My boyhood home

I lived in the middle of the countryside about a half mile from the nearest village. We were not cut off in that three buses a day passed the door. My house was one of three adjacent, two semis and a bungalow. The owner of the bungalow had the semi’s built for rent as part of his investment.

The house he had built in early 20’s was dire. It was constructed to the lowest possible standards and completely lacked any amenities. No electricity or gas, no sewer and even until the late 30’s no mains water. It fooled the passer by looking quite modern. When my best friends mother first saw it she exclaimed” I thought you lived in a cottage “.

Even the minimum standards were shoddily performed. I can remember a crack in my bedroom wall you could see daylight through.

Heating was by coal fires. Always a fire in the living room, occasionally, on a Sunday, a fire in the front, best room and only in the bedroom if I was ill Lighting was by a paraffin lamp suspended from the ceiling.in the living room otherwise candles and later cycle lamps. The paraffin lamp was subject to a massive taboo: on no account was I to touch it. This was a sensible way of ensuring no accidental fire but it meant I was quite frightened of it.

Mains cold water had arrived by the time I was born. Even so the original hand pump was by the sink and the well was in the garden. Although the well had a big concrete top I was always hesitant about stepping on it.

I said I was in the middle of the countryside; quite literally so with fields all around. These became my playground. Until I was 7 or 8 I had a companion in the boy next door. He was about a year younger than me so consequently it was mostly at my suggestion in choosing  activities. After he left I suppose I was quite solitary. I had little contact with village children although I knew my contemporaries quite well as I went to school in the village. The school was I suppose fairly typical of a small village school. It was tiny at about 50 pupils. When I started in 1947 it catered for children up to the then leaving age of 14. With the introduction of secondary education for all the following year the school went back to 5-11 year olds.

When I first started I was taken every day by mother but by about 7 I was walking on my own. This was subject to strict rules; face the oncoming traffic, never accept lifts, if ever accosted pretend my father was just behind the neatest hedge. I was so obedient that I caused some embarrassment by refusing a lift from someone I should have known but didn’t. My stalwart for lifts was Mr Jackson from another nearby village. He was an insurance agent so quite often setting off on his first call as I was walking.

Although the first part of the route to school was along our lane about half way I had a choice of a short cut or continuing along the road. The short cut was always intriguing, diagonally across a field with regular undulations and through a churchyard to come out by the school. I always found the undulations puzzling until years later I discovered they were probably from generations of strip farming long ago. The church yard, certainly its elaborate lich-gate, was effectively part of the school playground. The playground proper was a triangle of land in front of the churchyard and a smaller are at one side with a  small .tree commemorating the coronation of King George.

The short cut field sometimes had cattle grazing, sometimes a bull. Although frightened I often crossed taking care to circle round any livestock. Looking back I don’t know why I took this risk which would have appalled my parents had they known.

Around the house I came to know the fields rather well. The field opposite my house had a stream flowing round part of it and then away underneath a low bridge connecting the two parts of the next field. The arable fields behind my house mostly had drainage ponds at their corners. These filled in the winter and dried completely in the summer. One field had a pit which was used as refuse dump. I spent ages foraging through this without ever finding anything much.

I must be looking older than I feel. In Sainsbury’s I asked a cheery middle aged assistant where the firelighters were. She looked at me using a walking stick, and kindly asked if she could fetch a pack for me. I was quite shocked she thought it would be too much effort for me

My favourite poet is Wendy Cope. She is jealous about her modest earnings relative to prose writers. She feels that folk readily quote a poem but never buy her books. Her partner jokes her epitaph will be “all rights reserved”. I have bought the book in which  Another Christmas Poem appears so I feel justified ( hope that’s OK Wendy )

Bloody Christmas ,here again.
Let us raise a loving cup:
Peace on earth, goodwill to men
And make them do the washing up.