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An autobiography of a Radio Officer in the British Merchant Navy during World War II
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PROLOGUE
It had never occurred to me that anyone, other than my immediate family and friends could be in the least bit interested in some of the events that took place around me half a century ago. My friend, Charles Gilbert, thinks quite otherwise and has cajoled me into jotting down some of my memories of happenings during World War II.
I do so hope his judgement is correct, otherwise I fear that my good wife, who would much prefer to see me with a paintbrush in my hand rather than a pen, will have a field-day in pointing out the mildewed ceilings and stained walls that should have been painted while I have been occupied in scribbling away at this narrative.
Since I never had any intention of subsequently recording my peregrinations, and because one was not allowed to keep a diary when I was at sea, least it fall into the hands of the enemy, I have no personal written records of any of the events that took place. What you are about to read comes straight out of the cellars and attic of my mind. The dust and cobwebs lie pretty thick in some of the nooks and crannies of my memory banks and have required much cleaning to reveal anything of note. Time, together with metaphysical mould and silver fish have wreaked their havoc. So, to those of you who read this tale and were present when some of the events took place, my apologies if the story does not entirely agree with your version. I plead "senile decay" and beg your forgiveness.
My thanks to Sarah Hastings, who has managed to decipher my hieroglyphics and together with her computer produced the manuscript.
CONTENTS
Chapter
1. Great Aunts, Other Relatives and World War II
2. Air Raids and Preparing to go to Sea
3. "Antilochus"
4. "Antilochus" again
5. "Lycaon" and "Operation Torch"
6. "Lycaon" again
7. "Lycaon" for the Third Time
8. "Telemachus"
9. "Glenartney"
10. "Glenartney" and "The Fleet Train"
11. "Fort Duquesne"
CHAPTER ONE
Great Aunts, Other Relatives and World War II
At the time of my birth I was blessed with nine great aunts, six great uncles and the standard complement of grandparents, but, I had no true aunts or uncles. By the time World War II had got into full swing, Old Father Time had swung his scythe and reduced their numbers. The survivors were all well into their seventies.
Great Aunt Louie, my paternal grandfather's young sister was a small slim little spinster who usually wore long black dresses with the occasional bustle. Her feet were imprisoned in lace-up boots while her severe hair-do and bun supported hats of large proportions. These hats were frequently embellished with dark coloured bunches of fruit embedded in the brim. Sometimes the hats were garnished with black ostrich feathers in such a manner that a rear view of Auntie going down the street gave the effect of a black rooster in retreat. Round her neck she wore a full fox fur whose twinkling glass eyes matched the sparkle of her jet brooch. This diminutive pillar of the church lived on her own in a semi-detached house.
It was Auntie's wont, when air-raids commenced, to take herself down into the cellar and, armed with her knitting and church magazines, she would sit there until the "All clear" sounded.
One night a bomb landed close enough to cause damage to some windows in her house. On hearing the noise of falling glass Auntie climbed the cellar stairs with the intention of going to investigate. Alas, the vibration of the explosion had caused the cellar door to jam. No amount of pulling on the knob or thumping around the edges of the door with her clenched fist, would induce it to become unstuck.
Auntie Louie called for assistance. None was forthcoming. Hardly surprising, her voice was not at all powerful and she was ensconced in the bowels of her home. Further attempts to free the door were of no avail, so she took her bruised hands down the stairs to see what, if anything in the cellar could be of use in engineering her escape.
Part of the cellar was used as a pantry, in-as-much that dairy products, eggs and vegetables were kept on thick slate shelves. Refrigerators were practically unknown in those days, and in summer you kept your perishables fresh by sprinkling water on the slate and let evaporation keep things cool. Auntie knew she wasn't going to starve - at least not for a while. Nor was she going to be short of water for the taps were still working in the laundry section of the cellar.
It then occurred to Auntie that at the far end of the cellar was an annex - the coal cellar. Coal was delivered through a manhole in the pavement outside her house, could she not make her exit by the same route? Inspired by this happy thought, she opened the coal hole door and found the space crammed full of coal. Having been prudent, and with wartime coal supplies not always being available when you wanted them, she had ordered her winter supply early, and it had been delivered only two days ago. Her luck had struck the double - good luck that she had the coal, bad luck that it now blocked her way to freedom.
Nothing daunted, she set to and started to work her way into this huge pile of coal. Piece by piece, lump by lump, she picked the coal up and tossed it behind her. It was very dusty work; coal wasn't washed in those days and a very generous supply of fines and dust came with each delivery. After an hour or so she had developed a marked appreciation of the daily efforts of the mining fraternity, broken most of her finger nails, and discovered a law of physics which dictates that coal must not stay put in nice vertical walls, it must find its own angle of repose and will slip and slide until it reaches that degree of stability that nature intended it should. A swig of milk, somewhat gritty from coal dust, to restore her energy and Auntie Louie resolutely pressed on. Her target - the manhole. To hell with the Boche. Auntie realised that to remove all the coal out of the coal cellar was both impracticable and beyond her physical capacity. In any event, that would have left her standing on the cellar floor unable to reach the manhole some feet above her head. Better that she form a slope in the heap of coal so that she could crawl up it to eventual freedom. Now standing on a flat stable floor, picking up lumps of coal and chucking them behind you is one thing. Trying to perform the same feat while you crawl up an unstable pile of cobbles is not so easy. Dust gets in your eyes and mouth, up your nose, down your ears and through your hair and clothes. The pain caused by the hard sharp and uneven edges of the coal biting into your knees is hard to imagine. Stoically she advanced. Lump by lump, while her knees bruised and cut by the coal, protested at every movement or shift of weight. Then Auntie's luck changed. She uncovered a good sized block of coal with a smooth flat surface. This she used as a hassock. By kneeling on this block of coal, and advancing it with her as she progressed, she ploughed forward with less discomfort. Humming "Onward Christian Soldiers" she battled on and was eventually rewarded by sighting the edge of the manhole. That spurred her on.
A bit of early morning daylight and some fresh air was coming through the grille of the cover. Inspired, Auntie worked like a snowplough smitten with rabies and in a few minutes had cleared an area beneath the manhole. She located the chain and padlock which secured the cast iron cover plate. The key was always kept in the padlock so she had no problem in undoing the chain. Now to get out. She pushed against the very heavy cast iron casting - it wouldn't budge. Strain as she would, there was no way her frail frame could lift it. What a frustrating disappointment. That all night effort of shifting tons of coal, all to no avail. She was livid with rage and gave vent to her feelings with a howl of frustration. Two air-raid wardens heard her banshee wail and came running. They had her free in moments.
Later, they told Grandfather that as they were releasing this dishevelled, coal blackened old lady with a torn frock, she was cursing Hitler with every breath and was using phrases that would have done justice to a dock labourer. Grandfather was surprised. He had no idea that she even knew such words existed. Did she know the meaning of what she said? We never found out.
Once she was released and a cursory examination revealed that her injuries were no worse than superficial cuts and bruises to her hands and knees, the wardens offered to accompany her into her house and see what they could do to repair any damage. It was then that Auntie Louie realised she had no front door key on her person.Hitler copped another round of applause! The lack of a key was no real problem for one of the wardens gained access through a damaged window, and after that everything else was easy. In war time, paper bags were scarce, so lots of ladies used to go shopping with a large leather shopping bag. These bags were not dissimilar in design to the modern day plastic shopping bags, but they were more commodious and being durable, lasted for years. Fill one up with spuds and it was well-nigh impossible to lift it off the ground, let alone carry it any distance. On this particular day, Auntie Louie put her purse in her overcoat pocket and set out for her daily constitutional. She took her shopping bag with her for you never knew if some scarce commodity might have arrived in the shops and it would be too bad if you didn't have the means to carry it home. Being short of stature and because the bag handles were long, she always wrapped them round her wrist, thereby taking up the slack so that the bag would not trail along the ground. In her other hand she carried her gamp, a massive black brolly which, if she had put it to stud would surely have sired a litter of beach umbrellas.
A bag-snatcher sighting this little frail old lady mincing along, thought he had an easy target in his sights. A glance up and down the street to check that there was no observers, then he swooped and grabbed the bag. Auntie hung on tight. Actually she probably didn't have much choice, those handles were well wrapped round her wrist. The bag-snatcher a bit nonplussed hesitated. Auntie hit him on the head with her gamp. He still hung on and they swung around and around each other tugging and straining. Auntie had her dander up and was belting her attacker repeatedly with the gamp. The bag-snatcher in trying to avoid the rain of blows must have lost his footing, for he staggered a bit and went down on one knee and let go of the bag. Seizing her opportunity, Auntie managed to deliver two mighty double handed blows before he scuttled out of range and vamoosed down a back alley.
In high dudgeon, Auntie stormed off to the local police station to report the incident. The sergeant smoothed her ruffled feathers and asked the usual routine questions. "And what was in the bag Miss?" "Nothing" "Nothing!! Why did you put up such resistance?" "Because it didn't belong to him, it was mine!" They examined the gamp. Most of the metal ribs were broken and the solid wooden shaft was splintered and cracked. Somewhere that night there must have been a hoodlum with a very sore head and shoulders, probably not game enough to admit that he had been beaten up by a little old lady.
