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Doodlebugs and nosegays - chapter 4
posted Tuesday, 4 January 2005
Stage fright
So many happy memories from this Cranbook home. Games of shove ha’penny using coins
specially ground down on one side and polished for smooth sliding on the board, a wind-up gramophone with the volume of The Laughing Policeman (the record, not my uncle) controlled by opening or closing the cabinet doors. A set of leather-bound encyclopaedias with a section devoted to jokes and riddles Q: Why can’t you starve at the seaside? A: Because of the sandwiches (sand-which-is) there.
The four of us children (including Anne, the daughter of the Inspector who lived in the adjoining house) egging each other on to creep down the gloomy, dank cellar steps to touch the dusty skull which rested on a dark shelf. We all rehearsed a show for the parents and then stage fright on the night kept me in the wings, despite all the threats and pleadings of my fellow artistes.
Naughty boy things as well, of course. One escapade came home to roost very quickly when I tried to spend the polished shove ha’pennies in the local sweet shop.
Reality
The reality of war was brought home to us with the capture of a German pilot who had parachuted into a nearby field. I caught just a glimpse of a frightened and dishevelled young fair haired man being frog-marched to the cells. The same cells which doubled as shelters when air-raid warnings became more frequent.
Shiny scorched brass cartridge cases fell all around as the RAF and German airmen fought out life and death battles so high above our heads. These, along with strips of radar-confusing tinfoil, known as ‘window’ or ‘chaff’, dumped from enemy bombers, became treasured souvenirs and valuable bartering currency.
Posh clothes and Sunday faces
To the side of the police station, fringed by nettles and daisies, was a paved footpath to the church. This is memorable because the stay in Cranbrook was, and still is, my only experience of Sunday worship. All posh clothes and mouthing words to unknown tunes. Some of the hymns would become familiar later in school assemblies, but to my young ears and eyes this weekly routine always seemed intimidating, surrounded by solemn, best behaviour faces and voices.
This footpath also led to my next school, across the way from the church. Just a vague memory of separate classrooms instead of the single room of the village hall. No incendiary oil heaters or other excitements to recall.
So many happy memories from this Cranbook home. Games of shove ha’penny using coins
specially ground down on one side and polished for smooth sliding on the board, a wind-up gramophone with the volume of The Laughing Policeman (the record, not my uncle) controlled by opening or closing the cabinet doors. A set of leather-bound encyclopaedias with a section devoted to jokes and riddles Q: Why can’t you starve at the seaside? A: Because of the sandwiches (sand-which-is) there.The four of us children (including Anne, the daughter of the Inspector who lived in the adjoining house) egging each other on to creep down the gloomy, dank cellar steps to touch the dusty skull which rested on a dark shelf. We all rehearsed a show for the parents and then stage fright on the night kept me in the wings, despite all the threats and pleadings of my fellow artistes.
Naughty boy things as well, of course. One escapade came home to roost very quickly when I tried to spend the polished shove ha’pennies in the local sweet shop.
Reality
The reality of war was brought home to us with the capture of a German pilot who had parachuted into a nearby field. I caught just a glimpse of a frightened and dishevelled young fair haired man being frog-marched to the cells. The same cells which doubled as shelters when air-raid warnings became more frequent.
Shiny scorched brass cartridge cases fell all around as the RAF and German airmen fought out life and death battles so high above our heads. These, along with strips of radar-confusing tinfoil, known as ‘window’ or ‘chaff’, dumped from enemy bombers, became treasured souvenirs and valuable bartering currency.
Posh clothes and Sunday faces
To the side of the police station, fringed by nettles and daisies, was a paved footpath to the church. This is memorable because the stay in Cranbrook was, and still is, my only experience of Sunday worship. All posh clothes and mouthing words to unknown tunes. Some of the hymns would become familiar later in school assemblies, but to my young ears and eyes this weekly routine always seemed intimidating, surrounded by solemn, best behaviour faces and voices.This footpath also led to my next school, across the way from the church. Just a vague memory of separate classrooms instead of the single room of the village hall. No incendiary oil heaters or other excitements to recall.
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