50 years and more have passed since that day,
When beside my bike on the beaten track I lay.
Laying in heather, purple up to my chin,
Thinking of life and what the future may bring.
Looking up into the clear blue sky,
Contemplating the world; what and why.
Thinking of life and what the future might bring,
As Skylarks flung themselves upwards to sing.
My childhood had been a curious one,
Torn by war, I innocently thought fun.
Sneak airborne raiders, run helter skelter,
Many nights spend in an air raid shelter.
Schooling really was but a total farce,
Kids thirty and more to each class.
Taught by teachers who couldn't care less,
Education that got nowhere, a total mess.
Never taught almost any of the skills,
Often under desks in air raid drills.
Absent fathers off fighting the war.
Shortages, always wanting more.
Life as a child, without any toys,
Games in the street with girls and boys.
Mothers working themselves to a frazzle,
Their clothes but rags; no razzle dazzle.
But we thought life was very sweet, enjoyed by us all,
As we didn't know different. We just had a ball.
Football, marbles, o'grady sav's tip it and run,
Those were our games. We just had fun.
No graffiti, no muggings, no locking of doors.
Pocket money given for doing my chores,
What a terrible life, now I'm often told -
Smile at the memory. I am getting quite old!
March 8, 2011
In Limbo
One thing I think we may have had then;
A black and white T.V. to pick up the gen.
I still remember the shows on the T.V.,
If I'm honest, most didn't appeal to me.
Now out of school, I'd watch just the same.
Contestants playing a stupid and silly game.
Winners take the money or go for a prize;
Audience do this or that, not very wise.
Wilfred Pickles and Miss Carson on the piano.
What it was all about, I still do not know.
Miss Carson, we were much later to meet;
As Ena Sharples on Coronation Street.
Muffin the mule, one for the younger set;
A puppet show you could never forget.
Dixon of Dock Green, a very old copper,
Jack Warner, he never came a cropper.
We still used to listen to our valve radio's
I.T.M.A. star, Handly, one of my favourite shows.
Paul Temple, the Flying Scotsman theme.
A detective who was never to be seen.
One of the silliest shows I can now recall,
Just didn't seem, to me, quite right at all.
Archie, now he was the star of the show,
A ventriloquist's dummy, don't you know.
Hughie Green had a talent show spot.
Stars were made out of it quite a lot.
Dick Barton, Jock and sidekick Snowy, too.
These were the shows, to name but a few.
Fishing and a Story
It seemed the river Orwell was no too polluted,
For this type of fishing it was very well suited.
To the next river, for some bait we went,
Live worms, for this job they were heaven sent.
We dug up almost a bucket full, too much for me.
"Dad, why on earth do we need this lot?" just wait and see.
Covering them with a wet Hessian sack,
On dad's motorbike we soon got back.
"By this method we get eels, a hundred and more!
But today" dad continued "we'd be lucky to get a score".
I still couldn't fathom why we needed this amount.
There must have been hundreds, but of course I didn't count,
It was very early next morning when we left the house.
Mum and sis sleeping, so we were quiet as a mouse.
To seaward end of the docks, on bikes we did go,
"The tides going out boy, so you can just row"
In about five feet of water, that I knew,
We anchored seawards when the tide ceased to flow.
We'd fish here while the tide is slack,
When we had finished, the flow will take us back.
Now I witnessed the most amazing thing,
Dad was threading worms on a green, hairy string.
He seemed to put fifty or more in a long line,
All were skewered on the hairy green twine.
Then he gathered them into a ten-inch ball,
Threaded a cord through the middle of it all.
The other end of the cord, to end of broomstick tied,
He made up two of these, I couldn't figure out, tho' I tried.
Saw me looking at him with some sadness,
As last he explained the reason for his madness.
"Eels have tiny, pointed teeth all facing to the rear,
This is how we'll catch them, make sure you're clear"
"They will try to eat those tasty worms in a bunch.
Come on lad, it's a free lunch?"
We all know, tho' in life nothing's for free,
Experience has taught that to you and me.
