Memories Weave a Tapestry to Treasure

The human brain is a wonderful and complex machine. Not only does it direct our mechanical beings, but it stores enough data to incriminate us at every turn. Without memory we would never find our shoes and socks on a morning, and neither would we remember those sweet things in life, our favourite people and places, our likes and even our dislikes. But I do sometimes wonder what happens to our memories. When I look back, I can recall things that happened at a very early age, but as I have got older, they have lost their reality and just become memories of memories wrapped in a kind of cotton wool.

It was a great surprise in later life for me to learn that as our childhood family was breaking down, my Grandmother and Auntie Pat had offered a plan to Social Services. Auntie Pat would act as a nanny for Fred and I, whilst Gran stood in locum parentis. It would have been perfect being brought up in the heart of the family, but Social Services would not hear of it. It is moments such as these that change the direction of our lives forever. I loved my Aunt for telling me that story. It was touching to know that at the age of fifteen she not only wanted to look after us but was prepared to fight for us too.

As far as memories go, my very earliest recollection was of a darkened room lit only by firelight and a balloon bursting which really frightened me. I wonder if it was Christmas time and a balloon had got too close to the fire. I do know that I also had a black doll, but I can no longer see it in my mind’s eye. The same with the memory of holding my mother’s hand by a little finger, or sitting on a bed with her and playing pat-a-cake. Grandad’s car was a huge part of my early years and despite being car sick on every journey, I loved going out for a ride. I wonder how many times the car blanket was washed, or if I ruined it completely?

Photographs can sometimes betray our memories. I have three of me as a toddler that make me want to say, ‘Oh, my goodness, when did that happen?’ The first is of me in my grandparents back garden, with the inevitable dog. But that wasn’t the dog that I thought they had. Then I have a lovely photograph of two of my cousins, my brother and I at my Auntie Jean and Uncle Fred's wedding, but if it weren’t for the photo I have absolutely no recollection of being there. But the one that amazes me is of us on holiday at a caravan park. Yes I do vaguely recall being in a caravan and being lifted up to poke my head out of an orange coloured Perspex skylight, but you would have thought that I should have remembered more. Especially as it was a whole week and it looked like we had fun being spoilt with quite a few aunts and uncles around.

In the early years my brother and I lived in a home in Hayling Island, which I have absolutely no memory of, but I do remember being in Foster care in Fleet; although not in the same house, we were next door to each other. We were situated next to the Basingstoke Canal and my brother and I adventurous as ever went exploring. The canal was not really used much at that time and everything was overgrown. I can remember being under a bridge and I think there were some stepping stones, what happened next is a bit hazy, but I think Fred reached over to grab something from the canal with a stick and leant just that little bit too far. In he went, splash. I danced around the towpath yelling, but it wasn’t very deep, and he was able to take my hand and be pulled out. I ran back to his house still yelling, whilst he sploshed along behind me, covered in mud and smelling rather horrible.

The people I stayed with had two dogs: Quania, a sweet, fussy Pekingese and Suzy, a Great Dane. Talk about from the sublime to the ridiculous, but I loved dogs and they were my companions. They shared a big dog basket in the conservatory, which is where I could often be found, talking to them. There was also a garden with a rather large vegetable plot, and I would take both dogs for walks up the garden (or they would take me). On one occasion we arrived at the end of the garden which was flanked on one side by a wood and across the end by a field. I stood on tiptoe to see what I could see when suddenly a head appeared followed by a horrible snorting noise. I was terrified and ran yelling all the way down the path, and back to the safety of the dog basket. The dogs trotted behind me most unconcerned. It turned out that I had just had my first encounter with a horse. A young man also lived in the house by the name of Richard. He had a trumpet and would play ‘Oh My Papa’ so often that it has stuck inside my head ever since.

What I do find odd is the great tracts of time that are lost. It’s almost as if the memory forgot to record, but I have no notion of how we got to Scarborough from Fleet and I don’t just mean the train journey. One minute I’m in a garden playing happily with two dogs, the next we are all living in Valley Road Scarborough.

