Saturday, 13 April 2019

Delving even further back into the past


My gorgeous 80th birthday cake!

Recently, I turned 80 years old. Now how did that happen? In my head, I don’t feel any different than I did when I was much younger though of course the body has deteriorated. Like many of my contemporaries, I’m subjected to various ailments that come with increasing age although I’m luckier than most in that I don’t have a debilitating illness or infirmity.

I’ve had a full and varied life and have been sharing some of my most memorable moments with anyone who reads this blog. In the spirit of looking back over my life, I want to go a little further to my very early days.

Early memories are like those old photographs we all have in a battered photo album or at the back of a cupboard. There are gaps in our lives, too, similar to those left by missing photographs. The hazy recollections I have of my early life are like that too, faded, none too clear and all of them connected with the Second World War. Born six months before that fateful September 1939 when War against Germany was declared, I was only a baby when my father went away to war. He’d been working as a lorry driver and had become a reservist under a scheme where experienced drivers were encouraged to register for service with the Royal Army Service Corps (RASC) and would be rewarded for doing so by an extra £15 a year, a lot of money then.

My very earliest memory, and I must have been very young at the time, is of lying on my mother’s chest, my cheeks burning hot and seeing the moon through the window castling its full light into the shadows of the bedroom. Mum must have opened the curtains to see to me by the light of the moon rather than put the light on because of the blackout.
Me about a year old!

Another memory which comes vividly to mind is of Mum and me running through a blacked-out Manchester at the beginning of an air raid. Who could forget the bloodcurdling wail of the air-raid siren that struck fear into the hearts of everyone or the same sound of the all-clear which always sounded much lighter, less fearsome? A further click of my mind’s eye shutter and we were on the train to Bolton on our way back home and seeing in the black night outside, fires leaping and flaring from buildings that had been bombed.

My little sister, Christina, was born in November 1942 and tragically, the only memory I have of her is seeing her in her cot, chubby arms and legs flailing as she fought for breath. From then on, the memories mercifully fade. I remember a sense of confusion, of shouting, someone wearing a uniform plunging my strangely still sister alternately into a hot tin bath then an icy cold one in what we would now see as barbaric attempt to revive her. Then stillness, quietness, broken only by muffled crying, a darkened front room through which we had to tiptoe, eyes averted from the still form in the cot. At the age of 13 months, Christina had died from broncho-pneumonia. She had battled valiantly against it but penicillin, which might have meant her living, still wasn’t widely available.

The next snapshot image that comes to mind is of my mother and me walking hand in hand down a street. Mum was crying, tears rolling down her cheeks, and she was wearing a black coat. I had the strong impression that we were leaving and this may well have been true because we spent the rest of the war years in Blackpool.

Blackpool is a confusion of jumbled memories. Mum was working as a live-in housekeeper for an ear, nose and throat specialist who had two noisy and lively children who made my life a misery. As an only child, to have to share my life with other children, older, more precocious than myself was a humbling experience. They taunted me daily, ensuring I got the blame for things they had done, like the time they emptied a chamber pot out of a bedroom window and saying it was me. Small wonder that I became a shy timid child. I am still, as they say in Lancashire, ‘a bit back’ards at comin’ for’ards!’

Dad hadn’t, up till that time, played much of a part in my life as he’d been away for much of the war. Then, suddenly, he came home, carrying a cardboard suitcase containing his demob suit. What that meant for me was that life as I had known it was going to change. Mum told me, many years later that they, in common with many couples, struggled with their marriage after so long apart.

Early pic of Mum and me 
We were moving a long way away, it seemed, to Ivybridge, Devon where my parents had obtained a job, Mum as a cook-housekeeper, Dad as chauffeur-gardener, even though he knew almost nothing about gardening. You could say he picked it up as he went along!

And that was the pattern for most of my childhood, living with my parents’ in other people’s houses while they were in domestic service. You can read more about it in this previous post Behind The Green Baize Door.

