[OLD STEVE] [WORLD OF THE CONTENT] [THE RE-WRITTEN LIST] [LEVELS OF CONSCIOUSNESS] [THE THREE LEVELS]
CHAPTER 7.
Even more School.
MY BIOGRAPHY.
1. During school days and indeed long after them, I had very little to do with my father, yet there were the odd occasions when he would take me to various places, mainly to his mothers, when it suited his purpose and that would be mainly when he wanted to booze without my mother finding out and what better cover than a youngster. We would leave home and walk, by a roundabout route, to my Grandmothers, in Shipley, and I would be left standing outside every single Pub and there were quite a few, in those days, on the way there. The first stop would be to obtain change for the Bus to work the following morning. The second for a box of matches; the third for tobacco; the fourth to go to the toilet; the fifth to see if grandad was in; the sixth to pass a message and so on, there being unlimited excuses for just popping in and me waiting outside. When we arrived at grandma's I would sit, doing nothing and saying nothing, as children were expected to do whilst in the presence of adults and Gran would nip out to the nearest Off-license shop and come back with a large jug full of draught beer, covered over by a handkerchief with Farthings, (a coin worth one quarter of an old penny, when there were two-hundred and forty pennies to the pound or nine-hundred and sixty farthings, and you could still buy things for a farthing), tied into the corners to weigh it down. If I was lucky I got a Black Spanish Chew. While she was away the cards came out and a game would be set up, on the linoleum covered kitchen table, between my father, his brother; my uncle who would also be visiting, my grandfather and my aunt, who lived there, as her husband, that she was still married to at the time, was away with the Air Force. The other man I sometimes saw her with was just a friend. My grandmother would then sit in silence and would probably knit until the next shout for beer, that being her responsibility. If I was really lucky, during this period of enforced silence the Ice-cream Man, in his little donkey pulled cart, would come round, ringing his bell and my grandmother would take me out and treat me to a cornet, paid for by either my aunt or my uncle. At other times another cart might come round and I would again be taken out, but not always; by my grandmother clutching a bowl, and be treated to hot Grey Peas and mint sauce. Now that was special and I savoured that unique taste, yet I have never bothered with them since I found out that their prime use was to feed pigeons. Pigeon keeping, breeding and racing being a popular sport, among the working class, in those days. Sometimes and on other occasions I was taken by a ginger haired man called Jack Derbyshire, who was a lodger (paying guest) at my grandparents home, (it being common practice in those days, among the working classes, for people with spare rooms and when housing was in short supply, following the blitz, to take in lodgers), and he would take me to the local Gas Works where I would be left alone, sat at a desk, in an office, with a piece of paper, a pen and some red ink. I remember the red ink and of being left for what seemed like forever, while he did what ever he was supposed to do. On his return I would be taken and shown the tap where the Tar ran out and would have this demonstrated as a can was filled prior to being taken away. On our return 'home' this ginger haired bloke would be thanked profusely and offered a drink and be invited to sit in at the cards. Always at this time my father would be ready to drop out, saying we were expected at home and the others would laugh and pass remarks about my mother. I think they liked her as much as she liked them. On the way home, which was by another roundabout route, we stopped at more Pubs for more change that was needed to replace that 'given' to grandad. Also I would, if I had not already had something, be bought a lollipop or something.
2. As an individual, my father tended to stick to a fairly rigid routine, doing specific things at specific times and on certain fixed days, and one of these routines was to arrive home, on Friday evenings and expect his dinner to be on the table waiting, a half hour later than usual. That was because he called every Friday and had his hair trimmed and collected a 'Woman' magazine for my mother, a 'Dandy' comic for me and a 'Beano' for my sister and four ounces of 'Dolly Mixtures' to share out. That was his 'fatherly' gesture and duty for the week and all dispensed in two minutes before we were bundled off out of his way. He would then, as he did on every evening, sit at the table and eat alone, while my mother waited on him. His father, my grandfather did the same. He always ate alone but if ever we were there, as kids, he was always friendly towards us. There we were not made to go away or sit quiet. In fact some of our visits were fascinating, or we thought they were, as over a period of time we saw some very strange sights. We would usually be there at the weekends and at lunchtime, and grandad would invariably have been to the Pub for his usual. In fact 'we' might just have called in and collected him on the way there. Anyhow, ignoring the fact that sometimes he could be argumentative, it was great to see him perform. He would give us money, for sweets, while swaying all over the place and then, depending on his mood, spread vast amounts of mustard all over his dinner before shovelling it down in a few seconds and then demand a large pot of tea. Alternatively he would spread mustard all over the meat, on his plate, pick it up and wrap it in the Yorkshire Pudding and stand and eat it like a sandwich. After that he would take his plate and scrape the rest onto the open fire and my grandmother would never (dare) say a word. After that he would get himself into his favourite chair, cross his legs and place his feet on the cast iron hob at the side of the fire and fall asleep. Shortly after, and this is what we would be waiting for, there would be a smell of burning rubber and he would snort, twitch and kick out and his slippers would either end up in the fireplace or actually in the fire. No one said a word and he never woke up and my Gran, after dragging the burning slippers from the burning coals into the fireplace, would carry on as if nothing had happened. However, the ultimate thrill came when he decided it was time to wake up, for then he would clear his throat and spit into the back of the fire and all the soot would go flying. There would be no reaction to this either, from my grandmother but if my mother expressed some disgust, as she often did, then there would be a repeat performance and a double delight for us kids. Looking back and realising how and where he sat, what he did might be considered by some to not be exactly elegant, but was never the less no-mean feat and he could make a damned big hole in the soot up the fire back.