The Guest House that we found ourselves in belonged to Mr and Mrs Bannister, their two daughters, Irene and Valerie and Lady the Alsatian. I was surprised to learn when I was older that we were only there a few short weeks, but they were happy ones. There was a huge kitchen garden with a hen coop at the top end and once again I could be seen wandering up and down, accompanied by the dog and singing happily to myself. No horses at the end of the garden this time, just a road that led to town. Mealtimes were heralded by the sound of the gong which stood in the hall, a shiny memento of Mr Bannister's time stationed in Singapore. I can still sense the thrill of being allowed to hit the disc with the drumstick!

My brother was at school, being a year older, and brought home wonderful childhood ailments such as Chickenpox, Measles, Whooping Cough and Mumps. If Fred had it, then so would I, but I was still an infant really and it took longer for me to recover so that the Mumps nearly ended my story right there. The only memory I have of any of it is seeing a doctor folding up his stethoscope and him talking very quietly to my step-mother. Fortunately, however she had been a nurse and knew how to look after me.

Summertime in a kitchen garden is a fruitful time and I was only too happy to help with the harvest. Collecting peas was great fun, and once I had learnt how to pop the pods, few peas made it into the basket. Same with the Strawberries, they were just too delicious. I may not have made myself sick, but I did take the edge of my appetite which would make my step-mother very cross when it came to meal-times and I couldn’t finish my meal. She had just lived through terrible years in war torn Germany where food was scarce, and she never knew where the next meal was coming from for her and her young son, Hans. Apparently one day she shut me in the cupboard under the stairs to teach me a lesson. It is an event that my memory thankfully blocked, but I do have a strong dislike of confined spaces.

I find it quite curious what information the brain will and won’t store. Fred shared a bedroom with our step-brother Hans and whilst I know of him, and must have spent time in his company, I cannot recall one detail of him. In fact, I often forget he exists. I just have a vague memory that he tormented Fred, as all older siblings seem to want to do.

But Fred and I were very close as children and played and argued in a normal healthy way. Fred was adventurous and wherever he was, I wanted to be. There is a large Duck Pond under the Bridge that crosses Valley Road which became a bit of an adventure playground for us. We would run round and around the larger of the two ponds and then jump down into the lower level where there was a little fountain and stepping stones. We had probably been told to go no further than that area, and in that we did as we were told. But the real danger came, not from the Duck Pond but from the solid concrete base of the bridge which we climbed up and happily dodged in and out of its arches. It makes me feel quite ill now when I look at the height and the danger, but we had no fear and amazingly nobody stopped us or asked where our parents were, and most fortunate of all, neither of us fell. Fred taught me to whistle, which didn’t go down too well with my step-mother who said that young ladies did not do that sort of thing, and only empty cans rattle. But I had no idea what she was talking about and I thought it was great.

We went for walks on a weekend when my father was at home. Nice walks up Plantation Drive and into the grounds of the Woodend Museum where Fred and I would roly-poly down the grass bank at the front of the building. Round into the Art Gallery and then down the paths back to Valley Road. There is a little stone built, ornamental bridge along the path which my parents had to duck to go under. I would jump to see if I could touch the roof, and vowed that one day I would do it, even on tiptoes. It’s curious that although the beach was so close, I don’t recall going down to the foreshore, yet I do remember taking a bus up to Oliver’s Mount which was a real treat. To this day, I love looking out from the memorial over Scarborough, it is probably one of the best views in the town.

In the early years, school is where we spend most of our time and my best memories are of Hinderwell County Primary School, where I was happy, especially in the Infants classes, but that was not my first school. During the short period that we lived with Bannisters I attended Gladstone Road County Primary, yet I remember no more than we children each being given a mat after lunch so that we could have a nap. Neither can I remember being taught to read and write, but both my brother and I were already very competent by the time we arrived in Scarborough, so somebody had schooled us well.