Auntie Maggie was not a real aunt, she had acquired that honorary title by reason of her being my mother's godmother. This tall gaunt spinster lived with her long time school chum, Aunt Mary, who sported her honorary title by virtue of association. Aunt Mary's physique was the opposite of Auntie Maggie's, being short in stature and somewhat rotund.
Auntie Maggie was very deaf and required the assistance of an ear trumpet to hear anything at all. This silver coloured instrument had a funnel into which you spoke, and a yard and a half of flexible metal tube which guided the sound up to the earpiece. At best, this cumbersome piece of equipment was off putting to strangers and decidedly daunting for children. Kids on being confronted with this weird paraphernalia for the first time invariably shyly and reluctantly whispered into it. On being told to speak up, they usually went to the other extreme and bellowed loudly. No doubt their efforts rattled the wax in Auntie's ear, but she was equal to the occasion and would reward the child by feigning shock and crossing her eyes. This unexpected result and the sight of a squinting elderly lady would produce gales of laughter from the youngster. From then on there would be no more shyness.
Auntie Maggie loved playing games. She knew them all, from Tiddlywinks to Mah-jong, Snap to Bridge, Halma to Chess. You name it, she could play it. Not only play it, but she would beat you. She played to win with a fierce determination. Killer instinct. Yet, she played in such a manner that her opponents felt no disgrace at being beaten and were only too keen to have another crack at her. Auntie did not always win of course, and I suspect that her skill was such that she sometimes threw a game without ever being detected, just to encourage the younger challengers. She would teach you all she knew about tactics and advantageous moves, but nothing gave her greater delight than to find that she had a real battle on her hands and was struggling to win. Auntie Maggie was wonderful company at any time, but take her away with you on holiday and rainy days when you could not go out became almost more popular than the sunny ones.
Months before it arrived, Auntie Maggie always knew when a fair was coming to our local park. "Save up your pocket money and we will go to the fair".Auntie Maggie never "took" you anywhere like other relatives did, with her you went as a partner. The fair, when it arrived, was huge. It took several days to set it all up. Half the fun of the fair, during school holidays, was to go and watch the riggers unloading the gaily coloured trucks and caravans and assemble the Round-a-bouts; Big Dipper; Whip; Octopus; Dodgem Cars; Ferris Wheel; the list seemed endless, shooting galleries; side shows; the Globe and Wall of Death. Fascinating to see how the parts all bolted together. Electricians ran cables and lights everywhere. Painters smartened up the rides. Great steam tractors, their boilers rumbling with suppressed power, wheezed and hissed. The tractors not only hauled the caravans and trucks between one town and the next, but they also supplied the power to drive the electric generators and propelled the rides. Wide endless leather belts transferred the power via pulleys from the tractors to the rides.
Much later, when all was ready and the Merry-Go-Round was laden with passengers, the man in charge would nod to the tractor driver. The tractor driver, cloth cap wedged on his head, clay pipe in his mouth and a big wad of cotton waste in his hand would acknowledge the signal by pulling a lanyard. The tractor responded by giving a piercing toot on its steam whistle, the driver then grasped a long steel brake lever - very much like the ones you see in signal boxes - released the catch and pushed the lever forward. Steam hissed from the cylinders, the pistons began to move and the huge flywheel rotated. As the flywheel turned, the belt, draped half way around its rim, took up the strain and began to turn a pulley on the ride. The pulley drove a shaft, the shaft drove gear boxes, the gear boxes turned more shafts, conrods, eccentrics and cams. The whole caboodle became alive and moved - round and round, up and down, in and out, slowly at first, but faster and faster as the driver opened up the steam valve by rapidly turning the handle on a spoked wheel.
Music, music, there was always music. Wonderful mechanical music from the calliope. The tunes were dictated by rotating metal drums with protruding spikes. As the drum turned, the spikes triggered the notes, just like a king sized musical box. Steam from the tractor blew through the organ pipes of the calliope and ornate gaudy mechanical figures banged drums; clashed cymbals; struck triangles; rang bells and blew whistles while at the same time they turned or nodded their heads in time with the music.
Auntie Maggie and I would visit the fair in the evening, when it was dark. The coloured lights showed up better then, and the darkness of the sky seemed to act as a roof enclosing the whole fair. Today, Auntie Maggie could have qualified as an astronaut - leastways as far as the tests for motion sickness apply. No ride ever upset her. Spin her around, upside down, this way and that, round and round, up and down - no nausea. If any machine could produce all those motions at the same time, then so much the better as far as Auntie was concerned. Perhaps the imperfections in her ears had some bearing on her immunity to motion sickness. I was just the opposite - a hopeless case. Years ago I had learnt that even a backyard swing was not for the likes of me. So when we went to the fair, we would ride the Big Dipper together - I could handle that - just. The Ferris Wheel was OK too.
We gave the Dodge-em cars a go. Two rides actually, each of us taking a turn to drive. Auntie, like so many who are hard of hearing, was heavy handed. Put her in charge of a dodge-em car and she was deadly. The harder she bashed and crashed other cars the better. Nothing like a good head on crash with both cars going flat out. If that didn't jar every bone in your body you were not extracting the maximum enjoyment.
Auntie knew a little trick in obtaining the best ride on a Dodge-em. Stand and watch the cars for a few sessions. Some cars are faster than others and have better acceleration. Note the number of the best car. When the session changed, since I could run faster than Auntie, it was my job to capture the selected car before anyone else took a fancy to it.
I avoided the fearsome rides, but during the evening Auntie tried them all. I watched her thoroughly enjoying herself as she gyrated this way and that. I noticed people coming off the rides with wobbly legs, their faces pale and tinged with green, while Auntie, if she felt the ride had been particularly thrilling or produced way above average "G" forces would back up for an immediate re-run. She in turn would watch me have a throw at the Coconut Shy. It was a poor night if I didn't get at least two coconuts, one for each of us to take home.
Shooting galleries were what I enjoyed the most. Potting the never ending parade of metal ducks, and rabbits or knocking the dancing coloured ping-pong balls off thin vertical jets of water was great. Actually, you don't aim at the ball - cut the column of water with the bullet, and the ball will fall. I had a powerful air-rifle at home, and a "range" in the cellar. Several years practice had made me a far better shot than the average schoolboy. The guns at shooting galleries, which do not offer prizes, usually shoot straight and true, but watch out for tricky practices at other galleries.
Frequently the booths offering prizes use airguns, the sights of which are easily moved out of alignment. Pay your money, pick up the rifle, load it, take careful aim and fire. Way off the bull! Go through the routine again, but this time allow for the inaccuracy. Better! The third attempt should produce a bullseye. If your fourth attempt produces a second bull, the proprietor gets interested - after all, three bulls gets a minor prize, and you still have a round to go. Don't take up his kind offer to load the gun, otherwise you will discover too late that by sleight of hand he has also adjusted the sights. Nor should you rest your elbows on the counter least peradventure it develops an unexpected nasty attack of the shakes.
If you are really in the running for a major prize, make sure you have a clear space behind you covered by a friend to protect you from an accidental jostling from a member of the spectators. Watch out for the little yappy dog that can suddenly emerge from beneath the curtains near your feet and which takes a fancy to your ankles.
These were the days of the Great Depression. My Dad was employed, but some of his friends were not. The recruiting posters exhorted you to "Join the Army - see the world for 1/- a day!" Money was scarce. When the fair arrived and one of the shooting galleries was offering a prize of 10/- for a perfect score of five bullseyes, I was all agog. Ten shillings! A week's pay. A young fortune for a schoolboy. Could I win such a prize? I thought long and hard about it until I had nutted out a plan that I hoped would work.
The next afternoon I went to the gallery and joining the crowd watched the contestants shooting. I was looking for distinguishing marks on each rifle. Not too difficult a task, the colour and grain of the wood of the butts varied quite a bit. I went behind the stall and made notes. I also checked to make sure there was no dog associated with this gallery. Rejoining the throng I concentrated on how each rifle was shooting. This was easier than expected. Some of the rifles had hair-triggers, you could soon pick them out, because the indignant shooter would exclaim "Geez, she went off afore I were ready!". Really touchy hair-triggers can be produced by a bit of judicious work with a file on the trigger mechanism. Those rifles were knocked off my list. Next I watched how the remaining rifles were grouping their shots. Took a long time, because each shooter was an unknown quantity and I was waiting for a consistent error to show up.
You could easily tell if a shooter was any good. His first shot, the sighter, would be off target, the next one close to or on the bull and the next would be closely grouped around that second shot. There were a lot of duffers having a try for the 10/-, but the ones I watched were the men who got good scores. The afternoon was gone, but I knew which rifle I was going to select.
The following day after lunch I went back to the fairground, a bit too early yet, not a big enough crowd around the booth. A reasonable crowd, not too big, not too small should protect my back. I waited until conditions were right and all guns were being used continuously - I wanted the owner to be good and busy.
