Choir Boy

I joined the church choir, seemed the thing to do.
Mates were in it, at least one or two.
We got paid, maybe it was the reason why,
I had a very good voice, no solos, far too shy.

About twelve of us boys, all sopranos of course.
Men, altos, tenors, baritones, why didn't he get hoarse?
St Augustine's was the church in which we sung.
Sometimes we boys, the church bells we rung,

Sometimes on Saturday, on couple's wedding days,
Work on a Saturday! Didn't mind, it pays!
Other gigs were so very, very sad,
Funerals especially of a young girl or lad.

The church had an organ, beyond its outer visage,
We knew not its range, not at this stage.
The organist, a master of music and playing,
After morning service, to test the organ, was staying.

Us lads gathered 'round to see what he'd do,
He played trumpets, drums, stringed instruments too!
Half circles of keys, four or five, knobs aplenty,
His feet flying over wood peddles, at least twenty!

We implored him to play modern, maybe a mod song.
He started to play, not a key, knob or foot wrong.
But it was jazz he was to play; trumpets, drums and saxophones.
All of us thought, including him, that we were alone.

Unbeknownst to us all, an old lady had walked in,
Heard trumpets, the Almighty has called her in.
She sat in a pew; fervently she prayed,
Got up, a very swift exit she made.

About this time a new cousin arrived.
He was about four, going on five.
Uncle had married a lady from Germany;
Mum minded him, so houses they could see.

Of course the lad, a stranger then;
Of the other's language neither could ken.
He spoke, no ken, he got very frustrated,
What he wanted he indicated.

Open mouth, point something in here,
Mum plied him with food, poor little dear.
Not hungry, well what was he thinking?
He pointed at the tap 'drinking! drinking!'

Saturday Pictures

I don't know when we started to go
To the kids Saturday morning picture show.
I remember the cost to get us in was six pence,
I think mum gave a bob each, that would make sense.

A tuppenny tram ticket for me and my sis,
Mum sent us off with a loving hug and kiss.
We were members, a badge no special treat.
Perhaps got in sooner, there chums to meet.

Finally the movies, they would begin.
All kids shouting, what a din!
Old favorite, Tom and Jerry, Bugs Bunny;
Loved those cartoons, they were so funny!

Then I believe a sort of documentary.
Some were sure to fascinate me,
Next a cowboy film, starring perhaps Tom Mix, oldish gent;
All the kids would, as the name came up, they'd shout in cement!

Hopalong Cassidy I also call to mind;
White hair, black stetson, old with a fat behind!
A horse called Trigger and his rider Roy Rogers,
Both were up to all the western dodges.

In my head it was a sure fired thing,
The horse was smarter, just couldn't sing.
Of course, before we all left the ring,
We all stood, God Save the King.

Put my sister on the bus for our stop,
Then run home, like I did the butcher's shop.
Run one lamppost, to next a swift walk,
If I saw mates, no time for a talk.

Because the bus had to make several stops
I was normally first to stop by our shop.
Mum liked the morning free when we were at pics!
She makes the cakes, fighting over bowl licks.

Morning kid's pictures soon went out of fashion,
When all day Bingo became such a passion.
Some cinemas closed down due to the new television,
In our house yet there was certainly no such provision.

Airlift to Berlin, reminded me of the war.
Relief planes over our house seemed to roar.
Now the Reds and Allies were not too bold;
This was a different war, called 'Cold'!

The Reds wanted Berlin all theirs to be.
But determined Yanks, French and us kept it free.
About forty-eight nothing much more to be said.
Oh! Yes, it was then they stopped rationing bread!

All this time my paper route I plied.
No rubbish foods went in my inside.
I think us kids were much healthier then,
Not stuck inside, watching TV from morning to ten.

Up like a lark, no school, raced out to play,
Not moping around in bed most of the day.
We were fit, slim and fast on our feet,
The like today you will be lucky to meet.

Mum's Job

Mum was a little tiny tot,
'Course I loved her quite a lot.
She was the one who gave discipline,
Tho' by now hardly up to my chin.

Stealing or lying was really bad.
If caught the belt was what you had.
And I still don't think it's wrong;
I knew the consequences all along.

Punishment given, she would give me a hug.
She'd kiss me; she loved her little thug!
Money was still short in our house; mum I'd see
Working in in churchman's cigarette factory.