The Hinderwell's building itself was post-war and was a very pleasant environment, unlike a lot of the draughty old Victorian buildings with their high ceilings and tall windows. Each classroom had access to the outside of the building, and we would sometimes take our work outside on a nice day. The Infants’ school was at the bottom end with the Juniors’ at the top and sandwiched in between was a generous sized hall for assembly and P.E. It was well equipped too, with a vaulting horse, wall beams and climbing ropes. There must have been a staff room and offices, but fortunately I got on well with the Headmaster and was never called to his lair. I do remember lining up outside the Sick Bay which was used by the School Nurse who visited regularly to give us health checks. It being only ten or so years after the Second World War, there was a lot of poverty about and seaside towns are not famed for having much industry. The local estate in particular had a lot of poor families and we were still in an era when children suffered from Ricketts and Polio and other horrible ailments. You could see by the clothes some children wore that there was little money at home, in fact I think we were better off in the Childrens' Home than a lot of them with their own families. One girl that I sat next to had been badly affected by Measles and wore pink, round NHS glasses and carried a hearing aid that squeaked and squawked. I used to feel really sorry for her until the day that I discovered that she had given me Nits. I was mortified. I had to have my hair combed with a very tight toothed comb and I screamed and cried as the lice tumbled from my head on to a sheet of paper where they were quickly squashed. Then came the horrible shampoo, the smell of which left nobody in any doubt as to why your hair had been washed. It’s making me shudder just writing about it.

Free milk was an important bonus to children at that time. The scheme was introduced at the beginning of the twentieth century to ensure that poorer children received some good nutrition, but it was not until 1945 that the Free School Milk Act was passed and entitled every child under the age of 18 to a third of a pint of milk each school day. The milk came in little bottles and each morning, heads would be counted, and two Milk Monitors would go to the School Canteen to fetch a crate of milk. Back in the classroom, we would line up, collect a straw from the box and a bottle of milk from the crate. It would often be sour in summer if it was very warm, and in the winter there could be plumes of frozen milk sticking out of the bottle top. We were not always the first to get to the milk either, as on some mornings the Bluetits, attracted by the silver foil caps would come down and peck until they could reach the creamy liquid. It was the same with the milk at home, and nobody considered the health implications, we just marvelled at how clever the birds were.

Most of us at some time in our lives would admit to hating school, but sadly we rarely give credit to our teachers, nor do we acknowledge readily some of the things that we learnt for life. Some teachers also inspire us, and their names live on in our memories. In the Infants it was Miss Ceibert, Mrs Allport and the Headteacher, Miss Hebditch. We did the usual wide range of subjects, my favourite being Art and Crafts. The workroom was below our classroom and was equipped with all sorts of goodies. We donned our aprons and painted and drew pictures. We made collages and silhouettes, drew snowy scenes in chalk on black sugar paper and had great fun making patterns by blowing down straws and scattering the paint. There was the inevitable ‘butterfly’ picture of course, created by painting one side of the sheet and folding it to make an illusion of wings. But I drew the line at clay. I know, most people love getting stuck in, but to me it was messy and got in my fingernails and I hated my hands being dirty.

One of our school projects involved learning about people from around the world. We learnt how to say Hello in a number of different languages, looked at the type of food people ate and what clothes they wore. It was great fun and at the end of it we had a ‘Show and Tell’ morning, taking in items from other countries. This wasn’t as difficult as it sounds as many families had a relative who had recently served somewhere around the world either from the war or from doing National Service. My parents had sent me a lovely silk dressing gown from Singapore. It was white and had two Chinese figures embroidered on the back and I was very proud of it. For some reason I cannot remember, Mrs Allport decided that another child should wear it, which left me very disappointed and to add insult to injury, the child managed to lose the belt!

English was my other passion at school. I loved to read and write and really enjoyed spelling quizzes and learning new words. One day, Miss Hebditch came into the classroom and asked for me and my friend Ann. We went to her office, wondering what we had done wrong but to our surprise she sat us down, brought out our English books and began to praise us for our work. We were so ahead of everybody else that she wanted us to move to her class there and then, which was before the end of the school year. We were amazed and very flattered and off we went. I always liked Miss Hebditch, and not because of that incident either, so I was really happy to see her again at Mum’s funeral many years later. She asked about my life and enquired after Fred. Apparently she was concerned that I had noticeably withdrawn after Fred had been taken away by my father and the move to her class had been a ruse to keep an eye on me. Ann was there for company. (And she was also very good at English).

