Frank Kesterton, our next door neighbour and Helen’s dad, had been given the task of preparing the “guy” to put on top of the bonfire. As the day approached, my excitement knew no bounds. I had my fireworks ready, and could not wait for dusk to approach. On other occasions it had rained on Bonfire Night, and we had had to repair to Mr. Kesterton’s garage to let off our sparklers. On this night, the weather was perfect.
“Mummy, Mummy,” I pleaded, as the sky darkened, “Can we go now? It’s night time already”.
And so we went to join all our neighbours at the bottom of the street, standing around the huge bonfire that Mr. Kesterton had lit minutes earlier. And then the fireworks were let off. There were Roman candles, Catherine wheels, bangers, and riff raffs. Potatoes had been stuffed into the bottom of the bonfire, and neighbours brought freshly made ginger bread, which we called “parkin,” and treacle toffee to eat. It was such a joyous occasion, and what fun to rescue the scorched, burned potatoes from the smouldering embers at the end of the evening. Everyone stood around the dying fire, bundled up in their winter coats and scarves, enjoying the camaraderie and fun in the nippy night air.
Fiercely independent and headstrong, I really enjoyed taking the bus into town and seeing a grown up movie on my own on a weekend. Going with friends was never quite the same, as they always wanted to talk about the film after it was over – while I wished to remain silent and absorb the glamorous lives I had just viewed, in situations and lands far away from the dreary, rainy streets of Manchester. My friends at the time were Pauline and Carol. They were both three years older than me, and appeared to be very grown up and sophisticated. Movies were rated, as they are today. We children were only allowed in the “U” films, but sometimes the two older girls persuaded me to accompany them as they badgered strange adults to take us in to the racier “A” rated films. I remember seeing “The Good Die Young” with Laurence Harvey, which was highly inappropriate for my age. As Pauline and Carol chattered away on our bus rides home, they could not understand my hostile and rude attitude. I would refuse to enter into their conversations, turning my back and staring out of the bus window. I was dreaming of love and romance, as only a child can.
I was an avid reader, and stole money from my mother’s handbag in order to buy Enid Blyton books, a popular children’s author of the day. One series I read avidly was The Famous Five, a group of children who did fun things such as go off into the woods for adventures, building campfires and meeting strangers. These were the kind of adventures I would have loved, and I always wished I had been one of The Famous Five.
I suspect one of her popular characters, a golliwog, was seen as a put-down of Africans, and these books were pulled from the libraries years later. I am so grateful that we didn’t even consider racism in our innocent childhood. In fact, when I was taken to the local hospital to have my tonsils out, I begged to be given a golliwog as a reward for the ordeal. My mother arrived after the operation was over and brought me a very stiff golliwog, wearing a red uniform, and shiny black boots. I had really wanted a softer version, but was glad of the gift, along with book “The Children of Cherry Tree Farm” by Enid Blyton, which I still have today.
On one occasion, I pinched a largish sum of money from Mum’s purse, rode the bus into town, and purchased several books by my favourite author. When my mother found out, she took the books from me, and hid them on the top shelf of the cupboard in the kitchen. The fact that she did not really get cross with me, served to enhance my feeling that she didn’t much care what I did, or felt powerless to discipline me.
Later that night, while she slept, I crept down the stairs and retrieved the books, read them in my bedroom and then quietly returned them to the cupboard. It was so odd, because my mother belonged to the library, and she had often sent me there on my bicycle to pick out novels for her, and yet she never suggested I have a card of my own. I never realised that a children’s department at the library even existed until many years later. I suppose it never occurred to her that I might enjoy picking out my own books.
My choice of reading was limited to the racy novels she had around the house or the books I bought with stolen money. Can you imagine a child of seven reading James Hadley Chase novels, which were full of sex and masochism? I even read Henry Fielding’s novel “Tom Jones” which was hardly suitable for my young eyes and, therefore, it is perhaps no great surprise that I subsequently found those things to be quite normal. On the other hand, whenever I visited a friend’s house, I always made a beeline for their bookshelves, hoping to find a children’s novel or comic to read. So I will claim not to be quite as sex minded as you might have expected.
