Memories of a very young boy

MEMORIES

INTRODUCTION

A short time ago I went to a friend's funeral.  Several people spoke, and told us about things that they could remember happening to him.  He was an interesting man who was lucid to the end, and I wondered exactly what his thoughts had been, and what had made him tick.

But this story is not about him.  I realised that in all of us there are myriads of brain cells that record not necessarily the absolute truth, but our perception of all that has happened through our lives.  When one dies, and the brain cells deteriorate into nothingness, a huge amount of ephemeral personal memories are lost for ever.  The history of a person is a matter of record, but the thoughts and memories of a person are individual, and they die when their brains die. 

I resolved then and there that I should put down on paper some of my memories.  I probably won't finish the task, indeed I suspect it would be boring if I did, but at some future time when I have my Death Certificate, someone may look through my personal detritus, and discover what memories I had.  Necessarily they will be incomplete, they will be biased, but they will be ephemera, true ephemera, my ephemera.

 

FIRST MEMORIES

Light, dappled light and a feeling of happiness.  Nothing more.   I later learned that the light was sunlight shining through the fringe of my sunshade.  Back in the summer of 1946 there were no strollers, just prams, usually black prams, and in summer, the black hoods were lowered, and cream or white fabric sunshades were substituted, and sunlight shining through their fringes had caused the dappled light.

I remember, I think, being changed.  Being dried off, the lovely silky feel of powder being applied, and a clean towelling nappy pinned on me.  (My mother saved my nappy safety pins.  I don't know why, but I still have them).  I have no more than a feeling that I was left in my pram next to the wash house on sunny days.  I was out of the house, but safe in the small back yard.  Memories were more phases of consciousness of my surroundings which came and went, and for most of the time weren't there at all.  I can't remember anything of the following year even though the town had record breaking floods, but I do remember one of my mother's dresses.  It was dark green.

I remember my cot, I think, but I definitely remember the milk truck coming to collect our belongings.  Then all is blank, except for a ten second segment when I was between the driver and my Dad in the cab of the lorry, and we were at the top of a road which went down a hill, Queens Road.  The rest has gone, except that later, when I could read, the newspaper under the linoleum near the front door was dated May 1948.  I had been just over two when we moved to 68 Queens Road.

 

MUM and DAD TAKE ME CAMPING.

Dad had a second hand car, a Ford, and it was green with black wings over the wheels.  One day we went to Gloucester, near the centre of the city.  The next thing (several hours later), Dad erected a tent in the back garden.

A couple of days later, Mum, Dad and I put lots of stuff into the car boot, and by the side of Mum who sat in the back seat, was the tent.  I was two, and this holiday was the first time I can remember.  I sat in the front seat because I got travel sick.

We stopped off on the way at Ashbourne, and headed for Buxton, Dad's home town.  Eventually we crossed over a railway line and turned right into a triangular field.  Mum and Dad pitched the tent in the rain, put in the wooden camp beds, and some blankets in between for me to sleep on.  Meanwhile, I ran about in the rain soaked grass kicking as many raindrops as possible off the grass leaves, and noticing that the grass was slightly darker where I ran, which meant that I could make patterns all over the field.

The only noises I remember hearing were cars, trains, and the stove.  Otherwise the field was silent.  I noticed the cars, because you could hear them about every five minutes – there was far less motor traffic than there is today- and at much larger intervals, there was a puff puff PUFF puff and white steam billowing as a train went under the road bridge, and then again under another bridge which led from the field.  The primus stove had to be prepared properly and kept away from anything dangerous, so it was put into a large metal biscuit tin where it hissed.  The hissing was an invitation to a mug of tea during the day, or else a small meal which was given to me on an enamel plate.  In the evening I was given a small can of Heinz soup, and put to bed.  I slept soundly, and next morning I was soon running round the field again.  Eventually my Mum and Dad came out of the tent.  Dad had a large green canvas bucket.  It was for water, and so off we went over the bridge to the farm.  I remember going to the farm because the railway bridge was covered in grass.  It was the first time I had ever been on a farm and it seemed so muddy.  The bucket was so heavy that I could not lift it at all, no matter how hard I tried.  So father brought it back to the tent.  It was raining.

We went to see Dad's brothers Ernie and Henry.  Uncle Henry lived in a large stone house near a railway viaduct, and Ernie lived on a hilly part of town where there were swings in a playground.  And it rained.  The next day, it rained.

The following day we packed up the tent, put it in the car and set off for Windgather.  Here there was a Youth Hostel for the rock climbers.  Miss Booth welcomed us.  I can't remember her at all except that she seemed old, but I remember only the name.  She was helped by Marjorie, who I also can't remember.  All I remember about Windgather was that it wasn't as warm and cosy as the tent.  And still it rained.  I suppose at some stage it must have stopped and the sun came out, because we went to the Pavilion Gardens in Buxton.  I had a blue and white beachball.  Beach balls were usually made from rubber, and they had to be inflated to full basketball size.  A button was removed from a tube, Dad blew down the tube making a satisfactory breathy whistling sound.  The button was placed in the tube, and then the whole thing was pushed down until it was flat with the rest of the ball.  The sun stayed out and it must have become reasonably warm.

I should say here that I was mad on railways, which I have been all my life.  Mum and I used to meet my Uncle John at the station.  If the locomotive let off steam, I would inevitably cry.

We went into the tea room.  A boy, maybe a year older than me, had a railway book, and on the back cover was an express train rushing into a tunnel.  Uncharacteristically I threw a tantrum; I cried; I wailed; I tried to take the book from the older boy.  I was given a gentle smack and told that the book was not mine.  I gave the book back, stopped crying and hoped that Mum and Dad would get me the book and post it off to Father Christmas so that he could bring it to me on Christmas Day.  I think Father Christmas was very busy and it slipped his mind.