A short time back I got an
email, not sure of the date but it was just before
I went in for the last heart games. It was from
somebody who had seen some of my stories in the
TMC site (not a member) just somebody passing
through and from seeing the link had read The
Mucky Ducks. She wanted to know why, after everything
that had happened, I was delving back into childhood.
Strangely I had another along the same lines only
yesterday. This person had read the book, and
she was surprised that 'A person like me' (not
sure how to take that) could be involved in revisiting
the past.
OK, to set the record straight, I am not really
reverting to the past; any sane person knows
that it's a pointless exercise. For me the reason
is quite different, it's called curiosity and
probably a bit of healthy fear. Curious as to
what happened, fear knowing that every day is
a bit wobbly and perhaps soon even these memories
will become untouchable. Each day the proverbial
pen flies faster over the paper, there is still
so much to set down so that later generations
(or a very small portion of them) know of my
world and the wonderful people it contained.
That is not being egotistical, I am trying to
have others remembered, people who did nothing
except exist for a short time, without fanfare,
without fuss, without recognition of their existence.
The same people that, wherever in the world
you were, you grew up with, people are, for
the most part, simply people, location only
makes a surface difference.
By setting things on paper I can make Mrs Wolton
from the greengrocer again cross the road to
sneak into the Hoskins Arms (pub) for a heart
starter at 10am, just as she did 50 years ago.
Mr Turner the cobbler can sit just inside his
shop doorway and puff on his pipe, sending smoke
half way across the road. Little Carol Kingsley
can stand staring at the posters in the foyer
of the tiny village cinema; she so much wanted
to get into 'films' but rheumatic fever destined
her not to see her 18th birthday. Dear little
Carol she did so much love to show everybody
her new party frocks, new shoes, new anything
that she thought made her look more like the
people in the 'Fillums'
Old Miss Blunt from Boots the chemist can again
glare at the back of the lovely Maud as the
latter walked out with another man. 'Blunty'
was made a widow in 1943 and men were never
to again seek her hand, there were just too
many 'Mauds' around.
Mr Blake and Mr Page from the little hardware
shop can load up their van with lino to be delivered
and laid (lino was a big thing after the war).
A sign would go into the window 'Out on deliveries.
Take what you need and pay us later' how naive
that now sounds.
Constable Bonney can prop his bike against the
war memorial on the village green and sit down
to enjoy the lunch his wife had sent him off
to work with.
Then there was the place itself. Winter saw
a frozen little hamlet set at the foot of the
North Downs. Winds from the Arctic would sweep
down the hills and buff against the village
walls. Livestock either huddled in groups or
got sent to the large winter barns to shelter
out the night. People did rather the same thing;
streets saw little movement once darkness fell,
except that is to get home from work or school
as it did get dark at about 3.45pm. Those that
did venture out tended to stay in groups as
if something in the winter dark made them afraid.
How welcome were the intermittent lights from
heavily curtained windows. Each light was a
beacon, a lighthouse pointing the way home.
Spring saw lighter days and was heralded by
a weak sun determined to again make its presence
known. Soft breezes from the south east brought
the first hint of warmth to temper winter chills.
Streams large and small started to flow again
as the last of the snow was banished from newly
budding trees. Hedgehogs and squirrels appeared
in doorways as if asking for warm milk and something
to eat (which they always received).
Wildflowers such as bluebells, primroses and
buttercups made colourful carpets of ground
which not long past had been white and barren.
The sky again echoed to the sound of birds and
in the woods you could hear the call of the
badger and fox. In the village people emerged
from their winter sloth, shop windows heralded
the arrival of new and exciting products. Village
women attacked the single small ladies clothing
shop, determined to 'get something new for the
summer'. On the village green volunteers spent
hours every non work day getting the cricket
pitch back into order, ready for the summer
season. This usually also entailed the consumption
of much ale and cider, it was part of the tradition.
However, nobody held a candle to the church
bell ringers when it came to drinking. For some
reason, throughout the kingdom, bell ringers
had the reputation for being large consumers
of the amber liquid - in other words they were
accepted as a bunch of social drunks.
Then one morning it was summer
School holidays, for some train trips to the
seaside for others a few weeks in the south
of France. We usually only went to the continent
for a couple of weeks as both my parents loved
the local countryside in the summer. Their passion
was riding and the two of them took off across
the Downs every day. Plus the days of 'The Families'
were fading. Britain had a succession of Labour
Governments which were really nothing more than
extreme socialists under another banner, they
were so close to being Communists that it was
scary. Slowly they taxed and levied 'The Families'
almost out of existence (I will explain the
term 'The Families' at a later date). Being
Socialists they hated anybody who had more than
they did and were determined to bring the old
order down ... they failed. Oh they might have
decimated 'The Families' but by doing so they
didn't get the working class on their side,
rather the reverse happened.
One the surface Britain might have appeared
a logical candidate for communism; after all
it had a Royal and Aristocratic head and devastated
poor for a tale. But it also had one thing that
Russia didn't and that's a solid, comfortable
and accessible to all 'Middle Class' and this
was the buffer that stopped communism in its
tracks. - But I digress.
As kids we left home after breakfast and reappeared
in time (or more often late for), dinner. The
days were spent just doing 'stuff' walking the
woods, building camps, digging tunnels, visiting
the farms. Lunch was a few hardboiled eggs,
bread and butter, a slice of cake and for drinks
we bought a big bottle of Tizer, which we shared,
even though we feared 'girl germs'. Pea shooters,
spud guns and catapults were stuffed into the
back pocked of every boy's short trousers and
every girl seemed to have a skipping rope.
The long summer twilight allowed us time to
very slowly wind our way home, usually very
tired but very happy. Strange, but if at the
end of the day anybody had asked as what we
did during that day, we would have had to say
'nothing really' as we did so little that we
actually did everything ... if you know what
I mean.
Then the skies would get grey and heavy and
the first of the autumn thunderstorms would
batter the village, blow down our camps, flood
our tunnels and set the woodland creatures into
a frenzy of home building for the winter. Farmers
moved the haystacks into the barns and animals
were brought down to the valley from their summer
home on the Downs.
Soon cold November days would bring almost continuous
drizzle rather than solid rain. Every light
from house and shop window would create its
own sparking reflection to shimmer and dance
on wet roads and pavements.
Eagerly we looked towards the coming festivities
of Guy Fawkes Night and Christmas.
So the year would end but with another waiting
just off stage ready to give us its own unique
performance, just like a play, you never really
knew what you were going to get until the curtain
rose.
So, that's why I have been having a wander
down old, long forgotten, pathways. I can't
give anymore to the world of today, my doing
days are now over - but I can, with a few strokes
of the pen, give, even if only for a nano second,
a form of life back to those now gone and to
a place that although it still exists, has mutated
into something, not quite so innocent and comfortable
as it once was.
I can let Mrs Wolten sneak back into the pub,
I can let Mr Blake and Mr Page deliver another
load of lino, I can let constable Bonney enjoy
another lunch on the village green ... and perhaps
the greatest joy of them all, I can let little
Carol Kinsley again stare enthralled at her
beloved film posters and twirl around to show
off her new party dress.