The eels take a bite at the bunch of worm,
No matter how they wiggle and squirm,
The hairy cotton gets caught in their teeth,
We feel them moving five foot beneath.
Gently we lift them, carefully standing,
Or roll cord on the pole when landing.
As we were to be here for quite a stay,
Dad told me the story of the house over the way.
The house was almost hidden, difficult to see.
This is the story as he told it to me.
When delivering newspapers? The name of the pub?
"Margaret Catchpole", now here's the nub...
Margaret, in the eighteenth century, had a lover.
A smuggler, but she loved no other.
He only had a quite small sailing ship,
When the coast was clear, she gave him the tip.
He was a smuggler of casks of brandy,
Never caught, tip-off was very handy.
If he saw a lighted lamp in her window,
Into unload the brandy he would go.
He got the stuff in London's city,
That's far away, more's the pity.
But the Customs and Excise had watched the beam,
They realized her lover's and Margaret's scheme.
Set a trap in Margaret's abide,
She knew lover would take the next tide.
Maggie had to warn her lover, of course,
She slipped from the house, saddled a horse.
Rode that horse throughout the dark night,
After a seventy mile ride, London in sight.
In the darkness a magnificent ride,
Got to her lover before total high tide.
That's the story to me my dad told.
What a woman, so brave and so bold.
Back to fishing, we had got quite a lot,
Dad looking forward to some in the pot.
Now I mention this method of a bunch let to dangle,
To all that I know, those who love to angle,
The method I know is similar to crabbing,
Told my my ol' man, this method was 'babbing'.
Look on the 'net, there you will see,
Maggie "horse thief" deported to Hawkbury.
She did quite well in Australia for life,
Lived there respected as the local midwife.
For this type of fishing it was very well suited.
To the next river, for some bait we went,
Live worms, for this job they were heaven sent.
We dug up almost a bucket full, too much for me.
"Dad, why on earth do we need this lot?" just wait and see.
Covering them with a wet Hessian sack,
On dad's motorbike we soon got back.
"By this method we get eels, a hundred and more!
But today" dad continued "we'd be lucky to get a score".
I still couldn't fathom why we needed this amount.
There must have been hundreds, but of course I didn't count,
It was very early next morning when we left the house.
Mum and sis sleeping, so we were quiet as a mouse.
To seaward end of the docks, on bikes we did go,
"The tides going out boy, so you can just row"
In about five feet of water, that I knew,
We anchored seawards when the tide ceased to flow.
We'd fish here while the tide is slack,
When we had finished, the flow will take us back.
Now I witnessed the most amazing thing,
Dad was threading worms on a green, hairy string.
He seemed to put fifty or more in a long line,
All were skewered on the hairy green twine.
Then he gathered them into a ten-inch ball,
Threaded a cord through the middle of it all.
The other end of the cord, to end of broomstick tied,
He made up two of these, I couldn't figure out, tho' I tried.
Saw me looking at him with some sadness,
As last he explained the reason for his madness.
"Eels have tiny, pointed teeth all facing to the rear,
This is how we'll catch them, make sure you're clear"
"They will try to eat those tasty worms in a bunch.
Come on lad, it's a free lunch?"
We all know, tho' in life nothing's for free,
Experience has taught that to you and me.
The eels take a bite at the bunch of worm,
No matter how they wiggle and squirm,
The hairy cotton gets caught in their teeth,
We feel them moving five foot beneath.
Gently we lift them, carefully standing,
Or roll cord on the pole when landing.
As we were to be here for quite a stay,
Dad told me the story of the house over the way.
The house was almost hidden, difficult to see.
This is the story as he told it to me.
When delivering newspapers? The name of the pub?
"Margaret Catchpole", now here's the nub...
Margaret, in the eighteenth century, had a lover.
A smuggler, but she loved no other.
He only had a quite small sailing ship,
When the coast was clear, she gave him the tip.
He was a smuggler of casks of brandy,
Never caught, tip-off was very handy.
If he saw a lighted lamp in her window,
Into unload the brandy he would go.
He got the stuff in London's city,
That's far away, more's the pity.
