CHILDREN OF THE AFTERMATH: BBBC 75
OR; AN INTRODUCTION TO T'OTHERWITH
“War does not determine who is right, only who is left” Anon.
The War was over. But not the damage. Shattered miles of dockland, industries and homes desecrated along the riverbank. Hulks of the remaining buildings groped the sky, roofless, waterlogged, ruled by rats and disease.
Here we played our games. Here we learned of unexploded bombs.
Mothers returning from the relative sanctuary of farms, carrying their newborn, to half homes. Half husbands, crawled, demobilized with burdens of their own, in continued spirals of death. No visions of rhapsodic futures here.
We played at their feet. We played at being soldiers, heroes amongst the unexploded bombs. Learning to be violent……..
“Ragbone ! Rag-a-bone !!” cried the Tatters from their horse drawn carts. We were all scavengers then, running out, arms laden with busted useless trophies. The Tatters would reward us with a free, small bag of water and a goldfish. A penny for the fish food, sixpence for a proper bowl. Mums would find the penny and a jam jar, sending us back with the proper bowl.
Horses standing patiently opening their bowels. Old and damaged men standing patiently with buckets and scoops. Little gardens waiting patiently for the bounty. We all waited hungrily for for the carrots and potatoes to grow.
Dad’s Brother lived a few streets away. A year younger, Josh already had grandkids. Older than me. Judith ate worms to show that she was braver us boys. We boys approved, winked and grinned. Turning into their street one Sunday - “Daddaddad !!! Look a dead cat Dad, It should have looked left and right before crossing over…..” Dad agreed, but I realised he’d hoped I wouldn’t see it. Nevertheless our family talked about it for years.
Another semiregular thrill was the cycling knife grinder, a grinding wheel mounted on his handlebars, Mums knives would soon sparkle. Though many would just hone their blades on the kitchen sandstone step. It took longer, but it saved a penny or two.
“Mum ! can I have a knife too ?” “What for ?” “Kill me some Germans !” “NO !! Anyway there’s none left to kill. Go feed your Goldfish…….. Aunty Lily will be here soon !” Aunty Lily worked as a live-in Nanny for rich folk up the Hill. She thought my goldfish was cute. Sticking her finger in the bowl to stroke it, the poor fish died of shock. Death was nothing new. “Can I get another one, Mum ?” “We can’t really afford the feed.” Another penny saved. The Tatters, thus deprived of the extra income, started selling footballs instead.
There were no cars about in those days, but everybody knew somebody that had one. A richer relative, or a bossman, mostly just the corner grocer, Mr Peacock. As no-one ever paid his bill on time, our Mums wondered how on earth he could afford it.
Uncles Pete and Ernie showed up every now and then with spare veg from their allotment. If they were lucky it would be when the tatters horses were in a generous mood. And that’s how the street got it’s first football ! Good ole Pete !! As the uncles cycled off, Pete was embarrassed at being conned by the ever glib Tatters, and also by the kids cheering him. Ernie was embarrassed too - having publicly refused to contribute….. No cheers.
By now, most of the rubble mountains were cleared, derelict buildings boarded up or fenced off. Less risk of finding another bomb, but other dangers lurked. With no cars about, the whole street became a football ground. Angry parents chasing us, just because their window had stopped a flying ball. A tricky one this…… asking for your ball back equaled admitting responsibility. Still, we got to watch Dads punching Dads. Teaching us to be violent……..
Cricket balls would fly into raingutters on high. Retrieval meant climbing the downspouts, often pulling them off the wall. “Quick ! run and ask Mr Peacock to phone the Doctor !!” But the runner always had to be a kid that had never vandalized the grocers car. Could get complicated……….
At bedtime Mum sang ”You are my Sunshine.” Dad said I was his Sunshine too.
At our end of the street, the house fronts faced each other. At the bottom end, were smaller houses in short rows sideways on. The kids there were poorer, rougher, meaner, hard kickers, who chased us away. At the very end was the school. They had PLAYTIME; EVERY DAY !! We were not yet old enough, but we could watch, longingly, through the gates, until the teachers too shooed us away.
Every kid had a brother. “Can I have a brother, Mum ?”, but I got a knitted dog from Aunty Poppy in Ramsgate, instead. Roberson’s Jam Jar Labels had a cartoon of a black boy in bright clothes. If you saved enough labels, Robertsons would sent you a free playmate. Made of cloth. I’d never seen a black boy, all I knew was that they didn’t wear clothes. When my free playmate arrived, he was my best friend, my brother, forever. He didn’t kick, he was My Sunshine. I asked him if he was black all over. He took off his bright clothes to show me. Mum got very angry “Put them back on him !”
“NO !!” She threw them away. Sunshine and I remained defiant.