Inclement weather never stopped me from playing outside in the orchards attached to my house, lying on my back in fields of corn, or exploring outlying areas on my own. I was always active and aware of my surroundings, taking delight in the outdoors and nature, regardless of the bad weather. After all, I could always pretend I was “Georgie” the tomboy heroine of the “Famous Five” series. Being a tomboy, I tried to encourage friends to call me “Rocky” – a diminutive of my middle name, Rochelle. But they never did and I eventually gave up asking.
Because it rained so much, activities could never be planned in advance. Like the other children, I wore shiny black Wellington boots to splash around in, and a navy raincoat with a hood. The weather never stopped me from enjoying the outdoors. Simple pleasures consisted of examining a caterpillar, often found under a nasturtium, and placing it in a jam jar with lettuce leaves. They never did turn into butterflies, but died of loneliness in their glass prisons. Ladybirds were interesting to watch as they landed on my palm, and hedgehogs roamed in my back gardens, feasting on the saucers of milk I took out for them. Whether making daisy chain necklaces or swinging for hours by the oak tree at the bottom of the garden, my life was full.
A favourite game we children played was called “taste.” Each of us would bring a plate with dibs and dabs of food on it, anything we could find in our respective kitchens. We would sit on the pavement, and then one of us would be blindfolded. A morsel of food was offered to the blindfolded child, who had to try and guess what it was. I just loved that game as I was constantly hungry and it was a good excuse for me to gobble up each sample. Raspberries growing wild in the nearby vacant lots didn’t last long; nor did the blackcurrants, gooseberries and blackberries growing in neighbours’ gardens. I ransacked the orchards for crab-apples, rhubarb and fresh peas, which nourished me throughout the day as I played, climbed and generally wore myself out.
There were some interesting children living on Sandown Drive, one of whom was eight year old Christopher Cheetham. It wasn’t until many years later, after he had died and we were grown, that we realised that he was slightly retarded. But at that time, he was just Christopher and we didn’t think much about it. He walked up and down the street with a swaying motion, and didn’t have much to say. His younger sister, Barbara, with a mop of fair curls, joined us to play, and Christopher was always with her.
One day I was over at the Cheetham’s house. We were playing outside their front gate and I noticed a holly bush with ripe red berries growing on it across the street. I went over to examine the small hard berries, and plucked several from the branches.
“Come here, Christopher” I urged.
He walked over to me with a blank look on his face.
I took the berries and, one at a time, stuffed them in both his nostrils and ears. I laughed at his dismayed look, and then tried to take them out. Oh no! They were stuck.
I frantically tried to push them out, but the harder I pushed, the farther in they went. In a panic, I left him standing there, and ran home to hide. His poor mother found him, took care of removing the berries, and telephoned my mother. For such a quiet, placid woman Mrs. Cheetham certainly had a lot to say, and I was not allowed to play with Christopher after that. It was no loss as their house was not a happy place. In fact, the portrait they had of Christopher on their s
ideboard showed him disconsolate, with tears pouring down his face.
Being the archetypal tomboy, my chief desire as a child was to own a pair of Levis. In those days, young girls always wore dresses or skirts with white ankle socks and brown sandals. On dress-up occasions, we wore leather lace-up shoes or shiny black patent “Mary Jane’s”. Jeans and sneakers were unheard of except in the movies, and I desperately yearned for them. My black “plimsolls” were worn for physical education at school, and for playing outside. They were lightweight and ugly, certainly not the glamorous tennis shoes that are coveted by youngsters today.