She hated the job and that awful smell,
But the extra money helped; went down well.
Mother had a great sense of wicked fun.
Treat her right or she's give you a run.

Lots of things she taught sister and me;
To prepare lunch, dinner, or our tea.
About this time, me, under her arm she took;
Teaching me to be a worthwhile cook.

About this time we reached a very high ridge.
Mum, at the co-op, bought a gas-fired fridge.
She'd make us breakfast, sit us down,
See to us before she left for town.

We might have a porridge or a boiled egg;
Mum cut my soldiers, sister would beg.
Maybe toast with marge and marmalade,
Or just bread and jam; mum's homemade.

Occasionally we have some corn flakes,
Funny man on packet; now no one makes.
Dad had gone to work, sunshine or freeze.
Same old sarnies, thick slices of bread and cheese.

Weekends, if all of us were there,
We'd sit down to the best of fare.
Saturdays were a bit of take-your-pick,
A fry up, a salad, fish n' chips, couldn't lick.

During this period my mum would also bake
Sausage rolls, jam tarts, buns, even a fruit cake.
In the pantry she knew how much was there,
But dad would snaffle them, he didn't care.

Sis and I would quickly explain to mum,
Dad took them; or get a very sore bum!
Sundays, roast beef, pork or maybe lamb.
Maybe boiled bacon, we called a ham.

All would be served with their own sauce.
Mustard, horse radish, apple and mint of course!
Next day for dinner; lunch, so to speak,
Left over roast, and bubble an' squeak.

Dad

Things were still rationed, but now dad was home.
In the garden weeding, turning over the loam.
Pigeon in his loft, I had to clean and feed.
Raced, sometimes they would succeed.

Flowers dad grew in the garden by the road;
Chrysene, the Mum, Dahlias of which he showed.
At least two had to be the same,
Lots more to this flower showing game.

The main type shown flowered like a ball,
Shown mainly in the nearby scouting hall.
The main crops he grew were vegetables;
All sorts of things just for our table.

Of course, there were the chickens we had,
The eggs we got, we were really glad.
In those days chicken was a very dear meat,
To have one on Sunday was by way of a treat.

A couple of other meats we had for our table.
Dad would 'poach them' whenever he was able.
Pheasant, hare or a wild rabbit, so tasty.
Before Myxomatosis, so don't get so hasty.

Rabbits were caught mainly with a wire snare;
In those days, gamekeepers, the only ones to care.
Pheasants! They were now another thing.
They were caught in a gin trap spring.

Now they're banned and I'm so glad,
Caught by a foot and injured bad.
Sometimes dad and I would go for a ride,
He'd point out bird droppings on each side.

Dad told me pheasants roost up in a tree,
Droppings tell us where they are likely to be.
We'll wait in pub till there's a darkening sky,
On the way home I would soon see why!

As we would approach the spot he would hand me his trusty steed,
Slowly, quietly, forward he would creep, finger on lips, hush to keep.
If he saw the bird was there, slowly and with the greatest care,
A hit next Sunday lunch; bird for our fare.

From his poacher's pocket, fetch his wooden catapult.
Twang! Thump! Got it! Accurate to a fault!
Into his pocket that game bird would go,
A special pocket so the prize would not show.

Then it was hung behind the coal house door;
A couple of days or often several more.
Given the job, boiling water I'd plunge the bird in,
When plucking it, it saved ripping the skin.

I didn't care for it as a roasted meal,
Best casserole is how I'd always feel.

A Job

My dad told me "I think I've got you a job!"
"Good!" I thought "I could earn a few bob."
For this job, boy had to be twelve;
Being tall, they didn't really delve.

I'd be a newsagent's delivery lad.
As the newcomer my route was bad.
The shop, town end of the Duke's street,
Where the road and Bishop's Hill meet.

The rounds, on houses opposite Margaret Catchpole pub.
To start it from shop up a huge hill, there's the rub.
As the shop was three miles from my home,
Looked for a newsagent nearer, less to roam.

Found one near the St Augustine's church, Felixstowe road.
The snag being for an extra bob, we were delivering double the load.
Delivering mostly was not too bad; papers in a canvas sack.
Not slung; to door, insert, and then walk back.

