Most children learn about their environment by pushing the limits all the time. I hope that by this time you will appreciate that there were very few limits in my early life and, as a result, I was a noisy, rambunctious and very needy child. It is often said that there is no better education than the school of hard knocks; however; the hard knocks do tend to leave a few rough edges.
One of my first memories is sitting on the brick gatepost at the front of our house, peering into the neighbour’s side yard when I was about four years old. I saw two little girls, younger than me, playing together. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t join them, but apparently I was too noisy to be invited. I was told by my mother that they were not sisters, but neighbours from either side of our house. Helen Kesterton lived in the house next door on the right, and Elizabeth Robinson lived in the house on our left. I would often sit at the top of the fence, looking down, hoping for an invitation to join them. I could see Helen’s mother coming out from her kitchen to feed “elevensies” to the children. Most times it was a platter of marmite sandwiches, the bread cut into soldiers, with condensed orange juice to wash it down. My mouth watered, as my mother never made such treats for me. Since this was 1945, war time, fresh oranges weren’t available so we had to make do with small blue bottles of condensed juice to which one added tap water.
It was several years before Helen and Elizabeth were allowed to play with me – and there was always an air of disapproval hovering over Helen’s mother when she saw me coming. Mrs. Kesterton was a devout Methodist, with a bulbous wart on the end of her pointed nose. Although she was a thin, birdlike woman, she had managed to nab quite an attractive man for her husband. Frank Kesterton was tall and dark, with piercing brown eyes. It was only by staring at him full-on that his glass eye could be discerned.
Ethel Kesterton was one of the most voluble critics of our family, as we were the only Jews living in the very genteel, and gentile, Sandown Drive. She looked upon us with some suspicion, especially since my mother was the only one without a husband, living in one of the luxurious four bedroom homes in the new estate.
When I was about five or six years old, I recall coming out of our garden shed, which was located adjacent to the house in the back. A few other children had been playing with me – hide and seek I think it was – when Nana Mutch came out of the house, wrapped in an enormous pinafore, clutching a letter in her hand. She was very stout, with steel grey hair, and had a whisker growing out of her chin.
“Who wants a plum?” she inquired, in what I was later to recognise as a Glaswegian accent.
“I do, I do,” I shrieked, as plums were a treat, rarely seen during those days of rationing and deprivation.
“If you post this letter for me, you shall have the plum,” she promised.
I readily agreed to run the errand, even though the nearest post box was all the way along Sandown Drive, and then up the Avenue to the corner where the big red letter-box stood. For a young child, this was a very long walk – at least half an hour – but the prize of a plum was far too much to resist. I took the letter and trotted up the street, salivating at the thought of the treat I’d been promised.
At the end of Sandown Drive I turned the corner and almost burst into tears at the thought of having to walk the whole length of the Avenue to get to the post box. From my height, the long straight tree-lined avenue seemed endless. Then I spotted an empty house on the other side of the road and remembered that Elizabeth Robinson had told me that the owners had left suspiciously, and that maybe a murder had taken place there. The deserted house was instantly intriguing and quite spooky. However, the thought that no-one lived there meant that I could explore the garden without fear of being sent packing.
I didn’t need to look very far. At the front of the house, right behind the low brick wall, was a very moist looking flower bed. Turning around to make sure no-one was looking, I quickly buried the letter in the soil, making sure it was completely covered, and raced back home in no time flat.
I returned home, received Nana Mutch’s grateful thanks, and grabbed my prize, without a twinge of conscience. I was surprised she did not find it curious that I had returned so rapidly from my chore. I only hope there was nothing really important in that letter, because as far as I know, it remained buried forever.
CHAPTER THREE
There was nothing much to do except play when I was very young. The books that were left around the house fascinated me, and I was longing to read them. When my brother returned home from boarding school for his holidays, I would beg him to show me how to read. We would sit in the lounge, in front of the gas fire, and look at my few picture books. It wasn’t long before I was sounding out the letters, and stringing them together. By the time I was of an age for Kindergarten, I was chomping at the bit.
