|
I was beginning to enjoy my education, as we moved from the ‘Blue Coat’, to the ‘Bear Street’ school at the top of Old Town in Wotton-under-Edge. This was in September of 1949. There were new friends and teachers to meet, although the discipline was stricter than we had experienced at the ‘Blue Coat’.
The stricter regime was in the capable hands of three teachers Mr Leach (headmaster) Mr Hunt and Mr Rogers.
Mr Leach, I remember, was a short elderly man with white hair and a rather ruddy complexion. In my short time at the ‘Bear Street’ I rarely came into contact with Mr Leach except at morning assembly. His attire was usually a pale blue pin striped suit and waistcoat, with a plain navy blue tie.
Mr Hunt was a much taller man, we guessed he was over six foot. He had bushy light brown hair, part of which frequently fell across his forehead and into his eyes. Because of this he was forever flipping it out of his line of vision with his right hand. Mr Hunt wore a moustache, which was all the more noticeable because of his rather pale face and large Roman nose. Travelling to and from school he wore a soft brown trilby hat. The brim of which flapped wildly in any wind. Mr Hunt also wore a brown gabardine mackintosh over a brown suit, white shirt and tie. He was often seen smoking a straight stemmed briar pipe.
Mr Rogers was different kettle of fish. He was a man of medium height and of a solid build. He had short black hair, parted on the left and a pencil thin moustache under his rather pointed nose. His eyes were like dark pools of water, deep and staring. His facial skin was rough and blotchy.
Most pupils at the ‘Bear Street’, myself included, were rather frightened of Mr Rogers. He was always rather forceful in his teaching and his rules regarding our conduct. Because of his strictness we children had him down as being an ex-army man, whether he was we could never be certain.
At home, the rows between Mum and Dad continued. Then in November 1950 there was a shock announcement to us by Mum and Dad, that we would be leaving our home in Wotton and moving over to a house in Dursley – another small market town about six miles away. This we were told was so that Dad wouldn’t have so far to travel to his place of work at R A Lister and Company. It was also a larger house for the six of us.
At first I was excited at the prospects of moving to another house and town. Later however, I began to have misgivings at the thought of leaving the school that I had just begun to feel good in. In that instant I decided that I would not be leaving Wotton. How I would fulfil this decision had not occurred to me. My first thoughts were that I would go and see Nan and tell her how I felt. She would let me live with her, so that I could stay in Wotton, Nan and I would be okay together!
It was a clear but frosty evening when I next visited Nan at her home over at Locombe Place. As usual she had a large coal fire, blazing away in a rather large –tile surround - fireplace. Above the fireplace was a wide mantelshelf, around the edge of this shelf was a wide valance, in a thick maroon coloured fabric embroidered with bunches of wild flowers. Hanging from the edge of the valance was a row of red and white tassels that swayed gently in the rising heat from the fire. Nan kept several ornaments on the mantelshelf, including two rather large brown and white porcelain spaniel dogs, with large glass eyes. In the centre of the mantleshelf was a clock with a white dial and Roman numerals and ornate black hands, the clock was housed in a large highly polished wooden case. Nan also kept a candle in a blue candleholder with a box of (‘England Glory’) match on the shelf. This was so that she had light at night to guide her upstairs to her bedroom, as the house had no electricity in those days and her only means of lighting was a large pair of brass oil lamps. When these lamps were lit at night, the whole room was enveloped in a soft yellow glow. With shadows on the walls and the glow from the open coal fire the Dickensian setting made me feel safe, but above all happy.
Sitting with Nan, on opposite sides of the fire, in two large fire side chairs, we were enjoying a large mug of tea each and a large slice of her home-made fruit cake. The tea was made in a large brown teapot with real tealeaves, purchased from the Co-op in quarter pound packs. Which were poured into a tea caddy with a small metal scoop for measuring out into the teapot. Traditionally one scoop per person and one for the pot. Nan always warmed the empty teapot, with a small quantity of hot water from the kettle, before putting in the tealeaves and eventually filling the teapot with boiling water from the kettle. After putting away two mugs of tea and several pieces of delicious fruitcake I was feeling warm and cosy inside and out, and ready to pour out my troubles to Nan.