Vicious dogs, they were a nasty pox;
Tough to reach the letter box.
Such dogs should be locked in the back,
Not place poor paperboys on the rack.

But we paperboys knew a thing or two.
After being attacked, well, wouldn't you?
Sometimes the dog would be kept inside.
A chance like this, we didn't let ride.

We'd put the paper halfway in the stop and hold;
Dog would go mad, snap at it, show it was so bold.
That day the paper could not be read,
Dog had ripped it into a shred!

On Thursdays we could not ride and post.
The Listener, Radio Times, delivered to most.
Our bags were full, placed on bike's handle bars.
Had to do two trips; delivery lasted for hours.

Sundays were almost just the same,
But Saturdays they really spoilt our game.
On this day we had to collect the dosh
From council houses, an' the what's posh!

Some customers were always out that day,
But we knew, we'd see the curtain sway!
Others always had some excuse,
Reasons they couldn't pay were so abstruse.

Perhaps if late, or hadn't collected enough,
The newsagent would often cut up rough.
But we'd pay him back for the slight pain
By leaving his paper rack out in the rain.

When raining, knock over the paper stand,
Soaking wet papers, we'd all feel grand!
All this took place before breakfast and school,
But with some money earn't we felt cool.

Two thirds of the money into the coffers went
To helping out mum, I felt like a grown up gent.

Southend

The wives in their best bib and tuckers;
Men in suits, flat caps like their muckers.
I still have a copy of the 'official' photograph,
I look at it now and still have a laugh.

Photo taken, head count done, board the charabanc,
Police standing by, loved to have nicked the whole gang.
A box of sarnies on each of the couple of single-Decker bus;
Ladies, when they saw the many crates of beer, began to fuss.

Cackling of women, shouting at the men, could send you 'round the bend.
Where were we going? To the favorite stop of Londoners - Southend!
In fact, the full name of the resort was "Southend on the Sea";
Later, when we got there, I found the name a puzzle to me.

Oh! Yes it looked like the seaside when we first arrived.
All of the huts, ice cream, jellied eel, for which many dived.
Many opted for a trip on the paddle steamer as we arrived.
You know, the famous one of Dunkirk, that just survived.

Of course, it was a very great thrill; huge paddle, covering round,
To be on such a famous ship; to a museum anyway, still around!
Back to where we started, the men were all well oiled.
When I looked to see the sea, the trip for me was spoiled.

The sea had gone miles away; at least a tidy spell.
The beach, black, muddy, and my life, did it smell!
More whelks, jellied eels, some men feeling queer.
Something they'd eaten? Couldn't be that gallon of beer!

Fish and chips, wrapped in old newspaper;
Getting on the bus, what a caper!
Counting ten times got very wearing.
Drunks wives, crossed arms, glaring!

More sober ones tried numbers to tally.
Found the lot, onto the bus, there to rally.
Off we went, some heads were spinning,
Then all in the bus started the singing.

Even those who looked quite sick and pale
Put down themselves a lot more of the ale.
Stop! There's that bunch of trees we seek!
All men tumbled out to take a leak.

Ladies waited until the next nearest pub.
The men roused, more beer, that's lovely grub.
Again it took near half an hour; now too soon
To drag them from bar, the snug, even the saloon.

The two hour journey took four or more,
To pour out each by their front door.
Next time they took a trip down to the sea,
One thing was certain, you didn't see me!

The Outing

This rusty looking engine, could it be for real?
I think the way it worked was to spin a flywheel.
Against incoming tide we were really so slow,
But at about four knots, slowly we did seaward go.

We'd slowly make our way out off the Fludgers Arms.
A discharge pipe was there, we fished with no alarms.
Between the four of us we had no proper rods,
All made up of bits, all made of odds and sods.

We all had fishing reels; old ones made of wood.
Had to feel for a bite, of it became quite good.
Flat fish, Pollock, Flounders and four or five pound Codling,
Back home for supper this bounty we'd bring.

On their way back to our berth, someone would start a song,
It wasn't the fish, perhaps the rum, we'd fished for far too long!
Dad prepared the fish, mum cooked chips and fish in batter;
Chips fresh, but I'll never have fish again as good as the latter.

It must have been about this time, the dockers had their outing,
Of course, it could have been later in date, of that there's doubting.
I remember we all met outside the dockers canteen,
A more motley crew would be hard to be seen.