But the Customs and Excise had watched the beam,
They realized her lover's and Margaret's scheme.
Set a trap in Margaret's abide,
She knew lover would take the next tide.
Maggie had to warn her lover, of course,
She slipped from the house, saddled a horse.
Rode that horse throughout the dark night,
After a seventy mile ride, London in sight.
In the darkness a magnificent ride,
Got to her lover before total high tide.
That's the story to me my dad told.
What a woman, so brave and so bold.
Back to fishing, we had got quite a lot,
Dad looking forward to some in the pot.
Now I mention this method of a bunch let to dangle,
To all that I know, those who love to angle,
The method I know is similar to crabbing,
Told my my ol' man, this method was 'babbing'.
Look on the 'net, there you will see,
Maggie "horse thief" deported to Hawkbury.
She did quite well in Australia for life,
Lived there respected as the local midwife.
Getting Older
Now I began to grow skinny and tall.
One of the highest in the assembly hall.
In those days my hair was long and blond,
Of barber shops, I was none too fond.
The money I earned on my paper round
Was handy for clothes, as I left the ground.
We, at that age, didn't ask girls for dates,
Better roaming the countryside with mates.
I remember swimming with my dad;
Not a good swimmer, but not too bad.
From a boat in the Orwell, swum to the shore.
Happy, war, who could ask for more?
Across the sand trickled a little stream,
Full of ezvers, quivering backs a golden sheen.
Back to the boat for the bailing tin,
What better place to put the ezvers in?
When we got home; fried them, put on toast.
Gave me some, but he ate the most,
Often now I would look at my sis,
Monday's movies with mum, wouldn't miss.
The routine now both of us knew,
Get to town, join in if a queue.
In those days most were suitable flicks,
Not blood and thunders, just for kicks?
Mostly these treats were on a Monday night.
Around about seven mum would loom in sight,
She always carried with her, her favorite thing,
In a brown paper bag all wrapped with string.
Shuffling forwards towards the doors in a queue
Perhaps mum greeting some other she knew.
Into the cinemas, before the program begun,
Sister on one side, me on the other, in the middle, mum.
Ads would begin, then perhaps a documentary.
Cartoons perhaps, the Pathe news, entertainment aplenty.
Now mum would open her little treat,
Shell the 'money nuts' and proceed to eat.
By the time the "B" movie was over and finished,
The bag was almost empty, her treat diminished.
"Let's move" would say mum, as the cinemas lit,
"I think we'd do better forward or back a bit".
Sis and I knew the routine so well,
The place sat; floor covered in shell.
Forward or back we moved with great poise,
Avoiding the shells, for they made so much noise.
If a newcomer, finding their seat,
Cracking mum's shells beneath their feet.
Then the main movie would come on the screen,
Romantic, dramas, in places mum's never seen.
Things happened with which boys could hardly cope.
Government took rationing off household soap.
Now the excuse, used for so many past years,
Saving soap, not washing behind our ears!
Girls in our class started growing in places,
Ensuring us boys never looked at their faces.
This gave us lads other interests;
Stopped hunting small birds nests.
The girls stopped too, playing with toys,
Only now they only fancied older boys.
About this time 'the Festival of Britain' was on,
The school took all us senior boys along.
A photo of us boys, in flannels and a jacket;
I bet that trip cost our parents a packet.
Remember the shot tower and the 'Skylons'?
Just like the bomb later, they got it all wrong.
Hardly recall that day in the capital city,
All the lads there, lost touch, was a great pity.
All of this was in 1951,
Another year at school and I'd be done.
Another celebration in Christchurch Park,
Dressed as medieval peasant, that was a lark.
Now I began to dwell on my future life,
Only thing certain was I'd take a wife.
Already at school we'd been given the tip,
Us lads could forget an apprenticeship.
Of course, unless your dad was in a trade,
Then twas likely, you would have it made.
Dad a docker, education exceedingly poor.
Certainly didn't want to be a stevedore.
Not for me a life of carry wood and sacks;
Being killed by dust, with aching backs.
One of the highest in the assembly hall.