“I don’t want to leave Wotton, Nan”. I pleaded tearfully.
“Well you can’t stay in Wotton on your own, can you, where would you live?” Nan queried.
She knew what my reply would be, and answered wisely.
“No! No you can’t stay with me. You’ve got to go with them. Besides, what would your Dad say? He would despise me more than he does now, if I encouraged you or put ideas in your head. I hope that you can understand what I am saying to you.” Nan tried to explain logically.
Although I could understand Nan’s reasoning, I couldn’t have cared less what Dad thought. When had he ever cared about what we thought. If I stayed in Wotton, no more rows to listen to, no more flying crockery to avoid. Despairingly I realised that I would have to go with them and their problems.
“I won’t be able to visit you again, Nan.” I pleaded.
“Of course you will, you silly ha’path, I’ll be coming over to Dursley on a Saturday afternoon to visit you all. Anyway, Dursley is not on the other side of the world is it? What’s to stop you coming over to see me during the school holidays, or at weekends? You know what ‘bus to catch, so what’s the problem?”
“The problem is Nan, that I don’t want to go to Dursley now or ever. What about all of my friends, I’ll never see them again will I?” I stated arrogantly.
“You are silly sometimes Ter’. I can understand how you are feeling, but you’ll be all right once you get there and settle in. Before you know it you’ll have as many friends over there as you’ve got here. Just you wait and see if I’m not right.” Nan concluded confidently.
As usual with adults of the time, she proved to be correct in her assurances.
No matter where we lived, or how new our friends and surroundings, I knew that the rows between Mum and Dad would continue. That fact would never change, but it disturbed me greatly.
The period after Christmas, 1950, was a very busy and stressful time for the family. There was packing to be done. Oodles of things, many that we’d forgotten even existed, to be disposed of or recycled to friends or family. The gas and electricity companies to be notified of our impending departure. Milk and bread deliveries to be cancelled. That was only the beginning.
After school and at weekends Mum, my sister Dorothy and I would go into Wotton, calling in on the various stores in Long Street. Asking if they had any large empty cardboard boxes or tea chests that they no longer required that we could use for packing household items in for our forthcoming house move. Most of the shopkeepers were very obliging, and we came away with an ample supply of packing material – some traders expressed surprise to hear that we were departing for pastures new. The day of our move drew ever nearer, I was still full of misgivings.
Saturday February 6th 1951, the day of the move, arrived. It was a very sunny but frosty morning, not a cloud in the sky and very little wind.
The residents of number forty nine were up and about early that morning. This was to allow Mum to finish off any last minute packing, and for Dad to dismantle the beds and to move any other furniture near to its eventual point of collection at the top of the stairs.
After breakfast I helped Mum with the washing up, she washed, I dried and Nan packed the items away. The plates, cups and saucers and cereal bowls were wrapped in layers of newspaper to prevent possible damage, and the cutlery was placed in a designated shoe box.
After breakfasting and helping with the washing up I decided that I’d pay the hens a last visit in the back garden. I’ll miss my feathered friends and their lovely large brown eggs, with their golden yolks. Although they are going to one of our neighbours, I hope that he’ll look after them as well as Dad did.
Near the hen house I found an old galvanised bucket with a hole in the bottom. This bucket was used to place over the crown of our rhubarb plant in order to force it into early growth.
Seated on this old upturned bucket I took a few moments too reflect on our time at Cotswold Gardens.
Mum and Dad had set out on their journey through married life at this address. Interrupted for six years with the outbreak of the Second World War in 1939. Between the years of 1941 and 1947 they were blessed with God’s gracious gifts of four children.
