdell and his shop which has remained with me. Mr Mosdell had some handicap to one of his feet, which caused his movement round the chair to consist of a firm, hard step with one foot followed by a quick slide with the other. As he worked he talked quietly, with pauses between, and as a rule kept the conversation two-way by asking questions. My father, who liked and respected him, tended to become more fluent than usual.
Mr M. (in a low voice, spoken only to the customer in the chair):
‘They’ve been saying, Doctor’ (snip, snip) ‘that it’s very likely to turn out’ (snip, snip) ‘a wet summer.’ (Bonk, slide.) ‘What do you think?’
Dr A.: ‘’Shouldn’t be surprised. ‘Dare say it’ll rain if it can.’
Mr M.: ‘If it rains in July’ (snip, snip) ‘’may clear up for August, and that’ll be good for the holidays, won’t it? I’m just going to take the clippers now, Doctor. Will you be going away yourself at all?’
Dr A.: “Shouldn’t think so.’ (In fact, as I have said, he never went away.) Half-singing, ‘Oh, I don’t like to be beside the seaside.
Mr M. (bonk, slide): “Doesn’t suit everybody. ‘Gets very crowded these days, Doctor, don’t you think?’ (Soft susurration of clippers.) ‘Sit down, Mr Inch; I’m just on finished with Dr Adams.’
Dr A.: ‘Yes, I do. Waste of money as a rule, I think. Much better stay here.’
The snug shop, with Mr Mosdell’s conversation, which was much the same to everyone, was another thing that made you feel grown-up, for your hair needed cutting like anyone else’s, and at the end you were always asked if you wanted anything on it, even though you’d said no many times. (Well, you might have changed, mightn’t you? And it made a polite conclusion.)
However, there was more than this to Mr Mosdell. He was a serious self-educator. I don’t know whether or not he was a member of the W.E.A., but he certainly studied a great deal. I remember sitting in his chair one morning while he snipped away, talking knowledgeably about the Pharaohs and the culture of ancient Egypt. Yet there was nothing in the least boastful or pretentious about this. He certainly wasn’t showing off, and I think the proof is that although at the time I had known him for some while, this side of him came to me as a surprise. I only hope I didn’t show it for I was a tactless boy.
He once told me a story of his youth. ‘When I was a young fellow, a friend of mine and me, we used to go out most Sundays and walk to Reading along the Bath Road. About eighteen miles I suppose. Of course, in those days there were no cars, no motorbikes, nothing o’ that. It was a nice country walk: we used to pick the flowers. We’d get to Reading in the late afternoon and there was a little cafe which was always open on Sundays. We used to have eggs and bacon and sausages and from there it was only a bit of a stroll to the station. We’d catch the train back to Newbury in the evening.
‘One Sunday evening we were just finishing up at the cafe when Reg, my friend, says to me “You sure of the time, Bill? Only it feels later, somehow.” We found my watch had stopped! Dear oh law! We fairly pelted down to the station, just in time to see the train going out. It was the only train there was.’
‘Whatever happened, Mr Mosdell?’
‘Why, we walked it; every step of the way. ‘Took us all night; we were tired out already, you see. And of course we knew our parents would have no idea what had happened to us or where we were. Three times we were stopped by policemen that night. We got back home just in time to shave and go to work.’
That would have been, I suppose, in the ’nineties or about the turn of the century, when the Bath Road was still much as it had always been. It must also have been before Mr Mosdell acquired his bad foot, however that came about.
My father always liked to mention at home that he was going to have his hair cut. I think he reckoned he had a bargain, and he certainly liked Mr Mosdell’s conversation. ‘I’m going to see the Merry Mosdell after I’ve been to the hospital,’ he would say, ‘so I may be late for lunch.’ And off he would set in high good humour, perhaps singing
‘She was once my Twanky-doodleum, but now alas she
Plays kissy-kissy with an officer in the Artill eree.’
Or again,
‘I should like to meet ’im with ‘is nice, new tart.
Then hup would go Antonio and ‘is ice cream cart.’
In time the Merry Mosdell grew old, and my father bestirred himself on his behalf. In those days it was not altogether easy to get into almshouses in Newbury if you had no church connections. I don’t know about the Merry Mosdell, but my father certainly had none. He had been a boy at a Woodard school (King’s College, Taunton) in the eighteen-eighties, and this had effectually turned him against church-going for life; though he habitually read the Bible, and during the war told me that he used to pray for m
y brother and myself. However, he had enough local influence to get the Merry Mosdell and Mrs M. appointed to a comfortable almshouse in the Newtown Road, and thus confirmed his good will towards another friend.
In 1946, when my father lay dying, I used to use part of the precious petrol ration to drive the Merry Mosdell the mile from the almshouse to our home, where he would shave my father in bed. The talk was the same. Like bird-song, it didn’t change.
The True Messiah was likewise a fine stroke of domestic economy. Brassicas, and vegetables such as parsnips and carrots, we never needed to buy; nor apples, for we ate our own. But exotic fruit had to be bought. Market day in Newbury was Thursday, and of course fruit was sold cheaper there than in the fruiterers’ shops. The marketeers didn’t deliver, but none the more for that. It was easy enough - yes, it was - to park the car in the marketplace. The problem was to find a market fruiterer of quality, for of course more than one of them tended to sell inferior stuff mixed up with what you saw on top. However, fortunately my father discovered the True Messiah - and believed.
J. Messaias and Co. were an authentic London East End Jewish family business, with a regular circuit round market-towns of the south country. Unless you had yourself been entirely lacking in wit and humour, it would have been difficult not to develop a relationship with the two brothers.
The Day Gone By Page 11