Thursday, 17 January 2019

More Mobility and Manhattan



Friend Gill & I aboard the Sylvania
Last time I blogged about my time in the United States was about my very early days there and the Cuban Missile Crisis. Time to bring it more up to date, I think.
The Peters who I worked for had arranged for me to have driving lessons. Dad had tried to teach me a few years previously until one day when I hit the accelerator instead of the brake and ended up in someone’s front hedge so I was more than a little worried about how I would cope with proper lessons. I was to learn in a car with manual gear shift because the car I would be driving was a Volkswagen Beetle. Once I passed the test, I would also be able to drive the big automatic Plymouth Estate car if I needed to and did so on occasions. The driving lessons, together with practice runs with Mr Peters, who was very patient with me, in the Volkswagen, went very well and I had soon passed the theory test. (At that time, there was no theory test in the UK.) The American practical test is nothing like the UK test, in which drivers are tested in actual town/city situations; the American test consisted of manoeuvering the car in make-believe situations on an away-from-it-all test site but including, importantly, parking in a limited space. I found that part of it easy compared with a British test.
              I can’t remember how long it was before I got my US Drivers’ License but I don’t think it was very long, certainly no more than 8 or 9 weeks from the time I had landed. When I passed my test, I was jubilant, a feeling which quickly turned to fright when the Peters said I could now drive on the road – on my own. I had made arrangements to go into Princeton that evening but when I asked if I could call a cab to get into town they told me to use the Volkswagen Beetle instead. I could not believe that they trusted me to go out on the road so soon after passing my test, especially as the test hadn’t been in a real town/city situation. I managed it though my hands were shaking with fear on the steering wheel to begin with.
              The breakthrough in my social life had come about because I had been introduced to Linda, another mother’s helper, whose yard (what Americans call their gardens) adjoined the Peters’ yard and whose children played with their children. She had been there about a month longer than me and hated it. Her people weren’t like the Peters. Linda’s people were somewhat brash and overpowering. What’s more, they did not believe in disciplining the children. The kids were more or less allowed to do just what they wanted, when they wanted so that poor Linda was run off her feet. Unknown in the UK at that stage, they were allowed to pick and choose what they wanted to eat; again this involved Linda in cooking different things at mealtimes for, in her case, six children. Up till my arrival, she hadn’t been out much either and was nearly driven to distraction.
              Mrs Peters suggested we go to a dance being organised by the Princeton International Club in the YMCA building. They figured it would serve as some kind of introduction to a social life with people of a similar background. Accordingly, Linda and I got a cab into Princeton (this was before I had passed my driving test) and somewhat apprehensively paid our entrance fee. There were all nationalities there, Swedish, German, French, even the odd Brit or two, one of whom I became quite friendly with later, a bloke called Barry. Truth to tell, they weren’t a very lively bunch and we were a bit bored. That is, until a few students managed to inveigle their way in. And that was how I met Rick.
              He was tall, with fair hair, of athletic build and he flirted outrageously with me, though he was only around twenty to my twenty-three. Linda found herself being treated in the same naughty, but nice, way and we were soon laughing uproariously, much to the disgust of some of the more staid members of the International Club. We made no firm arrangements to meet again but were advised to go into Fenwick’s Coffee Shop, which was the hub of much student activity and definitely the place to be seen. Linda and I went home feeling we were on the verge of a breakthrough.
2004 photo outside what used to be Fenwick's Coffee Shop
              A few nights later, we took another cab into town and went into Fenwick’s, not knowing what to expect. It was, without doubt, a revelation. We’d no sooner sat down and ordered our coffees than we were being chatted up. Guys would come and plonk themselves down and ask outright for our phone numbers. I found later that even if you were in there with a date, a friend or even just an acquaintance they would demand to be introduced, then ask for our phone numbers. Rick and his friends came in that night and he made a beeline for me. What’s more, he stayed, which is more than the others did, drifting backwards and forwards as they did.
              I ended up going out with him a few times but it was never serious. As soon as the novelty of a limey date wore off, he drifted on to someone new. But Rick served a purpose; he was my intro into the world of the students, so many that I can’t remember all their names, almost all of them younger than me.
              Through the students and attending various parties, we were introduced to other girls working as mothers’ helpers and Linda and I built up a good circle of friends. It helped too, once I had use of the Volkswagen, it gave me so much more freedom.
              On the voyage over, I’d become friendly with a young woman about my age who was doing the same as me, working as a mother’s helper. Gill was to be based in Rochester in New York State about the same distance from New York City as me but in the opposite direction. Anxious to keep in touch, we arranged to meet in Manhattan about once a month on our days off. The first time this happened was about a month after we’d arrived. The journey by bus took about an hour and Gill met me at Port Authority Bus Terminal. She’d already been into the city several times so was familiar with the bus system. They simply travelled either across town or uptown and downtown. The street grid system, with numbers instead of names, seemed blindingly simple, if a little impersonal. Only the older streets, such as Wall Street or Watt Street in downtown Manhattan had street names. Broadway wasn’t simply a street close to Times Square and the theatre district, it ran further uptown and down to Greenwich Village.
              On our regular trips to the city, we made sure we saw all the tourist attractions, the Empire State Building (scary ride to the top!), the Rockefeller Center, Central Park, usually ending up the day having a meal in some bar somewhere. One of the places we visited was the Peppermint Lounge, the birthplace of the Twist, the dance craze that played havoc with the knees. Chubby Checker was first credited with starting the craze with his records ‘The Twist’ and ‘Let’s Twist Again’. In the bar’s heyday, it had reputedly been immensely popular with celebrities flocking there but when we visited, it was typical Manhattan bar, long and narrow, with separate booths, subdued lighting and no music.
              How improbable it all sounds, living the quiet life that I do now, to believe that I regularly went to Manhattan on my days off!