In those days my hair was long and blond,
Of barber shops, I was none too fond.
The money I earned on my paper round
Was handy for clothes, as I left the ground.
We, at that age, didn't ask girls for dates,
Better roaming the countryside with mates.
I remember swimming with my dad;
Not a good swimmer, but not too bad.
From a boat in the Orwell, swum to the shore.
Happy, war, who could ask for more?
Across the sand trickled a little stream,
Full of ezvers, quivering backs a golden sheen.
Back to the boat for the bailing tin,
What better place to put the ezvers in?
When we got home; fried them, put on toast.
Gave me some, but he ate the most,
Often now I would look at my sis,
Monday's movies with mum, wouldn't miss.
The routine now both of us knew,
Get to town, join in if a queue.
In those days most were suitable flicks,
Not blood and thunders, just for kicks?
Mostly these treats were on a Monday night.
Around about seven mum would loom in sight,
She always carried with her, her favorite thing,
In a brown paper bag all wrapped with string.
Shuffling forwards towards the doors in a queue
Perhaps mum greeting some other she knew.
Into the cinemas, before the program begun,
Sister on one side, me on the other, in the middle, mum.
Ads would begin, then perhaps a documentary.
Cartoons perhaps, the Pathe news, entertainment aplenty.
Now mum would open her little treat,
Shell the 'money nuts' and proceed to eat.
By the time the "B" movie was over and finished,
The bag was almost empty, her treat diminished.
"Let's move" would say mum, as the cinemas lit,
"I think we'd do better forward or back a bit".
Sis and I knew the routine so well,
The place sat; floor covered in shell.
Forward or back we moved with great poise,
Avoiding the shells, for they made so much noise.
If a newcomer, finding their seat,
Cracking mum's shells beneath their feet.
Then the main movie would come on the screen,
Romantic, dramas, in places mum's never seen.
Things happened with which boys could hardly cope.
Government took rationing off household soap.
Now the excuse, used for so many past years,
Saving soap, not washing behind our ears!
Girls in our class started growing in places,
Ensuring us boys never looked at their faces.
This gave us lads other interests;
Stopped hunting small birds nests.
The girls stopped too, playing with toys,
Only now they only fancied older boys.
About this time 'the Festival of Britain' was on,
The school took all us senior boys along.
A photo of us boys, in flannels and a jacket;
I bet that trip cost our parents a packet.
Remember the shot tower and the 'Skylons'?
Just like the bomb later, they got it all wrong.
Hardly recall that day in the capital city,
All the lads there, lost touch, was a great pity.
All of this was in 1951,
Another year at school and I'd be done.
Another celebration in Christchurch Park,
Dressed as medieval peasant, that was a lark.
Now I began to dwell on my future life,
Only thing certain was I'd take a wife.
Already at school we'd been given the tip,
Us lads could forget an apprenticeship.
Of course, unless your dad was in a trade,
Then twas likely, you would have it made.
Dad a docker, education exceedingly poor.
Certainly didn't want to be a stevedore.
Not for me a life of carry wood and sacks;
Being killed by dust, with aching backs.
Morris Dancing
Remember the hated school dancing class?
We boys thought the whole thing an utter farce.
Then he put us lads in quite a whirl,
Would we like to dance without a girl?
He told the dance wouldn't be the same.
"Okay", we said, put us all in the frame.
He had us marching around the hall,
Weeded out those who were far too small.
We marched with our arms down to the side,
Why this was required of us, he did not confide.
He had us face in two equal lines,
This time we had to just mark time.
Then it got more difficult; oh brother!
When one leg was up, hop on the other.
At this stage we had no qualms,
Told us how to swing our arms.
Then we were marching, hopping an' prancing,
Surely this was a funny way to be dancing?
He told us when ready, we'd perform at various places,
That put a smile on our boyhood faces!
When younger we'd danced around the Maypole,
But this was much more difficult on the whole.
He had us hold a cloth as we flayed the air,
"Don't drop them, make sure you hold it there!"
At last we asked "Come on, sir! What are we doing?"
At that point he could see trouble was brewing.
