Pie 'n' Mash and Prefabs (14 page)

In town we looked round the shops, particularly Woolworths and Timothy White's and Taylor's, as well as a couple of small toy shops. It was very rare that I came back from a trip into Clacton without some small toy. In spite of the fact that we got all the food we could ever hope for in Butlin's, we usually stopped off for morning or afternoon tea at one of the many cafés and restaurants; Davey's and Cordy's are two I remember in particular.

Walking back to the camp, we would suddenly be assailed by the delicious smell of doughnuts being made. This smell emanated from a small stall not far from the gates of Butlin's itself. It was very difficult to avoid the temptation of buying some hot out of the fryer. Those holidays were non-stop eating!

After our sixth year in Clacton, we decided to be a bit more adventurous and go further afield for our holiday. We still went by coach and always to a holiday camp, though mostly to Warner's rather than Butlin's, starting first with Dovercourt Bay, the camp where the television sitcom
Hi-de-Hi!
was filmed.
This time we went with Nan, Grandpa and Aunt Clara, but it wasn't so good as it didn't have anything like the facilities or the laid-on activities of Butlin's.

Aunt Clara got herself into trouble with the rest of us, but especially Nan, when she volunteered to judge the children's fancy dress competition. We all felt that the girl dressed as a television OMO commercial should win. She wore a large, box-shaped dress in the form of an OMO laundry packet with a television aerial sticking up from it. We all thought it was a very well-executed and original idea that must have taken quite a bit of ingenuity and work on the part of her parents. However, the winner was another girl just dressed in her pyjamas, representing the hit musical
The Pajama Game,
which had recently opened on stage in London.

When Clara returned to us from her seat with the judges, Nan said to her, ‘What the bloody hell was all that about? I hope you didn't vote for that pyjama girl.'

Clara replied rather sheepishly that she had and Nan really went off on one – ‘She was just wearing her bloody pyjamas! What sort of bloody fancy dress is that? What about the OMO girl? She knocked your winner into a cocked hat.'

In the face of this onslaught, my aunt simply said, ‘You wouldn't understand – it's a modern thing.'

Of course, that didn't help and Nan was off again: ‘Too right I don't bloody understand,' she bawled. ‘All that bloody work that girl and her parents must have put in and you give the prize to a girl who's just wearing her normal bloody pyjamas!'

Aunt Clara didn't comment further, but she and Nan refused to speak to each other for the rest of the day. There was a very
frosty atmosphere and all over a bloody fancy dress competition, as Nan would no doubt have put it.

In the following two years, we went even further afield to the Warner camps of Corton in Suffolk, Ryde on the Isle of Wight and finally Seaton in faraway Devon. On these occasions, it was just Mum, Dad and me. After our experience with Nan and Aunt Clara in Dovercourt, we never went with them again and John was now too old to want to come on holiday with his parents any more. By the time I left Junior School, we had certainly got the bug for travelling, which was to intensify even more over the next few years once we'd bought our first car.

The earliest special day I can remember was the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II. I was just four years old when King George VI died, and it is my earliest memory of a national news story. Mum and I were visiting Dad's sister, Aunt Julie, Uncle Isaac and their four children, my cousins, Wendy, Rita, John and Carol, who also lived in a prefab, in Bethnal Green. I can still clearly remember Uncle Isaac coming home from work, throwing the door open to announce loudly, ‘The King is dead.' Actually, looking back on it, I'm amazed I understood as he was Scottish and spoke with a very broad accent; most times I couldn't understand a word he said. I always wondered how Aunt Julie managed. Obviously, on this occasion, he must have put on his poshest voice, owing to the momentous news
he had to impart. On our way back to the bus stop to go home, I saw the evening newspaper placards (
Star, News
and
Standard
) all carrying the same news.

This, of course, was in February 1952. The Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II didn't take place until June 1953, by which time I was six. For weeks beforehand, preparations were being made and by the time the big day arrived our street was full of flags and pennants flying from every house and stuck up in every window. We had a couple of very large Union Jacks in our windows, together with some other bunting around the prefab.

On the day itself, the first thing that happened was a children's party, beginning at 9.30am in the Glyn Road Mission Hall, which was acting as the headquarters for the local festivities. There were long tables covered with white sheets laid out in the hall. The food wasn't particularly stunning as this was still an age of austerity and some food was still on ration (though households were given an extra pound of sugar and four ounces of margarine especially for the celebrations). But in spite of the fact that all we had were fish paste and cucumber sandwiches, sausage rolls, sliced hard-boiled eggs, crisps and jelly and trifle with evaporated milk, along with gallons of orange squash, the whole atmosphere made it seem like a banquet – a veritable queen's feast, as you might say. The excitement and noise of hundreds of children enjoying themselves got the day off to the perfect start.

Following this, there was a children's procession, where we walked or rode on our suitably adorned bicycles, tricycles and scooters around the local streets. I still have a photograph of me riding down Millfields Road with Dad proudly looking on.