Dad volunteered for military service and was initially stationed at the army barracks in Aldershot, Hampshire, before being transferred to Walton in Liverpool. He was subsequently posted overseas in Palestine and then to Northern India, as a despatch rider with the REME until he was demobbed in 1946. Dad very rarely spoke of his experiences in the armed forces. If and when we questioned him about his life in the army we were just given the bare outlines of his role, never any in depth conversations about it. As I grew older I realised that Dad wasn’t really happy with his years in the army.
Mum told us in later years, that Dad was never the same man after his army days. He just couldn’t seem to settle back into civilian life. Mum always blamed the army for Dad’s increased drinking habits. Saying that before the war he was just a casual drinker. Due to the pressure of his work and his inability to settle down again after army life, Dads drinking habits escalated.
I had no way of knowing in those early years that part of Dad’s problems were in some way down to me. Talking to my sister, after Dad’s death, we were discussing the down that Dad seemed to have on me over the years. Dorothy – my sister – told me that she had talked to Mum about it at various times, and the conclusion that they came to was that Dad was very jealous of the way Mum and Nan doted on me.
It seems that as I was born while Dad was away in the army, and because I was rather a large baby through some hormone imbalance Mum and Nan tended to me more so than they did the others. Apparently, when Dad came out of the army he became very aware of their affections for me, and he felt very neglected. We believe that is why he and I never got on in life. In his eyes I could never do anything right and I always suffered his verbal abuse in later life, especially after one of his drinking sessions. He was really horrible to Nan, accusing her of ruining my life by molly coddling me. Even my paternal grandmother and Mum were not safe from his verbal outbursts.
Still sitting on my upturned bucket, I glanced up at the house that we were about to vacate. In my mind’s ear I could hear the past noises that once echoed through this house. The first cries of new born brothers and sister. The delicious aromas and sounds of home cooking. Echoes of frequent and disturbing rows that Mum and Dad had, when we usually ran out of the house to the playing field to escape the foul language and broken windows. Later there were embarrassing questions from friends as to why the windows were broken. Roll on the weekends, so that I at least could go and stay with Nan. Who would I run too in Dursley?
Above all I could still hear the sounds of happier days, shouts and laughter as we played with friends in and around the house.
On Sunday mornings, if Mum and Dad were in a ‘loving mood,’ we were ordered to stay in bed. We could either go back to sleep, or read our comics or books, so that they could have a ‘lay in’. God help any of us if we defied his orders. I think that I was wise enough not to antagonise him, but if any of the others started playing up and making any sort of commotion I was the one that usually got a smack around the ear. This was because he believed the others when they said that I had started the commotion. I just couldn’t win with him. He just would not listen, if I tried to explain that it wasn’t me.
Reluctantly, we bid our sad farewells to teachers and all of our many school friends. Dorothy and Philip did their farewells at the ‘Blue Coat’ and I did mine at the ‘Bear Street school. Keith, our youngest brother, would not be old enough to start school until after we moved to Dursley.
No more fun and games along the banks of ‘Gaston’s Brook’, blackberry picking, tree or hill climbing, or the magical experience of running bare footed through cool dew dampened grass, with celandine and buttercups gently slapping exposed legs and red clover flowers staining the soles of your feet. This we did as we ran home (shoes and socks in hand) from our adventures at Gaston’s Brook. Most of all I would miss the pure and simple pleasure of living in such an idyllic place.
How I would miss the lush green rolling meadows, divided by hedgerows alive with an abundance of wildlife. The tree covered hills that seemed to reach for the heavens. Summer days, with bronzed faces, torsos and legs, and days wandering over the hills, the feeling of being at one with nature. Nothing would quite be the same again!
Suddenly and abruptly, I was brought back to reality. In the distance I could hear Dad’s lovely deep brown voice. He was talking to me as he proceeded up the garden path towards me, he was on a final tour of inspection of his beloved garden.
“Are you all right my boy?” He asked dutifully.
“Yes, I’m ok Dad, I was just sat here thinking of what used to be.” I replied mournfully.