"Before I tell you, first we do the sticks.
Now mind your fingers, they are hard to fix."
"Now gather 'round lads, this is the story.
Before long you'll be covered in glory.
No longer will you be a group of chancers,
When I've finished, I'll make you fine Morris Dancers."
Not to do this by half, but to do it well,
Issued white shirt, hat, trousers and a thing of bell.
The bell shin pad, we tied around our calf,
Our performance improved by at least half.
When the bells did jingle and dangle,
Our flags on sticks, took on the same angle.
Our school master, performing at our head,
Danced around the country, no more to be said.
To do it, it seemed to us such a joy,
And no! We didn't feel like a Nancy boy!
We only did it, just that one year,
As awkwardness of youth forbade, I fear.
We boys thought the whole thing an utter farce.
Then he put us lads in quite a whirl,
Would we like to dance without a girl?
He told the dance wouldn't be the same.
"Okay", we said, put us all in the frame.
He had us marching around the hall,
Weeded out those who were far too small.
We marched with our arms down to the side,
Why this was required of us, he did not confide.
He had us face in two equal lines,
This time we had to just mark time.
Then it got more difficult; oh brother!
When one leg was up, hop on the other.
At this stage we had no qualms,
Told us how to swing our arms.
Then we were marching, hopping an' prancing,
Surely this was a funny way to be dancing?
He told us when ready, we'd perform at various places,
That put a smile on our boyhood faces!
When younger we'd danced around the Maypole,
But this was much more difficult on the whole.
He had us hold a cloth as we flayed the air,
"Don't drop them, make sure you hold it there!"
At last we asked "Come on, sir! What are we doing?"
At that point he could see trouble was brewing.
"Before I tell you, first we do the sticks.
Now mind your fingers, they are hard to fix."
"Now gather 'round lads, this is the story.
Before long you'll be covered in glory.
No longer will you be a group of chancers,
When I've finished, I'll make you fine Morris Dancers."
Not to do this by half, but to do it well,
Issued white shirt, hat, trousers and a thing of bell.
The bell shin pad, we tied around our calf,
Our performance improved by at least half.
When the bells did jingle and dangle,
Our flags on sticks, took on the same angle.
Our school master, performing at our head,
Danced around the country, no more to be said.
To do it, it seemed to us such a joy,
And no! We didn't feel like a Nancy boy!
We only did it, just that one year,
As awkwardness of youth forbade, I fear.
My New Bike
In the summer I had won a big race!
A new bike dad promised, couldn't lose face.
As Xmas approached, I was really excited;
Got the bike, I was absolutely delighted!
It was the biggest present ever given to me,
As from the wrappings, I quickly tore it free!
A big, sturdy upright Raleigh bicycle;
Couldn't wait to show it to my chum Michael!
I sat on it in our kitchen, I got the feel,
A brand new bike. Mine! Is it for real?
Big hefty, Sturmy Archer gears n' dynamo,
Just couldn't wait to have a go!
The dynamo worked off the the wheel tyre,
Connected to the light by a very thin wire.
Now I had a new, big, grown-up bike
I could travel anywhere I like.
A new bike dad promised, couldn't lose face.
As Xmas approached, I was really excited;
Got the bike, I was absolutely delighted!
It was the biggest present ever given to me,
As from the wrappings, I quickly tore it free!
A big, sturdy upright Raleigh bicycle;
Couldn't wait to show it to my chum Michael!
I sat on it in our kitchen, I got the feel,
A brand new bike. Mine! Is it for real?
Big hefty, Sturmy Archer gears n' dynamo,
Just couldn't wait to have a go!
The dynamo worked off the the wheel tyre,
Connected to the light by a very thin wire.
Now I had a new, big, grown-up bike
I could travel anywhere I like.
A Hard Day's Night
Dad would spend a deal of his leisure time,
Rolling from skines, balls of twine.
A netting took, with the twine wrapped 'round,
He would make a net four foot from the ground.
At first I wondered what this net was for,
"You'll find out one day", he'd say no more.
It wasn't suitable for a local fish to get,
And three inch by three no fish it would net.