The unemployed were there in droves, no work, nothing to do, but free entertainment helped to pass the time away. My chance came to select the rifle I wanted. Picked it up, paid my money, loaded the rifle and as I was taking aim the proprietor noticed that I was shooting left-handed. "You're holding the gun the wrong way sonny!" This in a loud voice to draw the crowds attention, to air his superior knowledge and to straighten out juveniles. I was then given a lecture in an equally loud voice on the conventional methods of grasping a rifle. I explained I was left-handed - which in truth I am not, but there are a few things that I do southpaw style. "OK, have it your own way then, but mind you don't hit no spectators!" Lots of laughter at my expense. My sighter went exactly where I expected it would. The second shot was a bull. The next three I deliberately scattered so as not to draw attention. "Hard luck sonny - care to have another go?" I would and I did.
The proprietor was busy attending to other shooters so I got three shots away and scored three bulls before the buzz from the crowd drew his attention. He was at the far end of the counter and unable to get near me to cause distractions. Four bulls. The crowd hushed up, I kept clear of the counter. Steady, steady, hold your breath, squeeze the trigger gently. Five bulls. The crowd "oohed" and "ahhd" while I felt weak with relief.
The proprietor tried to bluff his way out of paying. "There's only four holes in the target - you cheated by sending the last shot wide of the target". But the crowd was with me and two big burly unemployed took up my case "Come on, come on, give the kid his half-quid - we saw the target move on his last shot - you take a closer look". Reluctantly the owner did so and the crowd helped him decide that it would be better for him and his business if he paid up.
A whole ten shillings and all mine! "Beat it kid and make yourself scarce as fast as you can" was prudent advice whispered to me by one of my protectors. I ran all the way home. Mum was impressed and Auntie Maggie was proud of the strategy I had employed.
World War II came. During an air-raid a small bomb fell near Auntie Maggie's house. She actually heard it explode without the aid of her trumpet. Made some funny jokes about it at the time, but some friends of hers in the country invited her and Aunt Mary to go and stay with them on their farm for a month or so to get a break from the bombing.
Now it just happened that a tank corps, training recruits in old model tanks, was undergoing manoeuvres in the farm's vicinity. One of the tanks broke down, but managed to limp into the farm yard. Could they please borrow this and that to help them effect repairs? "Part of the training don't you know - self sufficiency - improvise. In enemy territory we wouldn't ask, don't you know - just take what we needed eh!" Of course the tank crew got what they needed, plus morning tea and lunch.
Auntie Maggie was in her element. She climbed onto the tank, into the tank and would have crawled under the tank but for the fact that the farm's cows used to frequent the yard on their way to and from the shippen for milking and made the ground unsavoury.
As the men stripped parts of the tank down and made the necessary repairs, they yelled answers to Auntie's questions and showed her all the gadgets. By the time they came to leave she had grasped the fundamentals of steering the tank with two levers, learnt how to load the gun - she found the ammunition rather heavy, knew how to lay a smoke screen and how the wireless worked though of course she couldn't hear anything through the headphones.
Nothing would satisfy Auntie, but an actual ride in the tank. She obviously wasn't going to take "no" for an answer, and since she insisted that a test ride for the tank would be a necessary procedure, they fitted her up with a padded helmet and took her for a ride. They climbed up embankments, scrunched down the other side, splashed across a stream, through the woods and even let her have a go at driving on a level field. However, they drew the line at her request to aim and fire the gun at an old hen house that needed demolishing, nor as an alternative, would they let her run over it. "Pity about the hen house - Never mind though, best day of my holiday - When you meet Jerry, give him one from me - Good Luck - Bye".
Because Auntie Maggie was in better physical shape than Aunt Mary, she used to do most of the shopping for their requirements. She would walk to the local shops, purchase the necessities, and carry them home in a big leather shopping bag which probably was a close relation to the one in Auntie Louie's possession. One afternoon Auntie Maggie had all but finished her rounds and was in the last shop that she intended to visit when the storm broke. The rain came down in buckets. No point in going out into that lot, especially when you had no umbrella with you. Auntie Maggie decided to wait for the rain to stop. The rain was equally determined it wasn't going to stop.
Customers came and went. They of course had umbrellas and raincoats, some even wore galoshes. Auntie waited. A large man came into the shop. A sou'wester and oilskin cape covered his head and shoulders while tied around his midriff was a green baize apron. He made his purchase and was about to leave when he noticed Auntie. "Stuck in here out'er the rain are you Miss? Fair cummin' down it is". Auntie unfurled her ear trumpet and established communication. "Yes, she was stuck.". "No, not far to go - about half a mile". "A lift would be marvellous, thank you". "Yes, she would be quite happy to ride in the back." So, this bear of a man tucked Auntie and her shopping inside his cape and like a mother hen sheltering a chick under her wing they sallied forth.
The "lift" turned out to be a steam pantechnicon. This massive monster stood patiently waiting, its tall chimney and shiny brass work glistening in the rain and a little will-o-the-wisp of steam danced around the safety valve. The glowing coke in the fire box fizzing and spitting in protest as the occasional raindrop splashed through the grille of the fire door. Auntie and her escort went round to the rear of the beast, where he let go the lashings of the canvas back cloth, and hoisted Auntie over the tailgate. There was a full load of furniture on board so there was no room to sit down. No matter. Any port in a storm. A rope hanging down from the roof was used by the removalists to haul themselves up into the van. Auntie was told to hang on to the rope so that she wouldn't fall out of the van. The removalist went round to the front, climbed into the driving seat and off they went. The acceleration was very smooth, but the ride itself was a bit jolty. Steam pantechnicons, at least the modern ones, had solid rubber tyres and the big leaf springs were rather stiff and didn't provide much cushioning.
In no time at all they arrived at Auntie's house. The removalist lifted her out, draped a cloth over her to keep the rain off, and carried her up to her front door. Caused quite a stir amongst the neighbouring gossips who, having heard the chuffing and huffing of the vehicle's arrival were peering out through lace curtains to watch proceedings. "That Maggie! - always doing something unseemly!" Offers of tea, or alternatively something a little stronger were declined by the removalist, who climbed back into the pantechnicon. A toot on its whistle and with smoke rings emerging from its chimney, the great cumbersome machine puffed its way down the street, round the corner and out of sight.
Auntie always kept pretty close tabs on what all my relations were doing, particularly those of the younger generation. I had hardly got my motorcyclist's licence through the Civil Defence Cadets before she was on my back begging me to take her for a ride. She had never ridden on one, and this seemed to be too good an opportunity to miss.
The entire family got wind of what was being proposed. Collectively they were horrified at such a notion. The bombardment began - "She's too old". "Much too dangerous". "You've only just learnt". "The motorcycles belong to the Fire Brigade, they will never give permission". "Put her off". " Talk her out of it". "Don't you dare take her for a ride". The cross-fire was fierce. Auntie wheedling, pleading, coaxing and cajoling, while the opposition nattered ninety nine negative nuances. Yours truly, in the middle of it all, made like a clam and closed my shell.
A few weeks later when I was more proficient as a rider, I felt confident enough to consider taking Auntie for a ride. The fires of the opposition had cooled and the matter had all but gone from their minds. I suggested to Auntie that I might be able to arrange a little ride for her, but for now, she was not to let on about what was planned. Her eyes lit up. Conspiratorial activities had much appeal. We plotted.
On Thursday nights, provided there was no air-raid activity, one of my duties was to ride round to the local fire stations, pick up log books etc. and deliver them to Head Quarters. My route took me close to Auntie's house, so a small diversion was no problem. Provided she would be content with a "once around the block", I reckoned we could get away with it. Permission? Well, if you don't ask for it, they can hardly be expected to say "No", now can they?
We decided that since I could only spare a few minutes, it would be essential for Auntie to be ready for the ride as soon as I arrived. She was to be wearing her walking shoes instead of her house slippers, two pairs of lisle stockings and a cardigan over her frock to keep her warm. A scarf for her hair would be handy and should be kept ready on the hall stand. What about her long frock and the possibility of it getting caught in the drive chain of the rear wheel. No problem apparently. Auntie would attend to that matter, but left me guessing as to what she might be going to do about it.
The next Thursday night came accompanied with air-raids so there was nothing doing. The following Thursday was no go either, rain had set in and there would be no pleasure riding in that. Third time lucky - and it was on. I rang the door bell. Auntie came to the door, tying on her scarf and buttoning up her cardigan. Auntie then hoisted her ankle length frock above her knees, took her hands off it and to my surprise it stayed hoisted. She had made a huge elastic garter which was concealed in a fold of the frock around her waist and it was this contraption that secured the frock.
Quickly she mounted the pillion seat, carefully tucking away and sitting on any folds of frock that might catch in the slip stream and become a hazard. I climbed aboard, Auntie grabbed me round the waist and hung on tightly The engine I had left running, so all I had to do was release the stand, pull in the clutch, select first gear with my foot, let out the clutch and open the throttle.