We often went for Nature Walks especially round The Mere which was only five minutes’ walk away. In spring we would collect Catkins (which we called Lamb's tails) and Pussy Willow and kneel down to see if we could see the Frogspawn at the side of the lake. There were plenty of trees to learn and identify and Primroses grew in little pockets. Then there were Windflowers and Bluebells in the wooded areas. My friend Margaret lived with her parents and sister in the White Farmhouse which you see perched on the side of Oliver’s Mount and one summers’ day we were invited to visit the farm. It was an excited troop of children that climbed the steep steps across the field to her house. You could hear some of them counting how many, but I can’t remember the result anymore. We wandered through the farmyard, turned our noses up at the smells and oohed and aahed at the new born calves waiting to out into the field with their mothers. There were two ponies in the stable, one belonging to Margaret and the other to Hilary, the farm hand. Needless to say, everyone wanted to pat them, and we were all envious of Margaret having her own pony. After a glass of orange juice and a biscuit each, we made our way back down the steps (more counting in case more steps had been added) and back to school.

Scarborough suited me. I suffered from childhood asthma and the sea air did me good. Mum liked us to be outdoors playing if it was fine and often invited us to ‘go round the Marine Drive and walk off some energy’. We never took her seriously, but we did get plenty of fresh air whether we were in the back yard, the playground at Falsgrave Park, out on our bikes or roaming Foxon’s field. It all makes me sound quite sporty, but don’t be fooled, I was useless when it came to sports and P.E. I was the kid you didn’t want on your team. I was slow and clumsy, and my smile departed from the moment the lessons started right through to the end. The gym equipment would be rolled out in the hall and the agile kids would leap over the horse or scramble up the wall bars; but the ones I really envied were the wiry snippets who grabbed the ropes and climbed up like monkeys. I still don’t know how they did it. They stuck like Teflon and sprinted upwards whilst I just pulled, and nothing happened. I just did not have the aptitude. Neither could I do cartwheels or handstands, although I really tried hard. The misery continued outside. Run! Nothing doing. Now if I could canter on a pretend horse like we did on the way to school it might have been different but running was a no-no and whoever thought of running and jumping hurdles was either mad or cruel. That was my absolute nightmare. Sports Day was the day that I thought would never end.

As much as I disliked Games however, my real least favourite subject was arithmetic. I wish whoever had taught us to read and write had also spent time doing sums. I was hopeless, and as soon as we started doing our Times Tables I went into panic mode and the numbers froze in my head. This fear persisted throughout my school life and only abated in later years so that now I have no problem with my tables or mental arithmetic, but I’m glad that I no longer have to worry about how long it would take Bill to fill his bath with water at two gallons a minute!

There was a Lunar eclipse shortly after the summer holidays in September 1959, and a lot of our school lessons were geared up to learning about Astronomy. We learnt about the planets in the solar system Mars, Venus, Saturn, Neptune and Uranus. The earth revolving round the sun; the moon and its phases. What we would see if we looked up into the night sky, the Constellations and the Milky Way. I was fascinated by the whole subject and so it was that I gained a memory from that time that I hope never to lose. We were leaving Brownies one clear, frosty night in November and there had been a power cut, so everything was quite dark. I wasn't allowed to cross the main road so whilst I waited outside for one of the older girls to come and collect me I gazed up at the night sky. There was the Milky Way and the Constellations we had learnt about at school. It was a beautiful sight. Suddenly a light shot across the sky. Then another, and another. I was being treated to a meteor shower, although I didn’t know that’s what it was called then. I was awestruck. One of the hits of the day was ‘Catch a Falling Star’ and I sang it all the way home.

2 October 1959 was the day that we experienced our first Solar Eclipses. Being a Friday, we had a full school assembly with the juniors which was led by Mr Catton, the Headmaster. We trooped into the school hall and as usual there was a piece of classical music playing on the record player. What’s the betting it was something from Gustav Holst’s The Planet Suite? Mr Catton carefully explained all about the eclipse and what was likely to happen. It was only a partial eclipse, but as it was a sunny day we certainly would notice the sky getting darker for a while before the moon passed over the sun. Dire warnings were given not to look directly at the sun, or our eyes would be damaged. We went back to our classrooms and made pinhole glasses from card to take out at lunchtime and it was all very exciting. The one thing that we had not anticipated was how much cooler it was, and we needed our coats when we went out to play. I don’t think I looked up as I didn’t want my eyes to boil over, and by the time we left to go home it was all over.