Uncle Pete and Aunty Ethel lived about a mile away. Cousins Alan and Margaret had friends who didn’t kick. Round the corner lived Grandpa Tom and Grandma Sarah. Grandpa tended a big veg garden, Granma fed armies of descendants. On the way there a spooky overgrown graveyard beckoned. Hidden deep in the jungle - a chapel with a roof burned by incendiaries, its walls eminently climeable. Dad introduced me to an ancient mass burial mound, transformed into a warren, its ghosts long evicted by the half tame coneys, twitching, bobbing, sharing our picnics.
Opposite Aunty Ethel’s house lived Mrs Dennet, who had to be revered, ie;- if we stayed polite we could stay in her caravan. An hour or so of puffs, whistles, steam and stops, and we arrived in WITHERNSEA !! HURRAY !! “Carry yer bags, Missus ?” A long walk to the end of the prom, mud cliffs to climb, sand enough for a Zillion castles. AND - And - the North Sea !!?? Well, yes we could see it but we couldn’t see the other side. “Is that why its called the Seeside, Mum ?” Baffling, but Hey get yer legs wet, Splash !
Walking backwards into the waves, falling backwards, drifting out to sea, Aunty Lilly hurtling to the Rescue.
Finding, at Mrs D’s Shed on wheels, a small snake swimming in last summers pickle jar… “Can I keep it as a pet, Mum ?” Oh, the grimace she pulled…. Fat chance, then.
Dad (1890 - 1949) worked on the dockyard railways. When the customs men discovered that Dad spoke seven languages, he was invited to be an inspector of foreign ships paperwork. Many a Kapitan sat in our parlour, bringing a bottle and a song. Dad accompanied on his accordion. Hearing him conversing so easily, in so many tongues sparked my desire to emulate.
Saturdays he sometimes walked me through the old town. “Look at the upstairs windows - They don’t match the downstairs” “Why not ?” “Once they were fine houses for rich folks, often with a business office inside. Then, just like Aunty Lilly’s Boss, they moved up the hill. Shopkeepers destroyed the beautiful old house fronts with their big show windows.” Then we would roam the docks together.
A head injury meant that I started school with a huge eye patch. A four and a half year old Pirate, thoroughly kicked. Spectacles replaced the patch, the very first “Four Eyes” at that school, even more kicking. The end came one tearful afternoon, arriving home “Keep your jacket on, you’re staying at Granma’s for a couple of days, no school.” Two days later, Ethel and Lilly arrived, then Mum “Come in the kitchen, I have something to tell you.”. The door closed, her hands on my shoulders “Your Dads dead” Just like that…….
“NOOOOOOOOOO !!!”
Racing past my Aunts, “Oooh what’s the matter ?? As if she didn’t know.
Eventually I came back downstairs, We walked home. A few weeks later, still in shock, on the doctor’s advice we moved to Withernsea. The fresh sea air would help us to recover. Even with Sunshine’s help, it - took - a - while.
Authors note :- The good people of Withernsea usually abbreviate the town’s name to “With”, where my adventures began anew. The good people of Yorkshire frequently abbreviate “The other” to “T’other”. Children of the aftermath (of WW2) is then an introduction to “T’otherwith Tales”
SNIPPET. “A Comparison of Attires”, or “The Hitch Hiking Police”.
1. A dense fog hung over a Yorkshire junction, that Winter Sunday afternoon. As I stood with extended thumb, a village policeman materialized, cycling, barely ten feet distant. Noting my Battledress uniform, he stopped for a friendly chat. At the sound of a crawling car, he stepped out, one hand high, into it’s path. “What’s up officer ? Is there a crash ?” “No Sir, this young fellow needs a lift to his camp. Can you help him on his way? I have checked his papers.” HELPFUL.
2. Nottingham, suburb, Ceremonial uniform, cop car offers me a lift to the transport cafe. HELPFUL.
3,4,5,6 etc; Everywhere. Demobbed, patchwork jeans, khaftan, pony tail….. STOPPED, SUSPECTED, SEARCHED, VERBALLY ABUSED.
Comparison…… Help the Warmonger - Hinder the Peacemaker !! ? Oh Dear, strange world…………..
NeXt Article. 12th JULY. “What really matters.” The third of a series of articles on how we may, together, avoid Planetary Suicide. (THINK COOL).
NeXt Legend. 19th July. “Second expedition. D’Akanii. First Generation”
FIFTH WEDNESDAY: Whenever there is a month with 5 Wednesdays, we take a break from Legends and Articles. …. To do something different :-
Sooo NeXt 5th. 30th August. Grokopedia, plus Libre Libris.
Thankyou ! ….. for your interest, for your time. Peace, Maurice.
You guys Are old! You always have the best stories. I've a few of my own, only wished that I had half the talent as you, though. Thanks for another really entertaining and interesting read. Well done, well written.
I think you may be correct