We were away. Nice and steady, not too fast. Accidents are easy to come by, and one right then would have taken a lot of explaining away. We negotiated the block without incident. Things had gone better than expected and we had made good time. Throwing caution to the wind I decided we could do a second lap. Auntie sensed what I had in mind for she yelled "FASTER" in my ear. Always happy to oblige, I opened up the throttle a bit. Again the urging for more speed. I notched it up a bit more, not too much, no point in being foolhardy, and we made it round the block in much better time. Enough. Auntie got off the 'bike, said "Goodnight", and "Thanks for the ride", and went inside her house to explain to Aunt Mary what had taken her so long at the front door.
I continued my rounds. When I got home that night I fully expected to have the wrath of God descend about my ears, but nothing happened. I kept quiet about the ride. Aunt Mary had apparently been conned into keeping mum, so it was many a moon before the cat finally crept out of the bag. By then, it was far too late for disciplinary action and anyway nobody seemed to be too upset after all. Auntie Maggie had been thrilled to bits. Next time, could we go somewhere else and go flat out? Oh yes, she had also learnt that exhaust pipes get incredibly hot - burn holes in lisle stockings and don't do your flesh much good either. Did I need any strong elastic for catapults?
Aunties Maggie and Mary followed the happenings of the war with great interest. Their lounge room table was littered with maps; newspaper cuttings; a stack of Illustrated London News; and copies of Jane's Fighting Ships; Aircraft of the World; and similar reference books.
The Illustrated News used to regularly print centrefolds of detailed "cutaway" drawings showing the inner workings of aircraft, battleships, tanks etc. This sort of information delighted Auntie Maggie. Like a child with a bag of lollies, she would gobble up masses of figures relating to comparative speeds; strength of fire power; tonnages carried and the destructive forces of various explosives. She could practically quote Jane's reference books verbatim. When you visited her during your leave, she would fill you up with all the interesting developments that had taken place during the months you were away overseas.
Listening to a news bulletin in her company was quite an ordeal. The volume of the wireless would be fully turned up - the neighbours probably economised by not needing to switch on their sets - and Auntie Maggie's ear trumpet would snake out towards the loudspeaker like an elephant's trunk hopefully searching a small boy's pockets for buns. The maps on the table alongside her were at the ready as were pads and pencils. Both she and Aunt Mary frantically scribbled down names of places, numbers of aircraft destroyed or whatever else they considered interesting. When it was all over it took a couple of minutes for your battered eardrums to regain their customary shape and your hearing return to normal.
Markings on maps would then be updated, towns located and casualties recorded. There would then be a discussion on what was to be the next most likely turn of events in each war zone. There was a lot of "What if", "suppose that", "he hasn't got", "we haven't either", "awful risk", "worth an attempt". One came away tired but enlightened. If amateur strategists were like that, the professionals must be really something. There was no way we could lose the war. Of course, on the other hand, there are those experienced types who say that in some professions an enthusiastic amateur will beat a professional any time.
You will have gathered from these little snippets of Auntie Maggie's existence, that she liked to ride on the more unconventional types of transport, especially if the vehicle was unbecoming for a lady of her vintage and status. It will therefore not surprise you to learn that when I last saw her she was trying her darndest to persuade a naval officer to take her aboard his submarine.
Every family should acquire an Auntie Maggie amongst the relatives. That way, there would never be a dull moment for anyone.
Great Aunt Priscilla Marshall (Pro) was the last survivor of five sisters and four brothers. I cannot be certain that she was indeed the last, for two of her brothers married. One lived with his wife in Boston, USA and while I don't recall hearing of his demise, nor was there any mention of him still being alive. He was born a number of years earlier than Auntie Pro, so the chance that he was still wriggling when World War II commenced was pretty slim. The first born of this group of ancient aunts and uncles had also married and lived in England. Long before I was born, he went on a visit to New York, USA. He arrived there OK, but from that day to this, no word or sign of him has been found. Did he "vanish" of his own free will or did he meet with some "'orrible fate"? No one in the family had a clue, or if perchance they did, they never let on and any secrets there may have been, have gone with them to the grave.
World War II found Great Auntie Pro in circumstances somewhat reduced from the style of living to which she had been accustomed. Instead of living in the family home, a very large terrace house with front lawns on which you could play croquet, she was now a paying guest in a residential home where there were nursing staff to take care of her and other elderly genteel ladies.
Gone were the days when she, together with a sister and two brothers, all unmarried, lived in the family home. They had employed a live-in maid, kept a sausage dog - "Becky" and an enormous doctored Persian ginger tom cat who answered to the title of "Marmaduke Marmalade Mitty Marshall". If you couldn't manage that mouthful, then plain "Mitty" would usually suffice "His Disdainfulness". There were of course the extra casual staff in the forms of washerwomen, cleaners, gardeners and the odd job man.
During the period when I attended kindergarten from the age of five until I moved on to primary school at eight years of age, I visited my great Aunts once a week to partake of luncheon. The kindergarten closed for a half-holiday every Wednesday afternoon, and therefore did not serve luncheon since it was the cook's and the maids' afternoon off. No play lunch with Vegemite (Marmite) sandwiches in those days. No Sir, you copped the full treatment. Grace, followed by a three course meal, even a table napkin with a ring bearing your allotted number. Flowers on the starched white tablecloth and all conversation was directed to and controlled by the mistress at the table head.
When the French mistress was in charge, then only French was permitted to be spoken. Tough when you were only five and didn't know any French - not even the rude words. Mademoiselle was adamant and no excuses or whispering would be tolerated. Silence reigned more or less supreme except when some smart alec, usually female, knew the French for "Pass the bread - if you please". I got quicker results by either nudging neighbours or kicking shins to draw their attention and then by head and eye movements indicated what I wanted.
Luncheon at my Aunt's was far more enjoyable. I would arrive there a few minutes after kindergarten closed, for their house was but a few bus stops distant. After lunch I would be given two squares of Bourneville Plain Chocolate and a week's clippings of "Rupert the Bear" comic strips which the Aunts culled each day from a newspaper. Later, Great Uncle George, one of the brothers, would usually walk me home, wheezing as he went for he suffered from asthma. Great Uncle George was no great conversationalist during the stroll home, for he needed all the air he could get for his perambulations and there was none to spare for idle gossip with small great nephews. Now and then, he would have a surprise for me, an unexpected gift - a new cap gun with little cardboard boxes of rolls of ammunition or perhaps a potato pistol which fired slugs of raw potato with a fair degree of accuracy and a quite surprising velocity. They were all the go and judging by the amount of spuds I and my mates got through, must have boosted the potato farmers' income no end.
One year, towards Guy Fawke's Day, the 5th of November, Uncle George gave me two fireworks, a "Catherine Wheel" and a "Rip-Rap". They were the biggest specimens of their kind that I had ever seen. The "Catherine Wheel" was the size of a side plate and the "Rip-Rap" must have been all of 9" in length. With umpteen "bangs" to the inch, this firework promised to be a formidable creature to be let loose on Guy Fawke's night.
At last came the great day. Dad prepared the "Catherine Wheel" by nailing it to a board mounted on a step-ladder and made sure it would spin freely. The "Rip-Rap" lurked in a corner of the "ammunition box" along with the other fireworks awaiting their turn to put on a display. How frustratingly slowly time crawls when you are young and are waiting for some exciting event to commence.
Darkness came eventually and the family sallied forth from the house and into the yard where we started to let off the fireworks. We had the usual assortment of "Roman Candles", "Vesuvius" and its mate "Mount Pelee"; "Butterflies"; "Snow Storms"; "Cannon Crashers"; "Sparklers" and "Bengal Matches". Then came the "Catherine Wheel". Dad did the lighting because I couldn't reach it. He made sure it was well alight and gave it a little help to start spinning. Around and around it went, faster and faster while throwing out a magnificent cascade of sparks. It really was a beauty and it lasted for ages. In fact, we began to wonder if it would ever stop. It did of course, but compared with other fireworks, this one lasted an eternity.
Now for the "Rip-Rap". I placed it on the ground, gingerly lit the fuse and beat a retreat. We waited - and waited - and waited some more. Surely it wasn't going to be a dud? Dad cautiously advanced to inspect it. Keeping a respectful distance away, he had just reported that he could see the fuse still glowing when the first "bang" came. Dad moved smartly backwards. There was certainly nothing wrong with the "bangs" they were loud and plentiful, but for a firework that should jump about, this one was no better than a legless frog. It was altogether too big and heavy for the size of the explosive charges. So, instead of the "Rip-rap" chasing us about, it merely hopped up and down more or less in the same spot. Not what we had expected, and certainly not what we would have liked. Bigger apparently is not always better.
The Marshalls as a family were fond of the classics. The two great uncles that I knew, George and Bennett had both been to university and were well versed in Greek and Latin, they, of course, spoke French, Italian and certainly knew some German. The great aunts could hold their own both linguistically and musically. Great Aunt Gertrude knew the scores of all the Gilbert and Sullivan comic operas off pat and could often be heard singing extracts from them. What the great uncles did for a crust, if indeed they did anything, I never knew. However, I do recall the word "exchange" used to pop up now and again in the adults' conversation. Whether the "exchange" they referred to concerned either the wool; cotton; tea; or stock exchanges I know not, but whatever it was, if it was their source of income, then it was adequate for the family's requirements. Sometimes the uncles were home for Wednesday lunch, but more often Uncle Bennett was not.