I can’t say that I enjoyed the move into the Junior school quite as much. The Headmaster, Mr Catton was very nice, and I don’t know if he was following on from Miss Hebditch, but he often called me over to ring the bell for the end of playtime, which made me feel quite special. The only other teacher that I can recall was Mr Jackson. He was young and there was something uncomfortable about him; probably nerves. He was always twitching and frowning and would throw chalk at the boys if they were acting up. He was very strict too. Once in a PE lesson he asked us all to stand absolutely still, not move a muscle. I don’t know if it was fear, but a muscle twitched in my knee and he spotted it straight away. ‘That girl, I said not one muscle.’ I can hear him now; I was so scared I wanted to cry. But it wasn’t all bad, we were growing up and the lessons were more structured. The topics were more serious, and it was about this time that our learning was enhanced with broadcasts for schools.

The BBC have been doing broadcasts for schools for a long time and they were lessons I enjoyed. We would go into the main hall where a huge tv stood in the corner, the blackout curtains were drawn and for half an hour we watched all sorts of educational programmes. We saw films on harvesting rubber from trees, people picking crops such as cotton, tea and coffee whilst others planted rice. There were images of huge log rafts floating down the St Lawrence and gauchos riding the Pampas in South America. But the one that really caught our imaginations was Coal Mining in the UK. We were shocked to see little Shetland ponies and Welsh Cobs being used on the coal face to pull the wagons of newly hewn coal. The task of getting them below the surface was so problematic that once underground, that was where the ponies lived out their lives, even being stabled there. Mechanisation was slowly replacing them in some mines, but even as we watched the film in the fifties, the use of Pit Ponies was still common practice in a lot of mines. If they were lucky they would eventually be retired and handed over to organisations such as the RSPCA to be cared for. I have an enduring image of one of the ponies being released into a field where it cantered round madly, overjoyed at its freedom.

Upset by what we had seen, Glynis, Helen, Linda and I decided that we would have a charity concert and raise some money for the RSPCA.

We set to in the school holidays, worked out what we thought we could do and prepared a programme. We would sing songs, Linda would give a ballet performance, and we do a small play. We were all excitement, determination and no notion whatsoever, but we took it seriously and met several times in the school holidays in the big dormitory of the home to rehearse. We also made posters and told our friends to come and support us. Mum even agreed to ring the RSPCA and explain what we were doing and to our delight, an Inspector said that he would come along to the performance.

The weather had been fine all week, but then it got hot and sticky and there was obviously a storm brewing. We met in the big dorm on the Friday for one last rehearsal, but our enthusiasm was rock bottom as we stared out of the window at the rain lashing down. The thunder rumbled and the lightning cracked, and we thought that the sun would never shine again.

The following day was glorious. Wall to wall sunshine, blue sky and not a trace of the storm as we set up our performance area in the big, secluded back yard of Park Street Lodge. We had sheets pegged to the washing line for curtains and all of the chairs were dragged out of the house and lined up, leaving an area at the front for kids to sit on the floor. We were all set, but with fifteen minutes to go there wasn’t a sign of any audience. We were nervous, we felt sick and we ran in and out to the toilet. But then just as we were about to give up, people began shuffling in. Threepence for children, sixpence for adults, they soon filled the seats and ground in front, but there was no sign of the RSPCA Inspector.

Slightly after two o’clock we began. Glynis welcomed everybody and explained what we were doing, we did a few songs and then Linda did her dance which went down quite well.

But it was all going too fast, so Glynis and I tried doing some jokes, which fell flat as a pancake. And then it was time for our play; a murder mystery, Linda was laid out dead on a chaise-longue, and Glynis as the Policeman was questioning Helen and I. We were drinking whisky to steady our nerves, but really it was cold tea as I had read somewhere that actors used it as a prop. It was very convincing. People started to mutter about it being wrong and it began to get a bit tense when all of a sudden there was a commotion in the street, and we lost our audience as heads turned to see what was happening. The best piece of timing ever was what was happening, as the RSPCA Inspector walked into the yard leading a retired Pit Pony.

That put an end to everybody’s ordeal. The play was never finished so no-one knew who murdered Linda or how dreadful we really were. But the audience were thrilled at seeing the Pit Pony and somehow the afternoon was successful. What with the sale of Mum’s orange juice and biscuits, and a donation from a parent, we made the princely sum of £2.17.6d (£2.88p) which must have been less than the petrol money to bring the pony. But mum and the other parents were proud of us for trying and for doing something really worthwhile. We were growing up and gaining a social conscience.