He carried on making this mysterious thing,
Used up balls and balls of twine string.
It finished up at least forty yards or more,
To the shed and back from our front door.
Then one frosty, misty, cold autumn morn,
Woke up, found net and my father gone.
Mum said "He left last night before it was dark.
Don't ask me, took net, up to some devious lark".
The mist didn't clear until about five-thirty,
Dad came home not long after, cold and dirty.
Told mum this story of his long night,
Only this time nothing seemed to go right.
Him and his mates would drag this net across a field
Just before dark to see what it would yield.
A newly cut corn field, just some stubble,
Catch many a rabbit, there'd be no trouble.
Spread the net from side to side,
Walk forward, over stubble it would glide.
Rabbits would panic when they heard it coming;
Every which way, in fear, they be running!
Lots of them would run headfirst into the net.
Mates behind dispatch them, collect as many as they could.
Then one of the team whispered "Hush, don't make a noise.
There's someone ahead of us, lay down boys."
They lay there shivering all through the night.
There was someone in the field alright.
Dad explained they could not go, collect their gear,
Police, gamekeepers, all around them they fear.
It certainly had given them quite a fright;
They lay there freezing all that autumn night.
No other plan could they possibly hatch;
Leave the net; also must leave their catch.
They knew to the hedge; bikes they must get,
Freezing cold, scared, tired and soaking wet.
They still had to report to work at eight,
Just dropped in at home, couldn't be late.
Dad got home that night, told us the full story,
Not a tale that will go down in glory.
Once a work, dad's mates tried to relate.
"Hold on" said the other gang "wait till you hear this, mate".
Of course, you may well have guessed by now,
Their mates we netting, telling them how.
Dad and his team instantly they knew,
The noise they heard was the other crew!
Not wanting to look silly, they didn't let on,
But passed the word when the others had gone.
None of us should ever say a single word,
To tell the truth would make all look absurd.
Rolling from skines, balls of twine.
A netting took, with the twine wrapped 'round,
He would make a net four foot from the ground.
At first I wondered what this net was for,
"You'll find out one day", he'd say no more.
It wasn't suitable for a local fish to get,
And three inch by three no fish it would net.
He carried on making this mysterious thing,
Used up balls and balls of twine string.
It finished up at least forty yards or more,
To the shed and back from our front door.
Then one frosty, misty, cold autumn morn,
Woke up, found net and my father gone.
Mum said "He left last night before it was dark.
Don't ask me, took net, up to some devious lark".
The mist didn't clear until about five-thirty,
Dad came home not long after, cold and dirty.
Told mum this story of his long night,
Only this time nothing seemed to go right.
Him and his mates would drag this net across a field
Just before dark to see what it would yield.
A newly cut corn field, just some stubble,
Catch many a rabbit, there'd be no trouble.
Spread the net from side to side,
Walk forward, over stubble it would glide.
Rabbits would panic when they heard it coming;
Every which way, in fear, they be running!
Lots of them would run headfirst into the net.
Mates behind dispatch them, collect as many as they could.
Then one of the team whispered "Hush, don't make a noise.
There's someone ahead of us, lay down boys."
They lay there shivering all through the night.
There was someone in the field alright.
Dad explained they could not go, collect their gear,
Police, gamekeepers, all around them they fear.
It certainly had given them quite a fright;
They lay there freezing all that autumn night.
No other plan could they possibly hatch;
Leave the net; also must leave their catch.
They knew to the hedge; bikes they must get,
Freezing cold, scared, tired and soaking wet.
They still had to report to work at eight,
Just dropped in at home, couldn't be late.
Dad got home that night, told us the full story,
Not a tale that will go down in glory.
Once a work, dad's mates tried to relate.
"Hold on" said the other gang "wait till you hear this, mate".
Of course, you may well have guessed by now,
Their mates we netting, telling them how.
Dad and his team instantly they knew,
The noise they heard was the other crew!
Not wanting to look silly, they didn't let on,
But passed the word when the others had gone.
None of us should ever say a single word,
To tell the truth would make all look absurd.
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