Sunday, 14 October 2018

Come Visit My Garden


Summer Spendour (1)

As a writer, I’ve self-published two novels A Suitable Young Man and Bittersweet Flight (link below). a collection of short stories Entertaining Angels (www.tinyurl.com/y6w6a5ss) and am currently editing book three. I should probably be on book six or seven by now except that I share my love of writing with my other passion - gardening. Which is what this blog is about.

When we first moved into this bungalow in Derbyshire some 18 years ago the garden was, quite honestly, a mess. It’s a large corner plot bordered by a busy main road and slopes upwards. The previous owners had built an extension some three years previously and the land to the side of it had been left to a weed-infested wasteland. What’s more all the unused building materials had been left at the side of the garage. The path at the back of the house was horrendous and held three coal bunkers, (this is after all a former mining area) filled not with coal but accumulated rubbish.  My husband’s language when he discovered that wasn’t fit for anyone’s ears, let alone our neighbour who was at that moment putting some rubbish in the dustbin!
The mess that awaited us at the back of the house!

For the first three years, we concentrated on getting the house as we wanted it with me just about keeping the garden tidy though mowing the grass – I won’t dignify it by calling it a lawn – was a tricky procedure the grass being on a slope. Finally, in 2003 a start was made on the garden and for the next seven years, my lovely husband laboured in the garden, hard-landscaping and terracing it and, after a problem arose with a natural spring, prevalent in this area, installing drainage. I can’t remember how many waste skips we had in that time but it was a LOT. It’s been worth it though as it’s given us so much joy and pleasure over the years, not only us, but to passers-by who quite often tell me over the fence what a lovely garden it is.
Just a few of the cyclamen coum
This is particularly so when the cyclamen coum that we planted as five plants in the early days have naturalised all over the garden. It’s a glorious sight in late February/early Spring.

Summer Splendour (2)
Sadly, with an ageing body, I can no longer spend as much time in the garden as I used to. I do what I can when I can and manage to keep up with it, just about. Originally, we had a greenhouse which I loved pottering in but that’s had to go as it wasn’t being used as it should. The patio which housed that is now a bare paved area now and I have plans to make a courtyard garden there with lots of different sized containers over the next year or two. Fingers crossed I can do that!

A short blog this time but lots of photographs.

Summer Spendour 3