Our Gaff

Of our house, not much to be said;
Bricks and roof tiles, all in red.
Council owned, like all in our road.
Not much of a place, our abode.

On the door, a letterbox and rocker;
Key on a string tied on that knocker.
No fancy doorbell for you to ring,
Go around the back, walk right in.

Each side a small window, glass frosted well.
Bigger ones above, landing and my bedroom cell.
To the side was our back door,
The other opening to the ground floor.

To the right, a window four by four,
Letting light over the sink to pour.
Small window left there, it would seem,
To let out from bathroom all the steam.

'Round the corner, shoulder high wooden door
So coal man in his nutty slack could pour.
Next to the room where we did most living,
A six by four window, most light to us giving.

Two windows second floor to the beds
Where parents and sister made their z's.
Go in the door, one at the side, called back;
Kitchen sink, stove, a wood draining rack.

The stove, gas, old fashioned and grey.
When brand new, looked as if it had its day.
Above the sink was a cold water tap.
One other, above bath, where it was at.

This part of the house red brick, not nice.
In the winter time was as cold as ice.
Cold body, cold feet, I am telling you.
Mum lit the oven, she just had to do.

Above the sink on the tiled window sill,
A tin can holder, I can see it still.
Soap bits in it, mum would give it a few swishes,
Our liquid soap to wash up the dishes.

Bathroom, a copper, fired by coal or mainly wood.
No sink, an iron bath, clawed feet on which it stood.
Each week mum would do her major wash.
No machines, soap powder, all that tosh.

She would fire up copper till it got hot;
In bits of soap, sheets, towels, most all we'd got.
Sometimes after this I was left in charge,
But I was trained for the job, albeit large.

Poked and stirred with the copper stick
Until the water turned white and thick.
Into the the bath which was very near,
Rinsed till water ran quite clear.

Sort stuff out, ensure they didn't tangle,
Then put the lot through the mangle.
Hang on the line, what a lovely sight,
Flapping there, sheets a brilliant white.

Our fireplace, black, with its swinging arms.
Had to 'Zebbo' it, to add to its charms.
This our living room; a cheap sideboard
Where what valuables we had were stored.

In the corner a wind-up gramophone;
Told to leave that well alone.
We lived there for twenty-five years,
Knew no different, just like our peers.

Thus ended forty-seven, no more to tell.
After that winter, probably just as well.
Snow now, way into nineteen forty-eight.
School, or just wandering with a mate.

Often we would take off on our bike,
To other end of town, quite a hike.
Under or near a bridge on river, gipping,
Fishing for 'sticklebacks' go gripping.

The river then, more or less a stream,
In those days was remarkably clean.
With rod, net or what-me-not,
In jam jar the things we got.

A story I remember from that time of day,
As shoe and sockless we would carefree play.
This river, to the Orwell, then down to the sea
Was how Ipswich got its name to be?

In Saxon times the river had no name,
Told here's how Ipswich had got to fame.
The local headman was very well known,
In those far-off days, even before the phone.

The village he headed was called his name,
A wick before the the name of village ever came.
Then it was always known as 'Gyppes Wick'.
Over the ages, this evolved to Ipswich.

This is how the name Ipswich came told to me,
True or not, well just wait and see.
I also remember, dad took me to watch the town,
Third division south, no further to go down.

I remember only one player, bald, was called Mac.
Looked old, tubby, played at fullback.
Didn't go often, town wasn't that good,
Not much of a crowd, alone where we stood.

My swimming, no training, certainly no mentor,
But I kept winning, up front and center.
I was quite fair at freestyle, my best breaststroke;
Keep just behind first lad, then go for broke.

Sometimes dad would take me evenings to fish.
Very rarely would we catch any to put on a dish.
Then one day dad, proud as he could be,
He had acquired a boat, we could fish at sea.

He showed me a clinker-built heavy barge tender.
"Dad, you'll never row it!" as it bumped on its fender.
"Don't worry, boy. It has an engine, a Stanley,
That does the work an' takes us to sea!"

To make it heavier, as if he could somehow?
He built a lock up cab right in the bow.
Got it berthed, old Felixstowe, river Derwent.
Never asked how; method was probably bent!

It was quite some time before I had my first trip,
His stevedore mates were often out on his ship.
One day he asked me if I would like to go,
Four of us, just as well if we had to row.

One had a car, took us all to the river;
Packed sarnies, a bottle of rum for their liver!
We got to the boat, boarded, ready to go,
Single cylinder 'Stanley' progress was slow.