I would walk by the local boutique, a dreary shop, and examine the clothing displayed in the window. I would eagerly ask “Have the American jeans come in yet?” only to be told “Not yet, but soon”. I never did get those jeans while I lived in England, which created a burning desire that was only fulfilled many years later. My clothes consisted of skirts and dresses, often hand-me-downs from my cousin Jackie who lived in Luton, but absolutely no trousers. My one pair of shorts were incredibly ugly, made of a harsh grey wool, ending at my knees, and only worn when I was sent to holiday camp. It was very difficult to climb trees in a dress, and I always had scabs on my bare, exposed limbs.
CHAPTER SIX
Childhood memories are often snatches of outings or treats. Sometimes they are good things and sometimes bad. Odd things are firmly etched in my mind to this day. I remember the excitement of being taken to a local Methodist church by our neighbours, the Kestertons. I can’t imagine why they agreed to take me, but perhaps they felt a little religion would do me good.
I loved sitting in the hard pew, running my hand along the wood grain of the bench, staring at the heads in front of me. It was new to hear Christian music being played on an organ, and proudly placing my sixpence in the collection cup which was handed down the rows. We sat in the back of the church, and I gazed up at the stained glass windows with the cold Northern sun trying to break through. The organist played hymns I had never heard before and everyone was dressed in their Sunday best. It was magical and, to this day, hearing a church choir sing the great swelling chords of “Jerusalem” brings tears to my eyes.
Birthday parties were celebrated by every child in our street. It was a great event to dress up, bring a gift, and have a fantastic birthday “tea”. There were always party games with small prizes that were usually a hair slide or a bead bracelet, and some sort of indoor-picnic meal was inevitably laid out on a big dining room table. Small egg or jam sandwiches, cakes, blancmanges, wobbling red and green jellies, ice-cream and cake were the order of the day. I remember when it was time for one of my birthday parties, my mother was in a flap because she could not put the necessary food together. Our Scottish neighbour, Alice Gibson, mother of Carol, came to the rescue with home-made Scottish pancakes, and all was right with the world.
Another birthday party I attended was not quite as successful. It was my friend Pauline’s birthday but, as it was snowy outside, I had to be carried across the street in order not to get my shiny shoes wet in the slush. The party was in full swing when Derek Gibson, Carol’s elder brother, decided to do gymnastics with the younger children, tipping them over and doing somersaults. I was about to get up and join in, when I realised that my mother had forgotten to put panties on me… and I was totally naked under my party dress.
“Er, Aunty Mary? Can I go home for a minute,” I asked tentatively.
Pauline’s mother, Mrs. Shevloff, refused to let me return home, so I had to sit and watch longingly, while the other children shrieked with delight and feigned terror as they were turned upside down. Since Pauline’s birthday took place on December 31st, her party was given before Christmas. We children were kept in line with the promise of “Father Christmas will be coming very soon”. We periodically took leave of the festivities to sneak out of the house to look up the snow-ridden street, wanting to be the first to spot Santa. He never did come.
Another of Pauline’s birthdays took place at a pantomime in Manchester. As we sat and watched the performance, a young boy was called from the audience. He climbed up the stairs onto the stage and joined the knock-about slap-stick comedy act. I didn’t realise he was a “plant”, but all of a sudden his trousers fell down and the audience, especially Pauline, howled with laughter. I was so shocked and embarrassed for the young boy, that I turned around and slapped Pauline hard across her face. What a thing to do to the birthday girl. She didn’t speak to me for at least a week.
The days of my childhood, although lacking in some respects, were magical in many ways. I had freedoms not allowed other children because my mother was withdrawn and did not pay attention. There was no father to discipline me, and basically I ran wild. My childhood memories are filled with the smell of newly cut grass, stepping in dog dirt, rolling around in the cornfield behind my house, trying to make a small home for myself in abandoned buildings or shacks, hanging around with workmen in newly constructed housing at the end of our street, eating fruit from the orchards, and feeling the sting of an orange as it dripped juice on my face on a cold winter’s day. I stole many a box of “Puck” matches from the kitchen cupboard to light fires in the local empty lots, stamping them out when they threatened to get out of control. I always had a special feeling of invincibility when I managed to sneak the matches into my pocket, as though I wore an invisible armour.