“You’d better get on into the house, we’re almost ready to go now.” Dad informed me.
I was suddenly aware of how cold I had become, while I had been sat on my bucket, and I shivered violently.
Unnoticed by me, the removal van had arrived, and was almost loaded with our possessions. It was a large high sided vehicle, brown and cream in colour, with the company name emblazoned on both sides – ‘Scadding & Sons Ltd’ – Removals and Storage. The tailboard was still down, enabling the driver and his mate to finish loading the van.
As I returned to the house, following behind Dad, I was told that I would be going over to Dursley with Mum, Nan, Dorothy, Philip and Keith and that we would be travelling over on the ‘bus. Dad would be travelling with the removal men and their van, to direct them to our new house.
Before our final departure, Dad and I took a last look around the now empty house to ensure that nothing had been left behind. To make sure also that all of the windows had been closed and the back door locked.
Every step and word that we uttered between us echoed around the empty house. Soon it would learn new sights and sounds.
As we stood at the top of the stairs, which ran straight up from the front door, I again stood for a moment of reflection. Jumbled and muffled voices seemed to echo throughout the house, in a final reminder to us of its past years.
Once the removal van had departed for Dursley it was time for the rest of us to pick up our final bits and pieces and proceed to the ‘bus stop. This was a ten-minute walk from Cotswold Gardens. Located at the bottom of Old Town and near the Wotton-under-Edge War Memorial. The ‘bus journey would take approximately twenty-five minutes.
En route to the ‘bus stop we met several acquaintances. Some of them were surprised to learn that we were leaving Wotton, and others wished us good luck and happiness in our new home. Some of the more familiar people stopped and chatted to Mum and Nan for sometime, while we children stood and listened to their chatter, at the same time we were anxiously looking forward to our ‘bus ride. Consequently, on arrival at the ‘bus stop we found that we had missed our intended ‘bus. This meant a delay of one hour before the next scheduled ‘bus would arrive.
Rather than hang about at the ‘bus stop, after all it was still a very cold day, Mum and Nan decided that it might be a good idea if we went to the café down the road for a cup of tea and something to eat.
For this purpose we went to the ‘Tower House Café’, which was just a few yards back down the road from the ‘bus stop.
The ‘Tower House Café; was a fairly small establishment. Frequented mainly by ‘bus drivers and conductors as they waited to take their ‘buses out on their next scheduled journey – either to Gloucester, Bristol or Stroud.
The main dining area of the café was on the left-hand side as you entered through the main door. There was just enough room for six small tables and chairs. There was a small ‘L’ shaped serving counter in one corner of the café. The décor consisted of three colours chocolate brown, cream and white. The sun tried unsuccessfully to filter through the two sash windows. Each pane was coated with a yellow film of nicotine and running with water, caused by condensation. Despite this the two windows were fitted with full length beige coloured curtains and a valance to match. The floor was decked with cream and white ceramic tiles. The café was quiet as we entered. There were just two customers, a uniformed ‘bus driver and his conductor, who sat chatting, each with a cigarette, over cups of steaming tea. We four children claimed the table near the window, whilst Mum and Nan stored our hand luggage behind the main door, so that no one entering the café could fall over it. This done they approached the counter and ordered tea for themselves and a couple of cream cakes. For us they ordered small bottles of lemonade with straws and four packets of ‘Smiths’ crisps (the ones with the little blue twists of salt.) Mum and Nan sat at a table together, with their tea and cake, telling us to sit quietly until we had finished our crisps and lemonade. When they had finished eating the two grown-ups had a cigarette each. This was usually a ‘Craven A’ – in a red and white packet with a black cat on it, or a ‘Woodbine’ that came in green and orange coloured packets. The choice of cigarette depended on availability, as many commodities were still on ration after the war.
When Mum and Nan had finished their second cup of tea and cigarette we gathered up our belongings, left the café and made our way back up to the ‘bus stop where the ‘bus was already taking on passengers for Dursley.
To be continued ………………………………… |