After the procession, there was a break in proceedings to allow people to go and watch the Coronation itself on television. We were still one of the few families in the street to have a television so we could watch it at home. Many others went to the big television screen specially set up in the Mission Hall. My aunt Nell, who lived in Blackburn, came all the way down to visit us just so she could see the Coronation on television. At one point, I stood in front of her, blocking her view. I can still remember her saying, ‘Could you move your body please, Norman?' It sounded such a strange thing to say to me – I had never quite heard the word ‘body' used in that way before.

For the afternoon, a big outdoor gathering was arranged on Millfields with lots of events for children and adults. There were a number of races arranged for the children, which were divided up into under-sevens, under-sixes, under-fives, etc. I believe the cut-off point for entry was 1 May, so that, if you were under six on 1 May, you entered the under-sixes and so on. As it happened, I was under six on 1 May, but by Coronation Day I'd had my sixth birthday. Dad entered me for the under-sixes and told me I had a good chance of winning since I would be one of the oldest in the race. However, I wanted to be a big boy and didn't want to enter the under-sixes so I told him I wanted to enter the under-sevens. Reluctantly, he agreed and when the race came I finished nowhere as, of course, I was now the youngest of the competitors. My chance to redeem myself came with the egg and spoon race and I was doing so well in second place until I dropped my egg just on the line. I managed to pick it up, but sadly could only finish fourth.

After the sports, the prize-giving ceremony for all those who
had done well took place in the Mission Hall. Dad said, ‘There's not much point in us going to that,' but I clung onto the faint hope that there might be prizes given out for fourth place in the egg and spoon race, so we went along. Of course, only the first three received prizes. Still, we didn't go away empty-handed as we were all given a goody bag to take home, which included a book with a souvenir coin attached to the front as well as some other souvenirs and sweets. I still have the book, and I cherish the memory of that day.

Preparations for Guy Fawkes Night started some months before the big day as I used to start paying 6d a week into ‘Funny Eye's' Fireworks Club. ‘Funny Eye' was the name us children unkindly gave to the owner of a stationery shop in Chatsworth Road. The sign above the shop proclaimed her real name was A. E. Barrow, but she had a squint in one eye, hence our name for her. The idea was that you'd pay whatever you could afford for two or three months and on 5 November you would be presented with a box of fireworks to the value of however much you had paid in. There was no choice about what you got, other than being able to specify ‘no bangers' if you wanted to, for which I was thankful. Bangers seemed a waste of money to me, as all they did was go bang.

About two weeks before the big day, Mum and I made up our guy with old clothes and other bits and pieces ready to sit on top of our bonfire. Living next door to Clapton dogs,
I had a captive market for the ‘Penny for the guy' routine. I used to take it down to the bottom of the path and sit with the guy on Thursday and Saturday evenings as the thousands of punters passed by on their way in. Sometimes I was joined by Barry and Richard from along the prefabs and we would share the proceeds.

I must have been seven when I first sat out with my guy and, every time someone gave me more than a penny, I got so excited that I ran back up the path, shouting, ‘Mum, Mum, someone's just given me a shilling!' Unbeknownst to me, Mum was dying of embarrassment. Eventually, after the third or fourth such excursion, she said, ‘Stop doing that! We don't want people to think we're beggars.' I have to say the greyhound fraternity were quite generous and for just a couple of weeks a year this was a lucrative pastime.

On firework night itself, I used to help Dad build the bonfire in our back garden. The wood was easy to come by as we just used to pick up fallen branches from the field.

For some reason now lost in the mists of time, our traditional tea on bonfire night was liver and bacon, after which we would all go out in the garden and light the bonfire. Dad used to supplement my ‘firework club' fireworks with another box or two, usually made by Brocks or Pains as we always considered theirs to be the best. Once the bonfire was truly ablaze, Dad would start lighting the fireworks. The rockets were placed in a milk bottle, which in those days had long necks, so they could shoot skywards unimpeded from their improvised launchpad. Other favourites were Roman Candles, Golden Rain (which could be held in a gloved hand), Sparklers (ditto) and Mount
Vesuvius (very bright and lit everything up like daylight). Less popular were the coloured sparklers, which were supposed to give off a red, blue or green colour, but usually just emitted clouds of smoke, and Arora, which didn't seem to do much at all except make a crackling noise that sounded like liver and bacon frying. This may well have been the origin of our traditional tea.

Our greatest love/hate relationship was reserved for the Catherine Wheel. Dad pinned them to the shed door, gave them a flip to make sure they would spin freely and then lit the blue touchpaper. This was supposed to result in them spinning round, emitting a spectacular rainbow of colours. At least that was according to the instructions. Actually, I can't remember one single occasion when this happened. Most times they wouldn't move at all and the sparks just sprayed out from a stationary wheel, usually straight at the ground. Occasionally, just occasionally, it would move slightly but never as far as a whole circle. In spite of Dad risking his hand by giving the wheel some manual help, it was the same every year. Why we thought it might be different I can't imagine.