There were times when I wasn't taken home shortly after lunch and when that happened, to keep me quiet, the aunts would give me a brand new Beatrix Potter book. I used to lie on the floor to read it, and in winter time I would share the hearthrug with Marmaduke Marmalade Mitty Marshall, who also liked to toast himself in front of the coal fire. When afternoon tea was over and cleared away I would either be called for by our maid or be taken home by my Aunts' maid. The book, finished or not, I was given to keep. Over time I gradually acquired quite a library.
Three events in particular come to mind when I think of the Marshall mansion. Firstly, there was the time when Uncle George got struck by lightning. The front of the garden was contained by a solid sandstone wall some two foot in height. Embedded in the wall was a tall wrought iron fence. Nothing elaborate, just a long row of heavy vertical "Roman Spears" threaded through holes in horizontal iron bars. The wrought iron gates were similar in design and required massive stone pillars to support them. The gates made a most satisfying "clang" when they were shut. Slam them - if you dared - and the vibrations could be felt trembling in the metal for a long time after the sound had ceased to echo around the houses. It was OK to swing on the gates, but slamming them was taboo. I only did it once and the result, apart from the expected noise, surprised me. Windows in neighbouring houses were suddenly opened and heads popped out, gardeners and maids came running from all directions. The inevitable wigging followed.
Back to Uncle George, who was hurrying home one evening so that he could get out of a storm. He was close to the iron fence and only a few yards short of the gate when the lightning struck the iron fence. Uncle George was knocked down and momentarily stunned, but other than being badly shaken, suffered no ill effects. The fence survived too, but there were scorch marks on the metal and stonework to be seen the next day.
I too, also nearly came to an early demise, but a little further down the street. I was on my way from kindergarten, my bus had stopped and I had alighted and had gone around to the back of the bus to see if any traffic was coming the other way and started to cross the road. Thump! I had neglected to look to see if any cars were coming along the same way that the bus was going. I was very lucky, just a slightly bruised elbow, didn't even get knocked off my feet. The car pulled up with a screech of brakes and the driver got out. Once he had ascertained that I was all in one piece, he gave me a terrific scolding and a lecture on how to cross roads. He had probably got as big a fright as I had, but I didn't see it from his point of view at the time. I didn't tell my aunts what had happened, even though they commented on my paleness and wondered how I had got a mark on my shirt's elbow. A day later my misadventure was exposed. There always has to be some female busybody who likes to tell tales.
The third event, or more correctly, series of events, concerns the visits to the Zoo with my second cousin, Arthur. Arthur or Rex as he later preferred to be called, was my senior by the best part of two years, and we were great pals. As he lived in a different suburb, and as neither set of our parents possessed a motorcar, we did not see too much of each other. However, every school holiday we would visit each other's house at least once. Visits became more frequent when we grew older and acquired push bikes. During the span of the summer school holidays the pair of us were usually invited to lunch at the great aunts.
This repast, which if we were lucky, had trifle for desert. This delicacy had, I suspect, a little something added to it, for it tasted far better than the trifle we had at home and definitely gave one a feeling of well being. The meal being over, we were each given half-a-crown and sent off by ourselves to the Zoo.
I must have been about seven years old when we first started these outings and Rex would have been getting on towards nine. Before we got going, a visit to the kitchen was essential, for with a bit of pleading, we would be able to beg some stale bread or scraps that could be fed to the animals. Armed with two brown paper bags of "goodies" we would set off after being instructed as to the time we should return for tea. Neither of us owned a watch, but in those days, if you wanted to know the time and you could not see a public time piece, then you just asked the first man you saw in the street. Provided he had a watch, he would hoist it out of his waistcoat pocket by its gold chain, snap open the face of the watch and read out the time to you. You in turn would thank him politely and all parties would go their separate ways. There was no fear of molestation that I was aware of, and if there had been, I know that my family would certainly have warned me. Today, sadly things are different. No way would I suggest to my grandchildren that it would be alright to approach strangers and ask them the time, or where to catch a bus.
So, away we would go, walking perhaps three hundred yards down the road to the main thoroughfare where we caught a tram to take us to the Zoo. Fares in those days were cheap. A school child's holiday ticket cost one penny and that entitled you to four trips throughout the day of issue. As we each had a ticket with unused portions, it cost us nothing to get to and from the Zoo.
It wasn't a long journey, and we were soon at the Zoo gates. Once inside we wandered about looking at the animals and feeding the scraps we had brought with us to the different creatures. We would buy a big bag of unshelled peanuts to feed to the monkeys and members of the parrot family, and two bags of stale buns and scones for the elephant.
In later years after a number of visits, we became adept at recognising "old friends" and could pick them out from among their group or herd. There are some memories that stand out above the others, the gentleness of the raccoons in taking a morsel of food out of your fingers, in contrast to the snatch and grab of the monkeys. The dexterity of an elephant's trunk in being able to pick up a single peanut, and the surprise you get when an elephant blows a blast of warm moist air down its trunk and up your shorts. Boys found this experience funny, but girls having had a blast up their frocks frequently went into orbit and dropped their bags of buns which the elephant promptly acquired. The extraordinary weight of lion cubs. Have a lion cub about the size of a big cat placed in your arms and its weight seems to be enormous and all out of proportion. This is probably because their bones are heavy and also because their coat, unlike most cats, is very short haired. What you see is what you get, sheer solid animal, with no long fur to exaggerate the size of the body. No wonder the cubs are given solid stone balls about the size of a lawn bowl with which to play.
An individual tub (bucket) of icecream each would keep Rex and I going until it was time to get back to the great aunts for tea. During the meal we had tales to tell of our experiences and lots and lots of questions to answer about the animals.
The aunts well knew the layout of the zoo and the creatures it contained. Had we seen the new bear cubs? How long was the python? What was its colour? The great horned owls - were they awake or asleep? This was not an inquisition, the aunts merely wanted to be kept up to date, and I suspect were teaching us indirectly to be observant. They also added to our knowledge by digging into their extensive library and producing books on natural history which they used to locate all sorts of information relating to the animals we had seen. If we asked them a question to which they did not know the answer, then the hunt was really on. If their library didn't produce the goods, then a note was made of the question and by the time you next visited them, they would have got the answer from either the Natural History Museum or the Zoo itself.
The years passed and so did the Marshalls, with the exception of Auntie Pro who, as I mentioned, now lived in a nursing home. Auntie was getting very stooped and introspective. She did not like World War II, she didn't know too much about it, didn't want to know about it, and hoped that if she ignored it perhaps it would go away. Auntie sat in her room in a big winged-back armchair. A little bent figure in a warm velvet frock. Around her throat was a narrow velvet choker, the colour of which was selected to match the changes of colour of the altar cloths as dictated by the requirements of the church calendar. Her white hair was thinning and she wore what looked like a crocheted doily to hide the bald spot appearing amongst her wispy strands of hair. She missed her home, and her deceased relatives. Her ration of chocolate was so small that there was not enough to enable her to give any away to her visitors. She hated air-raids. "Nasty noisy things. Did I know that when the sirens sounded at night, she had to get out of bed and, wrapped in blankets like an Indian squaw, go downstairs with the other guests and sit in the gloomy cellars?".
Now, it was my habit that after a night of air-raids, I would hop on my bicycle and make a tour of all the relatives to check whether all was well with them. One morning I found my way barred to the area in which Auntie Pro resided. A constable informed me that an unexploded bomb was in the local church grounds, and that all the occupants of the nearby houses had been evacuated. "The patients in the nursing home too?" "Yes". "Where to?" "Another church hall, two hundred yards up the hill". "Thanks".
The floor of the church hall was covered with mattresses, blankets, and an odd assortment of people of all ages and in all states of deshabille. Of Auntie there was no sign. Eventually I spotted her sitting on a chair away in a corner. I made my presence known. Auntie was bothered and bewildered. "Why had she been got out of bed in the middle of the night and made to dress quickly? Not even allowed to dress properly - she had not had time to brush her hair or put on a hair net. Goodness, she only had her bedroom slippers on, never in all her born days had she ever gone outside a house wearing bedroom slippers! What would people think of her? Come to think of it, who were all these strangers lying around on the floor? She didn't know them, so why were they here? And, where was "here"?".
I did my best to put her on course and explained about the UXB. I think that she vaguely gathered what was going on, and a cup of tea produced by a member of the nursing home staff did much to restore her. However, one thing really bothered her - being out in bedroom slippers. "Could I please get into the nursing home and bring her a proper pair of outdoor shoes". I said I would try, but qualified the promise by saying that I doubted whether the policeman would let me past the barrier.
While I was talking to Auntie Pro, I was carefully eying over the motley crowd on the floor. The Great Aunts of Lancaster should be amongst the mob, for they lived in Lancaster Avenue - hence their title - almost alongside Auntie Pro's nursing home. They too must surely have been evacuated and therefore should have been in the church hall. Auntie Pro knew nothing, so I made a few enquiries. I was right. The Aunts' end of Lancaster Avenue had indeed been evacuated and they should be here in the hall. They obviously were not, so using this as an excuse I wished Auntie Pro well and went in search of the Great Aunts of Lancaster.