3. Sometime later or perhaps around the same time, I was taken to learn to swim on Saturday mornings and never learnt because once in the water, at the shallow end, my father, standing on the side, would encourage me for a few minutes then tell me to hang on to the side and watch the big clock, on the wall, and when it got to a certain time to get out, get dry and make my way to my grandmothers. Every time I got there the cards would be out but my father would be getting ready to leave, so we didn't stop. But we would at all the Pubs on the way back, as indeed we had on the way there, and do you know I was bloody grateful for all this.
4. On rare occasions we would forage into Bradford to look at the shops and see which mills, warehouses and department stores had been bombed and I remember that the highlight on one of those trips, to me, was going to see the German Airplane, that had been shot down, and which was on display, with a very large bomb in front of it, and where people could buy National Savings Stamps and stick them on this bomb before it was 'dropped on Hitler'. Looking back I now realise that it was probably a large navel shell but that did not stop me from nattering until finally my mother gave in and allowed me to spend my own sixpence, (2 1/2p) and buy a stamp and stick it on the bomb. I remember then that there was all hell let loose because she went forward and insisted on peeling it off again and argued with some official that we had bought it and so it was ours. What the guy tried to tell her, about the stamp, proved to be right because weeks later, when she sent me to cash my Savings Stamps, to save them from being destroyed by bombs, the woman in the Post Office would not cash it as she said it was not genuine. I got a crack round the head for wasting and loosing my money and have never been much of a saver since then. Spend it before someone else gets it and I wonder if since then and even now, when I get my hands on money, I have an almost uncontrollable urge to spend it and have often done so with disastrous results and a lot of bad buys and wasted money.
5. I went to Sunday School, sang the hymns, all of which I still remember, along with most of the words, and still like and which you will find at odds and very confusing when and if, we get round to discussing my views on religion. Also of my asking 'Gentle Jesus' for all sorts of things, none of which he ever came up with, otherwise I might have had a happier life. Then into the bargain, got touched up by the local butcher who was our Sunday School Teacher. I never went to Harvest Festival because you had to take something with you and could not bring it back and so on those days it always seemed to coincide with a walk on the moors or through the woods that had all been planned for, at least the day before. Later I joined the Scouts, attached to the same Sunday School but never went to camp because that cost money, my subs for the weekly meetings coming out of my own spending money. I learnt at a very early age how to survive on very little and still do. I have only three outstanding memories of Scouting, well four if you include bullying and getting hurt during the early days. Being left in the woods because I couldn't keep up, being very scared on my own and making my way home and getting into trouble, at home, for being late back, into trouble at scouts, the next week, for not going back to the Scout Hut and me, like a silly bugger, kept on going back for more because I dare not tell my mother I wanted to pack it in. She was proud of the fact that I was a scout and attached to the very best Sunday School, a Methodist Chapel actually. Another time I went on Church Parade, in Shipley, and whilst 'marching' through the Market Square, tripped and fell and whilst trying to prevent myself from falling, grabbed one of the Guide Leaders. She hit me, while the onlookers laughed, and dumped me at the side of the road and told me to stay there until they came back. They never came back that way and hours later, and by that time stood alone, I decided that I would take my chances and walk home. I arrived back hours after I should have done but nobody said anything, either at home or later at Scouts. I wonder if that bitch ever thought I might be still standing there. Finally my uniform; like many other things, was 'hand me down' and had been acquired for me from an uncle. The shorts were too big, the shirt the wrong colour and the hat, totally out of date. I bought myself a neckerchief and some sock tags so at least they were right and I took the ribbing over the hat, which was too big for me, because my mother said it came from a better Scout Troop than ours anyway, and I believed her.