I remember the sounds of the rag-and-bone man, clip clopping down the street in his horse-drawn cart. “Rag and bones, Rag and bones,” he would cry, and neighbours would rush out of their houses with donations of old clothes or household goods in their arms.
The Second World War had not been over for long, and we still had gas masks stored in our garage. They were great to play with, and many of us children would stomp around with the rubber masks over our faces, running up and down the steps of bomb shelters that had been erected in neighbouring back yards.
I “borrowed” my brother’s air gun, which made me feel strong and unafraid, although there was hell to pay when he found out I had taken it, even though it was too stiff for me to press down and shoot. I staggered down our street in home-made stilts, made by the kind Mr. Kesterton, rode my sled in the snow, and played hopscotch for hours. Waking up on a cold winter’s morning to see snow outside, covering every tree and house, was a thrilling sight. The winter of 1947 had been particularly bad and the streets were filled with snow for weeks. Snow-ploughs cleared the roadway but left great mounds of snow on the pavements. I made a huge snowman in the pile outside our house and would check it out every day until it all melted. Looking out the same bedroom window in the spring to see flowering pink and white cherry blossoms on the trees was just as thrilling, although real cherries never did grow.
I spent hours on my bicycle, riding to unknown towns throughout the green countryside, often with neighbourhood children. I remember one summer convincing Elizabeth Robinson, from next door, to accompany me on a bike ride. We decided to put a picnic in our bike baskets, and have an adventure. It was a warm day, and Elizabeth and I both took off our tops, letting the breeze swirl around our upper bodies. We were both young, and had not yet developed, although I noticed tiny buds growing on Elizabeth’s chest. I threw my top in the air as we rode, feeling free and quite daring.
Sleeping overnight at neighbouring houses was always a treat. There were plenty of children to play with, and my mother was friendly with all of their parents. It was a time of pure childhood – dressing up, playing games, imagination running riot, and experiencing second hand what it was like to live with a father and mother when I spent overnights with my friends.
A strange young man came home for the holidays, my brother, and I was jealous. He was eight years older than me, and seemed quite grown up He had a funny smell – that of an adolescent boy – which fascinated and repelled me at the same time.
I would jump into my mother’s lap, crying “My Mummy, not yours,” ignoring his look of distaste and anger. Later, I learned how m
uch he hated me for this, and was envious because I was allowed to live at home, while he had to suffer at boarding school.
He had a diabolical sense of humour and took great delight in tormenting me. On one occasion I had eaten some green apples and had a terrible stomach ache.
“Did you eat the core?” he asked slyly.
“Yes,” I replied. “Oh, dear, you will certainly die, then,” he responded with glee.
I spent the rest of the afternoon in tears, waiting for my imminent death.
On another occasion, my mother sent the pair of us to a holiday camp at St. Leonard’s-on-Sea He ignored me the entire time we were there, except for one occasion when I came to him with the terrible news that I had swallowed my chewing gum.
“What kind was it?” he inquired. “Beechnut,” I replied.
“Oh dear, Beechnut? You will definitely die,” he said with an evil leer. Of course, I spent the night in bed, tossing and turning, fearful I would die in my sleep.
Although Alan, or “Jack” as he was known then, often tormented me, apparently the letters signed by “Fairy Fay” that sometimes appeared by my bed in the morning were written by him. He had a perfect right to dislike me, for I was a self-centered, needy child, and didn’t make life easy for him. My mother had to pay him to put his hand on my shoulder when a family photograph was being shot, and he also had to be paid to take me to the pictures. I was introduced to such movies as “The Invisible Man” and other such horror films because my brother loved them.
No Ordinary Woman Page 3