On reaching the barricade at Lancaster Avenue I noticed that there was no sign of the constable. I parked my bike and was just stooping under the barricade when a voice called out "Hold it there Sir, no one allowed in that area". It was the constable. He had taken cover behind a garden wall from whence he could see what was going on and yet at the same time get some protection should the bomb go off. I walked over to the constable and explained how I had located one of my aunts in the church hall just where he had said she would be, but that my three other great aunts together with their two maids were not there. He was surprised as he knew that the area had been cleared and all the occupants from the houses had been sent to the hall. I suggested my aunts' house could have been missed in the evacuation during the raid, and that perhaps they were still inside. The constable rather doubted that could have happened, and was reluctant to let me go through to check the place out. If the bomb, a 500lb beastie, went off and I got hurt, he was going to be in trouble for letting me enter the area. If the aunts were still in the house and something happened to them, he was also going to be in trouble. If he went to investigate himself and the sergeant turned up while he was away, then he would be in trouble for leaving his post. He was in a no win situation, but decided it was probably better to let me go and see if the aunts were still in residence.
I put my bike behind the wall in his care and walked to my aunts' house and rang the door bell. My ringing brought the younger maid, Blodwyn, to the door. "My goodness Master Marshall, what brings you round so early in the morning?" Since protocol forbade one to enlighten servants of the state of affairs before advising their master or mistress, I parried the question by asking "Is Miss Polly up yet?, and if she is, I would like to see her please". Blodwyn ushered me into the morning room and went to fetch Great Aunt Polly.
Aunt Polly, the second eldest of the three sisters living in the house was Mistress of the household. She held that position for her elder sister, Great Aunt Pemmy who had vacated it when she became too decrepit and had lost a few teeth off the cogs in her mental gear box. Auntie Pemmy was no longer either physically or mentally able to handle many things without help.
Auntie Polly listened to what I had to say, thought for a moment and then said "We will go to your grandmother's house, but first we must have breakfast and pack a few things." I stressed the point that the general idea was that we should all get out of the house as quickly as possible, and to do what she had in mind would probably take the best part of an hour. Would we perhaps be being foolhardy, and certainly we would be going against the police requirements. Auntie Polly agreed in principle - but no German bomb was going to shift her and her household out of her house until she decided when they would leave.
When Aunt Polly made a decision that was it, and no one would dare challenge it, least of all a great nephew. The die was cast, so I made the suggestion that just as a precaution it would be wise to open all the windows at the front of the house, drop all the heavy wooden venetian blinds, and draw both the lace and velvet curtains so that in the event that the bomb was so unsporting as to go off, we would be less likely to be cut by flying glass. Aunt Polly agreed and I set about the task while she summoned her younger sister, Auntie Jessie, Bella, a large portly maid and Blodwyn who was as slim as Bella was plump.
Aunt Polly briefed them quickly. "The Germans have dropped a 500lb bomb in the church yard opposite the house. It has not gone off - being German, it is probably a dud. However, we have been asked by the police to vacate the house. We will do so in due course and will proceed as follows - Jessie, go and dress Pemmy and get her downstairs, Bella go and cook breakfast for all of us. Blodwyn, set the table and then go up to the boxroom and get a small case for each of us and some straps for blankets and pillows. While you are up there, find the wicker basket for Rex and bring that down as well. I will ring Mrs Alcock Senior (my grandmother) and tell her to expect us and I will then commence packing."
I suggested it might be advisable not to eat in the breakfast room at the front of the house, but to have breakfast in the dining room at the back of the premises. Aunt Polly agreed and gave orders accordingly. I also mentioned that I had better tell the constable what was going on. Agreement again. Perhaps the constable had elderly relatives of his own, for after hearing what I had to say, rolled his eyes heavenwards, shook his head in mild disbelief and suggested that I had better get back and see what I could do to speed things up. He would keep his fingers crossed and hope that the Sergeant did not put in an appearance.
Back I went to my aunts' house. Blodwyn had got the table set, the cases down from the attic and Aunt Polly was busy packing cases for her sisters. My grandmother, Minnie, another of their sisters had been advised of the situation and was preparing her house a mile away for her forthcoming visitors. Auntie Pemmy was dressed and downstairs waiting for breakfast. She knew something unusual was going on, but could not quite get the hang of it and kept asking the same questions over and over again like a gramophone with its needle stuck in one groove of a record.
Blodwyn and Bella served breakfast and retired to the kitchen to get their own meal and to pack their necessities. The aunts were not to be hurried over their meal, and no amount of coaxing by me was having any effect. Suddenly I remembered the cat - Rex. "Auntie Polly, as I have finished my breakfast, might I be excused please so that I may go and put Rex in the wicker basket?" The green light came up, so I went to the kitchen to find Blodwyn and the basket.
Rex was an enormous full blown grey Persian tom cat who had been doctored. This magnificent feline was proud, haughty and very vain. When asked to show his tail, Rex would point his tail straight up in the air and fluff it up like an enormous bottle brush. Now Rex was certainly not stupid, he had had a rotten night, air-raids were always a bad thing in his view for they frightened the mice in the kitchen cupboards so that he couldn't have any fun and anyway the noise of the bombs disturbed him. To make matters worse, a visitor had arrived for breakfast and Blodwyn had brought the wicker basket down to the kitchen. "THE WICKER BASKET"! That could only mean one thing - THE VET!! Not if he could prevent it. To sneak out of the kitchen and make himself scarce was the thing to do and that he had done. Blodwyn had been through this caper before, so she armed herself with a broom while I tagged along with the basket.
We started a room to room search, looking under all the furniture and on top of and into all the cupboards where he might have taken refuge. Victorian style furniture is massive and gave plenty of scope for a cat to hide away. We played cunning and shut the doors of those rooms we searched so that Rex wouldn't be able to double back on us if he suddenly bolted from cover. We felt that the cellars were to be an unlikely location, so we sealed them off and checked out the ground floor. No joy. We checked out the bedrooms on the second floor. Still no luck. Up on the top floor we eventually struck oil.
Rex was in one of the attics used as a store room. It was full of everything you would think of and probably a lot of things that you wouldn't have thought of in your wildest dreams. Rex was holed up in a corner under a large chest-of-drawers, his huge amber eyes glared at us. OK, so we knew where he was, but the problem was that if we were to prod "His Reluctance" out with the broom handle he could end up anywhere amongst all that hodgepodge conglomeration in the attic and we might take a week trying to unearth him.
Blodwyn was equal to the occasion. Asking me to keep Rex penned in under the chest-of-drawers she went out of the room and came back with two pillows and a blanket. The pillows she stuffed under one end of the chest-of-drawers and sealed off that way of escape. The two walls making the corner blocked off those ways of retreat, so Rex had only the option of coming forward. Blodwyn laid the blanket out partly under the chest-of-drawers and gave me the rest of the blanket to hold. The idea was that she would work the broom handle behind Rex and gently and gradually force him to come to the front of the chest-of-drawers where we would be able to grab him and put him in the basket.
Blodwyn got the broom handle into a position behind the cat and started to winkle him forward. Rex objected strongly, whirred his displeasure and gave the broom handle a couple of clouts complete with claws to teach it a lesson. The broom handle was persistent and kept up the pressure. Rex lost his temper and growling furiously he attacked the broom handle with all four legs and teeth. The broom handle bearing battle scars still advanced and kept on pushing. Rex changed his tactics. He turned on to his tummy and flew straight at me in an effort to escape.
Purely in self defence I raised the blanket. After all, who wants 16 lbs of furious moggie shredding your features on his way to freedom. As luck would have it the blanket did the trick. Rex became enmeshed and we effected the capture. All we had to do now was to get him out of the blanket and into the basket. Perhaps Rex was tiring, or maybe he knew when he was beaten, for apart from one last valiant effort when his legs went round and round like propellers tipped with sabres and his teeth made holes in the blanket, we finally got him into the basket, shot the bolt home and padlocked it quickly.
Aunt Polly and the others were now ready, so they all donned their coats and we marched out carrying small suitcases, bundles of rugs and pillows and, of course, Rex.
We reached the barricade and the constable lifted the barrier down so that we could pass through more readily. Aunt Polly thanked him for being understanding and apologised for not inviting him in for breakfast, but she had gathered from me that the Sergeant might not have approved of such a procedure. Slowly we made our way some fifty yards to a main road. Traffic was a bit rare in those days. Not too many people ran cars because of the petrol rationing. Luck was with us. The very first car that I flagged down was going in the direction of my grandmother's house. The driver was most obliging. He stowed the suitcases in the boot of the car, put the aunties into the back seat with some of the pillows and blankets perched on their knees and placed the rest of the bundles next to him on the front seat.
We all felt it would be better if Rex was not to go by car, just in case he disgraced himself. That left the maids and Rex. No problem really, for they only had to walk another eighty yards or so to a tram terminus and they and Rex would be able to catch a tram to grandmother's.