I am certain someone must have walked me to Woodheys Elementary school my very first day, just to show me how to get there. Whether it was Nana Mutch or my mother, I do not recall, but seeing the red-bricked building with the adjacent playground and climbing apparatus was enough to excite me beyond belief. I loved the idea of being grown up enough to go to school, and was eager to walk the half mile each way by myself. I tell my children today that I walked uphill, both ways, in the snow at four years of age. They still don’t believe me.
Kindergarten was not as much fun as I had hoped and I remember being forced to take afternoon naps, and listen to records played by our teacher, Miss Plant. “The Teddy Bear’s Picnic” was a favorite, but it never put me to sleep. Wide awake, and determined to be noticed, I kept the other children from their naps, driving Miss Plant wild. My mother always made sure I was in bed by 6:00 pm each evening – probably to get me out her way. Consequently, I was never tired during the day, and chattered non-stop while the other children were trying to sleep.
“Valerie, if you don’t stop talking, you will have to go to Mr. Besant’s office,” Miss Plant threatened me.
“Valerie, I mean it! Stop waking the other children!”
Once, when I was very naughty, Miss Plant followed through on her threat, and sent me to the Principal’s office. Mr. Besant was a stern man, who sat behind his desk, smoking a pipe. Although I was only four years old, I was convinced I would be spanked, and was very surprised indeed to only receive a light reprimand for my bad behaviour. I had to sit in front of his desk for about half an hour, staring at him while he shuffled papers on his desk, not looking at me once, just tamping his pipe and reading.
After graduating from Kindergarten to the next level, things picked up a little. Sheets of white paper with squares on them were handed out, and we learned to form our letters in pencil. I remember drinking in the smell of freshly sharpened pencils, but longed to use ink pens, which had detachable nibs. These were gently dipped into a round inkwell on our wooden desks, and then sopped up with pink blotting paper if the ink ran. It was all new and exciting and I was thrilled to be learning to read and write properly.
I remember trying to write the letter “E”. One line extends vertically and three horizontally, but I could never remember that, and put at least four or five smaller horizontal lines each time I formed the letter. The number “8” was even more difficult to navigate. One little girl whispered “Just put two circles on top of each other,” and that did the trick. It was always fun when the older children came into our classroom, and we looked up to them as being so much older and wiser. I remember a couple of boys talking in class one day. “Did you know he committed suicide?” one confided to the other. I wondered what that meant for many years to come.
I didn’t make friends at school and no-one made “play dates” as they do today. I relied upon the children who lived on Sandown Drive for companionship, not the children I saw every day at school. I was a loner, but a loudmouth at the same time. Graham Blore was much older than me, and had a reputation as the school bully. When he passed by me, he would pinch my arm as hard as he could and I often went home with blue bruises. Again, no-one seemed to
worry about it or race to the school to complain as we parents do today.
A beautiful memory that has always remained is the afternoon I left school to make my daily trek home. As I turned onto the pavement, I heard my name called.
“Valerie, Valerie, over here!”
I looked up and saw my mother standing beside a beautiful car, waving at me. Inside the luxurious Rover were my mother, her boyfriend, Alan Aitchison, and his aunt, Kit Nuttall. I was beside myself with excitement for I had never ridden in a car before, and certainly no-one had ever come to pick me up from school. I clambered into the back, feeling the soft luxury of the seat underneath me, and breathing in the smell of leather and wood. It was ecstasy to be driven off in a fancy car, and I looked anxiously out of the window, hoping the other children would see me leaving like a princess.
CHAPTER FOUR
In 1947 I turned five years old but was oblivious to what was going on in the country. England had emerged from the war, bombed out, exhausted and bankrupt. Housing was a disgrace, and many soldiers returned from the war to find themselves with no home of their own. Fortunately for Mr. Robinson, Elizabeth’s father who lived next door, this was not the case. The entire street welcomed him home with flags and cheers, as he walked down Sandown Drive into the loving arms of his wife and daughter.