While the big fireworks were going off, we lit up the hand-held ones and sometimes danced round the bonfire, singing, ‘Guy, Guy, Guy/Punch him in the eye/Hang him on a lamppost/And there let him die'. This was a song Mum said she remembered from her childhood. The violent nature of it seems all the more odd coming from Mum's childhood and her family, considering they were an Irish Roman Catholic family.

Where we lived in Clapton, there were no large organised displays, but most of the prefabs had bonfires and fireworks of
their own. On one occasion, Bertha and David next door got their bonfire going and then undid a packet of giant sparklers. David lit one and came over to the fence holding it proudly aloft, exclaiming loudly and with great glee, ‘You can't beat me!' This phrase passed into our family folklore as one we would use ourselves when we did something we thought was good.

Although the prefab gardens were quite spacious, the bonfires and fireworks were nevertheless in close proximity to the houses. I'm sure that any modern-day fire prevention officer or health & safety officer would have an apoplectic fit if these events happened now.

There was a short lull after Bonfire Night before preparations for the next big day began in earnest. That big day was, of course, Christmas Day.

The first weekend in December was our traditional day for putting up the decorations, though I would have spent some time beforehand making paper chains with Mum. There were some shop-bought decorations as well but pride of place naturally went to our own paper chains.

We also had a real Christmas tree to decorate every year. I don't know where it came from but Dad always turned up with it on the Friday before the first weekend. It must have been some feat getting it home on the bus, but the logistics involved in this never occurred to me at the time.

Once the decorations were up and the tree decorated with the familiar battered baubles and fairy, there was a short
lull interrupted only by a number of presents mysteriously appearing under the tree. Strangely enough, in my younger days these were all left by Father Christmas, but later on were left by my parents.

Once school broke up for the holiday, the excitement and expectation became tangible. Every year Mum would take me up to London on the bus. We always made for Gamages first. Gamages was a big department store in Holborn and a bit out of the main West End shopping centre around Oxford Street. Although situated in an unfashionable shopping area, it was a mecca for children because of its unparalleled stock of toys. One of its main attractions was a large working model railway, which alternated between a day and night scene by the use of lighting. There was also a large Meccano exhibition every year, with some of the exhibits being driven by little model steam engines.

Another attraction for me was the way the whole store was set out. It had been started in 1878 by Arthur Walter Gamage in one small unit, but as the business prospered and expanded it took over all the shops around it until it occupied a whole block (nos 116–128 Holborn). Because of its piecemeal expansion, it ended up as a maze of rooms, steps, passages and ramps because the floors were on slightly different levels. It was a real adventure wandering through this warren and you felt as though you were in a place straight out of a Grimms' Fairy Tale. Not for nothing was it known as the People's Popular Emporium.

Gamages also still used the old vacuum tube system for payments, which necessitated a jumble of wires and tubes overhead. When you bought something, you would give the
sales assistant behind the counter the money for payment and they would make out a receipt. The receipt and money would then be put into a cylindrical container with a screw cap. This in turn would be placed in a tube. At the pull of a cord, a bell would ding, and, with a whoosh of air, the cylinder, by magic, would be transported along the wires to the cashier situated centrally in an office on the floor. The cashier then took the receipt and the cash out of the tube, checked it was correct, and, if necessary, supplied the change. She then signed the receipt and sent it all back again. It was a bit of a laborious process but still wonderful to see the tubes whishing backwards and forwards across the store. Somehow it all added to the magic of Gamages.

As well as just the general air of the place and the vast stock of toys, we went for two specific purposes. The first, of course, was to see Father Christmas. Every year there would be a different theme to his grotto, but the main thing was being able to tell him what you wanted for Christmas and then getting a small present on the way out. The second was to have our ‘Cracker Tea'. This consisted of a cup of tea for Mum, orange squash for me, some cakes to share and a cracker for us to pull. Yes, a visit to Gamages was definitely one of the highlights of Christmas.

After spending some time in Gamages, we would get the bus up to Selfridges on Oxford Street to see Father Christmas again, this time with his sidekick, Mr Holly. I don't think it ever struck me as strange that Santa could be in two places at once – I suppose I must have reasoned that if we could get from one store to the other so could he. Perhaps he got the bus up, like we did. As at Gamages, I sat on his knee, told him
what I wanted for Christmas and received a small gift. I always preferred Gamages' Santa, though, because he seemed jollier and gave better presents. Also, I didn't like Mr Holly. To me he seemed a bit creepy.

There was a third Father Christmas we sometimes visited, though not every year, and that was the one in Dudley's, a big department store in Dalston. He wasn't as good as Gamages' Father Christmas either. This was partly because, being in Dalston, it didn't seem like much of an adventure as we sometimes went there to do shopping at other times of the year as well. There was no fancy grotto either, just Santa sitting on a chair in the toy department. And there was just no magic about Dudley's Father Christmas. His presents weren't as good either. The only thing going for Dudley's was that it too used the vacuum tube system for payment.