Having seen them all safely on their way, I went back to the constable to collect my bike. We passed a few pleasantries about the quirks of the elderly and some unpleasantries about Hitler and then I went home to Mum who was wondering what had delayed me.
Later I learned two things. Firstly, the trams were not running. The overhead wires were down and some of the tracks had been blown up, so Bella and Blodwyn had to carry the 16 lb monster the whole mile to grandmother's. Rex was fine, but the maids were exhausted. Secondly, the bomb disposal squad finally got around to the bomb after they had dealt with others in far more vital locations. The bomb was very much alive and well and was still ticking merrily until they managed to defuse it.
My paternal grandmother, Mrs Minerva (Minnie) Alcock, lived with her husband Charles and their maid, Jessie. Jessie was Bella's sister, who, as you have read, worked for the Great Aunts of Lancaster. These two sisters had come from a church orphanage as soon as they were old enough to go into service. They would have been no more than fourteen years of age when they started work.To begin with they were of course totally dependent on their employers for their very existence, further education and training. Gradually they became more and more efficient, had some savings of their own and could have left their employers at any time of their choice. They never did leave, but became more devoted servants as time passed by. "Servants" is hardly the correct word to use, for they really became part of the family. Death eventually claimed the Great Aunts and my grandparents, and by that time Jessie and Bella were also pretty long in the tooth. They were entitled to a government pension, so my Dad made arrangements for them to live in a Council house and kept them subsidised so that they might live in reasonable comfort until the Grim Reaper eventually garnered them.
Grandfather Alcock had been a good athlete in his day. He held the Rugby School long jump record from his school days until sometime during World War II when some lad eventually exceeded grandfather's jump. In grandfather's day, to make sure that you did not take off for your jump beyond the permitted point, there was a slatted hurdle fixed to the ground and tilted at some 30° or so away from the take off point. If you misjudged your run up and got on to the hurdle, it could do all sorts of horrible things to your feet and ankles.
Grandfather's leap must have been a beauty, for he not only cleared the aforementioned hurdle, but he sailed over the sand pit and landed in the grass beyond the pit. Purists might well argue, that it must therefore have been well nigh impossible to get an accurate measurement of grandfather's jump, and that might explain why the record had stood for so many years. Be that as it may, grandfather was both pleased and sad that his record was broken. Pleased that the up and coming youth were better than he was, and sad because one of his "treasures" had now become tarnished.
Rugby football in Grandfather's day was somewhat different from the way in which it is played today. For example, you wore breeches that extended over your knees and were tucked into long stockings. Laced into that lot were very strong shin pads, for it was quite permissible to hack an opponent's legs out from under him if he was running with the ball.
Grandfather used to tell a tale of how he, in cover defence, raced across the field to intercept an opposing winger. He got there in time to successfully kick the legs out from under the opposition, but to his chagrin, the winger was travelling so fast, and grandfather had executed his kick so well, that the winger flew into the air, turned a complete somersault, landed on his feet, regained his balance and went on to score a try. Grandfather's thoughts at the time were unprintable.
Grandfather, together with a partner, ran a plumbing and decorating business. The two of them did all the administrative work, gave the quotes, and inspected the final works. They employed a team of tradesmen each of whom was an expert in his particular field, but who could equally well turn his hand to any of the multitude of tasks that the firm could undertake. No union demarcation rules in those days, life was far more flexible. Varied too. Roof repairs; slate or terracotta; chimney pots replaced; gutters and downpipes replaced with either cast or galvanised iron; tiling; painting, both exterior and interior; wall and ceiling paper hanging; gilding; graining; marbling; french polishing; brickwork; plastering; plumbing, either water or gas; draining; glazing; carpentry, but not detailed cabinet work. The only trade in the house maintenance range that they did not take on was that fairly new fangled stuff - electricity.
To get their tools of trade from their depot to work site, all ladders; trestles; tools; equipment and raw materials for paint - you mixed your own in those days - were loaded on to a two wheeled handcart. These carts were pushed and pulled by the tradesmen to the house where they were going to work. This could be up and down hill for distances of up to three miles. Why no mechanical transport? That would have been a rare item for small businesses in pre-war days and the expense could not have been justified without expanding the business considerably.
World War II put an end to any such ideas of expansion. Some of the men enlisted, others were conscripted. Materials became scarce and difficult to obtain. Owners of houses were reluctant to redecorate their premises when they could be damaged or destroyed in an air-raid the very next day. Make do and mend was the order of the day.
Grandfather suffered a series of strokes early in the war and was confined to his bed. He was quite a handful to look after, for although he was only 5'5" tall, he weighed 17 stone. Grandmother and Jessie managed somehow, but it was a difficult task. Grandfather had lost his power of speech and was very limited in his physical ability. Dad used to go round to their house twice a week and gave grandfather a shave. No electric razors then, only "cut-throats" or safety razors.
Sometimes, if I was on holiday from boarding school, I used to go with Dad, and after Grandfather was shaved, the three of us would listen on the radio to whatever important rugby or soccer match was being broadcast over the radio. Television did not exist, so there used to be two commentators on the radio. One commentator called the run of play, while the second commentator, as the game moved about the playing field would call out "square three" - "square five" etc. These figures referred to grid references on a plan of the playing field published in the "Radio Times".
Grandfather loved all forms of sport and had played badminton until he was quite a good age. So now, confined to bed, he was limited to listening to and enjoying the efforts of others playing the games he had loved so much.
When I was awarded my Full Rugby Colours cap I took it along one Saturday afternoon to show him. He was so pleased and proud of it, that after examining the dull red velvet material, the golden tassel, the gold threaded crest and date embroidered above the peak, he placed it upon his head and wore it all afternoon. Dad had quite a diplomatic task in trying to get him to part with it, when it became time for us to go home.
Air-raids caused a bother at my grandparents' home. Grandfather could not be moved and was located in a bedroom on the first floor. Grandmother felt it was her duty to stay with him throughout a raid, so that if anything happened she would be close to him. Grandfather held the opposite view. He full well knew that he could do nothing for himself and that there would not be much that his wife could do for him in the event of their house being bombed. Better that she go downstairs and take cover with Jessie in a steel shelter that had been specially built under the morning room table to give some protection to those who crawled into it. If the raids were heavy, Grandmother and Jessie did go into the shelter, although not without feeling guilty about leaving Grandfather all on his own.
Upstairs, Grandfather had a portable wireless about the size of a suitcase which worked off dry batteries. Downstairs, Grandmother and Jessie listened to the first wireless that Grandfather ever bought. It was a long polished wooden box with knobs and dials on the front. Lift the wooden lid and inside could be seen several coils of wire, and what appeared to be tin cans and five glass valves. The valves glowed when the set was switched on and you could see the emitters, anodes and grids in their interiors. Outwardly the valves looked like electric light globes, and had pointed tops where the molten glass had been drawn and sealed during manufacture when the air had been withdrawn.
Power came from wet cell accumulators resting on a shelf below the wireless set. The low tension cells of about two volts were taken to the local bicycle shop for recharging once a week, while the high tension cells of about 60 volts needed a charge about once a month. This hassle was eliminated once Grandfather had electricity installed into his house, and the set was modified to accept a transformer and rectifiers.
The loudspeaker was not unlike a gramophone horn of that period, except that the exponential horn was bent around into the shape of a question mark. The base of the "question mark" housed the volume control and the vibrating diaphragm which emitted the sound.
Some of the sounds were remarkable. Before the set would "receive" some of its internal circuits had to be coaxed into a state of oscillation. Twiddling one of the control knobs would produce this effect, which was heralded by the most awful howls and squeals from the loudspeaker. As a small child I wondered how on earth a cat could ever have been stuffed into the loudspeaker and out of sight down the ever narrowing tunnel of the speaker.
At that time I was acutely aware of yowling and squalling cats, having recently accidently stepped on a cat's tail and being unaware of what I was doing, held my ground. The physical scars have faded long ago, but squalling cats can still make me sit up and take notice.
The aerial was a long length of copper wire that passed through a special fitting in the window frame, up the side of the house and at regular intervals, passed through porcelain stand off insulators, until it reached the roof. From there it made its way to a chimney stack where it joined a contraption that looked like a very open meshed cylindrical birdcage. This device was the aerial proper, and with all that copper wire embodied in its make up was considered to be a lightning attractor.
Near the set itself was a little knife switch with a two inch blade connecting the set to the aerial. When a thunderstorm occurred the procedure was for someone to rush and throw the switch to the "off" position, thereby isolating the set from the fearsome possibility of a bolt of lightning running down the aerial lead and into the wireless set and causing goodness only knows what havoc!
From what I have seen of lightning strikes, if that aerial had indeed been struck by lightning, there would have been no aerial left, nor knife switch, nor indeed, wireless set. Never mind, their faith kept them happy. For much the same reason perhaps, Great Aunts Pro and Gertrude always kept lamps and appliances plugged into every power point in their house. "Just in case the electricity should leak out and get all over the carpet!"