Life for my countrymen in 1947 was utterly threadbare and unrecognizable, compared with Britain today. For many, there were no supermarkets, little beer, no vinyl, no washing machines, or even refrigerators. It was a Britain of smog in the cities and chilblains for most children, who clustered around coal fires. There was no central heating, and we always felt the bitter cold. We had been used to ration books since before my birth and would have to put up with them for at least eight more years. Buying food and clothing was a nightmare, and the supplies were few and far between.
A bright spot in my fifth year was the marriage of Princess Elizabeth to her Prince Philip in November 1947. I remember huddling around the radio with my mother to hear the service, as did the rest of England. If only television had been invented then – what a wonderful spectacle it would have been.
Life with Alan Aitchison in the house was always magical. There was an air of festivity and excitement as he and my mother cooked together in the kitchen. Halibut poached in milk and butter with fresh sprigs of parsley, mushrooms, and mashed potatoes – yummy – it was a rare treat. As they cooked, I hung around watching. Uncle Alan, as I was calling him by then, allowed me to have sips of his beer, or pinches of his snuff which he kept in a tiny, dented silver snuff box, etched with his initials. I felt quite grown up taking tiny snorts of snuff up my nose, which made me sneeze. Could these early dalliances with tobacco have been a precipitator for my cigarette addiction years later? Regardless, the attention he gave me was ravenously devoured and sopped up like a sponge
He appeared now and then to spend time with my mother, but I was not really conscious of his being with us on a regular basis. I do remember him as being very tall, broad and somewhat stooped. He had gentle hazel eyes and thinning hair. His front teeth were crooked and he always smelled of ale and cigarettes. He spoke with a “posh” accent, quite different from most of the men on our street. I recall that he usually wore a shirt made of some soft grey or green fabric, with a plaid tie.
Alan Aitchison
At bed time, he would pull me onto his back for piggyback rides, and we would gallop through the house with shrieks of delight. He would walk into the walls of the landing, with me clinging on his back for dear life.
“Go right,” I would command. “Go left. Go straight ahead.” Following my directions, Alan would walk straight into the wall, pretending to bang his head.
Later, when I was worn out from laughing, he would give me my bath, encouraging me to “swim” and letting me splash around for “just five minutes more”.
I remember him saying “Watch the water disappear down the plug hole” as he emptied the bath. I wondered what “disappear” meant.
After I was dried and in my pyjamas, “elephant kisses,” his specialty, were demanded. He would place his lips on the back of my neck, which tickled deliciously, take a deep breath, and then blow. The trumpeting sound was that of an elephant and I would dissolve into giggles.
Christmas and birthday gifts consisted of amazing goodies, such as flashlights and batteries, perfect for a little tomboy. Occasional Sunday drives in his Rover or Daimler cars were huge treats, and picnics in the country were bliss. I remember the plaid, woollen rug draped over the back seat of his car, and the joy of being with my mother and her lover. He was calm and quiet – the first and only constant male in my life thus far.
Despite my loud voice and tomboyish ways, I managed to make friends with many of the children in our street, and happy hours were spent at birthday parties, playing hopscotch or “Mother May I” in the road, or going to the “pictures,” a great favourite of mine. My allowance was increased from a shilling to half a crown (about fifty cents) when I was six years old, and it was spent the same way every week.
First, Helen, Elizabeth and I would take the bus into the main town of Sale. We would arrive at the Odeon cinema for the “Saturday Morning Pictures” which cost a very nominal sixpence. The movie house was filled with children – no adults in sight. We listened to an organist playing popular songs of the day, with the words appearing on the screen in front of us. Then came all the amazing programmes that kept us occupied for several hours – a newsreel, cartoon, serial and the Big Picture. It was often a Gene Autry or Roy Rogers film, but we didn’t care. Anything that could take us away from the dreariness of Sale was wonderful.