Great Aunt Jessie of the Lancaster brigade had better scientific knowledge and used to share such jokes with me. She never enlightened the others of the true state of affairs. I never understood why, but guessed that perhaps she being the youngest, felt that it was not her place to do so, or perhaps she realised that they might not have had the basic knowledge to follow what she was telling them. I was sworn to secrecy.
Prior to World War II Grandmother and Jessie used to spend the best part of one day a week making sweets. Not for their own consumption, but for regular customers. The profits from this sweet making used to go to their church to help swell the funds - which like all church funds, were never enough to meet the ever increasing demands of the impoverished and the heathen in far away places.
As a small boy I used to go along and "help", even before I was five years old and later during school holidays, by which time I was perhaps of some assistance. The range of sweets made covered :- lemon drops; treacle toffee; brittle toffee; "humbugs"; plain toffee; butterscotch; fondants and rarely, fondants dipped in chocolate.
We did not make all that selection each week, usually two varieties and sometimes three, depending upon the orders that had come in from Grandmother's regulars. My task used to be that of cutting up grease proofed paper into little squares with a special small pair of scissors that were sharp enough to cut paper, but at the same time, blunt enough to save little fingers from getting cut. Just a nip if you got careless, to teach you to keep your mind on the job.
While I was busy cutting paper, Grandmother would weigh the ingredients and put them in a big cast iron pot on the "modern" gas stove, rather than on the coal fired kitchen range. She would then stir the pot with a big wooden spoon, while keeping her eye on a special sugar boiling thermometer which stood in the pan. Time and temperature were critical. Get one wrong and you could spoil the whole boiling and therefore waste the ingredients and blow the profits. The boiling was Grandmother's responsibility. Such a task was not entrusted to Jessie whose spectacles would fog up in the steam making her unable to read the thermometer. Jessie would be busy rubbing butter on to the marble slabs on to which the boiled mixture would be duly poured, and greasing the tinned heavy metal bars which would prevent the molten mixture from flowing over the edge of the marble slabs. Jessie would also grease the big metal trays on to which the toffee or whatever sweetmeat was being made, would be cut to allow it to cool before being wrapped.
At the precise moment, Grandmother would take the pan off the stove and pour the contents on to the marble slabs. Dependant upon the quantity made, Jessie would move the metal bars closer or further apart so that the molten mass would settle to a thickness appropriate to the type of sweet being made.
A quick cup of tea for Grandmother and Jessie, a glass of milk and a cookie for me and after that the toffee would have cooled sufficiently for Grandmother, armed in rubber gloves, to get her hand under the slabs of toffee.
She would lift a corner up, and with a pair of large scissors commenced cutting strips of toffee off the mass. The strips she would place on trays and Jessie would attack the strips with scissors, cutting them up into bite sized chunks. The pressure from the scissors on the strips made the pieces form into pillow shapes. Speed was the essence of the exercise. Let the toffee cool too much and it became impossible to cut, and would later have to be broken with a hammer. Cut it when it was too hot and the pieces would not hold a good shape, never mind the fact that it would burn your fingers.
My job was to keep the toffee pieces from touching each other and sticking together. When the pieces had cooled sufficiently we all set to and wrapped each one in a square of grease proofed paper.
"Humbugs" were exciting to make. They needed two simultaneous boilings of toffee, one brew to be a light coloured brown, the other to be a darker shade. Peppermint essence is added to one of the boilings just a few moments before that panfull is poured on to the marble slab.
Peppertmint essence, when mixed with the boiling toffee gives off an extremely pungent vapour that takes your breath away, smarts the eyes and penetrates to the innermost corners of your sinus cavities. Little boys do well to heed their grandmother's warnings when the essence is about to be added, so that they may retreat to the most distant regions of the kitchen and by so doing avoid the greatest concentration of the fumes.
Once the two boilings had been poured on to separate slabs and cooled sufficiently to handle, Grandmother and Jessie would each cut strips off the light and dark toffees and twist them together. There were two big hooks, not unlike butchers' hooks embedded in the kitchen wall and the ladies would loop a skein of toffee over a hook and pull and stretch the toffee through their hands. Re-loop the toffee, place it over the hook and pull and stretch again. Do this, say half a dozen or so times and your toffee has now taken on a striped appearance and is ready to be cut up into "pillows". This all had to be done as quickly as possible least the toffee cooled and became unworkable.
Grandmother was a firm believer in Satan finding mischief for idle hands to do. So, just to frustrate him she always had something to keep me fully occupied. Handcrafts were all the go, and she taught me how to sew felt toys and stuff them ready for sale at church bazaars; how to do netting just like the fishermen did, only on a smaller scale; raffia work; plaiting; and best of all, weaving seagrass seats on to pre-assembled wooden footstools.
Jessie and Grandmother were both great knitters and when World War II came along and sugar was no longer available for sweet making, they shifted their efforts into knitting comforts for the Forces.
They bought a corn sack of skeins of wool, inveigled Grandfather, Dad and I into winding the wool into countless balls. I became quite an expert in dropping a skein over a chair back and then winding the wool over two fingers to ensure that the resulting ball was neither too tight or too loosely wound.
Grandmother and Jessie knitted pullovers; balaclava helmets; scarves; socks; long sea boot stockings; gloves and mittens. They became so familiar with the garments that they could knit the items without reference to the pattern books.
Jessie was a bit slow at turning the heels of socks - that would never do - so when the appropriate row was reached, she would hand the sock over to Grandmother to take it round the bend, so to speak. The Great Aunts of Lancaster and Great Aunt Louie were also frantically knitting away - corn sack after corn sack of wool. Great Aunt Jessie also had her pet charity. She collected pieces of broken silverware. Ferrules from walking sticks and umbrellas; cruet sets; rings; perfume bottles; vases; teapots; trinket boxes; candlestick holders; mirror frames etc. As long as it was silver, it all went into the kitty. When she had accumulated a reasonable quantity of material, a silversmith used to come and evaluate the collection. Some items were repairable, some went to the melting pot, but whatever the outcome, the cheque went to the Royal National Lifeboat Institution.
Auntie Jessie received bits of silver from all over the UK for some magazines gave her free advertising space and her efforts were quite well known. Over the years she raised sufficient funds to pay for a motorised life boat and was well on her way towards raising enough money for a second one when she passed away.
For a bit of variety Grandmother used to ring the changes with the colour of the wool she obtained. Sometimes it was Navy blue and at other times, Khaki or Air Force blue and rarely, white. Very occasionally she obtained some heavy greasy wool for making garments for deep sea fishermen and the sailors who served on the corvettes in the North Atlantic Ocean.
One morning Grandmother and Jessie heard a bit of a noise and commotion in their street. Discreet glances through the lace curtains revealed that there were soldiers running about and that three of them had taken up prone positions in her front garden and were aiming and firing their rifles through her front railings at a point further up the street.
They were firing at other soldiers trying to work their way towards them. Another group of soldiers were using a machine-gun while the advancing soldiers were using a mortar.
Grandmother quickly noted that although there was a considerable amount of shooting going on, there was a singular lack of any blood to be seen. She correctly summarised that this was an Army exercise. Jessie was sent to investigate.
Through the letter box slit in the front door, Jessie established a conversation with one of the soldiers "Yes, it is an exercise. Please don't open the door and give our position away!" A minute or two later, an umpire ruled that the attacking mortar crew had lobbed a bomb into Grandmother's garden and that the three soldiers were now "dead". Since these three combatants were no longer able to do combat, Grandmother got Jessie to quickly take mugs of tea and homemade scones to the "dead". The "corpses" were a bit reluctant to partake, fearing reprisals from their Sergeant. Grandmother was made of sterner stuff. "If you are "dead" then you can no longer be part of the exercise, and until the burial party comes to collect you, I can not see any sensible reason why you should not have some refreshments. My son served as a Lewis Machine Gunner in World War I and he was always taught that a soldier should never pass up the opportunity to eat or sleep. Eat and drink up and if the Sergeant objects ask him to come and see me". Like the rest of her family Grandmother was a strict but very fair person. She was fiercely patriotic and was not afraid of speaking her mind if she was sure that right and God were on her side. From the time I was a toddler she hammered into me that I was a Briton. "Britons don't cry". "Britons keep a stiff upper lip". "Get your back to the wall and fight like a Briton". "Britons never say die", and as the war progressed "Britain can take it". "Britannia rules the waves".
The Sergeant did come knocking on the door. He was most diplomatic and wondered if he might be able to persuade Jessie to be so kind as to find him a mug of tea to go with the excellent scone that one of his men had passed on to him. Needless to say he got his wish.
The day the displaced Great Aunts of Lancaster, together with their maids and Rex, arrived at Grandmother's would have been quite an event. But with three maids at her beck and call, plus her sisters, Grandmother would have quickly got under control any disruption to routine. Two maids to set up makeshift beds, one maid to go shopping for comestibles. Great Aunt Polly to settle Great Aunt Pemmy in, and to try and get her to understand what was going on. Grandmother herself to look after Grandfather's needs and Great Aunt Jessie could rearrange the drawing room so that as soon as all were settled in, knitting would re-commence. Their war effort could continue. "Britons never, never, never will be slaves".
Chapter Two.