After the pictures were over, we children went blinking into the bright outdoor light, our imaginations filled with the sights and sounds we had just witnessed. For me, a cotton candy which we called “candy floss” seemed in order, and then a trip to Woolworths, where I would usually purchase a fake diamond solitaire ring for a shilling. A visit to the local chemist yielded liquorice root for two pence. This was a nasty, twig like substance that I would suck until all the liquorice had been drained from it. Mum disliked me chewing on a stick for hours on end but Nana Mutch said it was good for my teeth, so I won out.
I would often choose to walk home from the pictures, rather than take the bus, and spent the two pence saved on a comic book. I would pass several interesting shops, the most seductive of which was the pet shop. I would push open the door and breathe in the intoxicating scent of sawdust, and examine the white mice and their cages. Once in a while I would buy a white mouse which only cost a shilling, tuck it under my shirt and take it home. My mother would shriek with pretend horror when she saw the little white whiskered face appear out of my blouse, and make me put it away in a cage in the garage. Of course every mouse I purchased promptly lost itself in the coal bunker, or got eaten by the cat.
Drawing closer to home I would visit the local newsagent, filled with the smells of tobacco, sweets and magazines – a tantalizing aroma indeed. With my remaining funds, I would purchase Dandy and Beano comics, an Enid Blyton magazine, a four penny “Crunchy” chocolate and honeycomb bar, a packet of Smith’s crisps, with the salt twisted in blue paper at the bottom, and an iced bun for twopence. The bakery shop was heavenly, with the smell of yeasty fresh bread and jam tarts, newly made, filling the air. It was always such a hard decision as to which delicious treat to buy.
All the wonderful loot was brought home, and eaten in front of the gas fire in our lounge, surrounded by my dolls, all lined up on the sofa. After I had stuffed my face, I would play school, giving each doll a report card, and spanking those who had done badly.
There was no television yet – but the afternoon radio serials, and Children’s Hour at 5 pm, were eagerly looked forward to each day, with comical stories read to us by a character called Uncle Mac. I have never met anyone who knows what Uncle Mac looked like. I loved to listen to “Dick Barton, Special Agent” when my brother was home, as this was his favourite s
erial but, to tell you the truth, I didn’t understand half of what was going on with “Snowy” and “Jock”, the central characters.
Mum would listen to “Mrs. Dale’s Diary” or “The Archers” and I became addicted to them as well. Sundays were spent listening to “Desert Island Discs”, which were musical requests sent by their loved ones, for soldiers who were serving our country in the Armed Forces in Germany. Mum prepared meals while we listened to the music, offering simple stews or smoked haddock. She was not the best of cooks and found it a real hardship to make the effort. In the evenings, we sat around the gas fire in the lounge, listening to music from far away Radio Luxembourg.
By this time Nana Mutch had been given the sack. Mum had discovered several items missing, including new sheets and blankets, as well as silver, and told Nana Mutch to get out before she called the police. Now it was just me and Mum on our own. There was no “maid” to bring in tea when company came, just the two of us. One of my biggest joys was being asked to prepare tea and toast when a neighbour popped round for a chat. I would take the large loaf of bread and try to cut even slices to toast under the grill. Sliced bread hadn’t been invented yet, so most of my toast came out in uneven wedges, hugely thick on one end, and crispy thin on the other, which of course burned faster. My mother ignored it, and praised me highly, saying “Valerie, you make the best cup of tea in the world.”
CHAPTER FIVE
In England, November 5th is a special celebration in honour of Guy Fawkes, the leader of a band of rebels who attempted to blow up the Houses of Parliament, although no one is ever quite sure if the celebration is for his failure, or for his having tried to do it. Private firework displays were legal in England, so for a few weeks at the end of October, pocket money was hoarded to purchase boxes of sparklers and assorted fireworks to let off at the bottom of the street when Bonfire Night came around. I routinely spent weeks before the big event in the nearby woods and orchards, searching for twigs and sticks to add to the bonfire that was taking shape at the bottom of Sandown Drive. Every day, after school, I would throw my loot onto the pile, admiring its girth and height.
No Ordinary Woman Page 2
