Horowai at Hot Springs (No 68)

The continuing story of Ahu and Ahuahu her husband in a Maori village in Aotearoa before European settlement of New Zealand. (Missed an episode? Click on Ahu in the labels bar for previous posts.)

Hatiti’s former mother-in-law sent a message to her to ask if she and Horowai could visit her first husband Kaihutu’s father, who was sick. For some time after her first husband died Hatiti found it difficult to revisit her in-laws at the hot springs even though they were only a few minutes walk away from Black Sands village. For her it was a world apart from the happiness she had found with Ahu and Ahuahu. But as the years passed she and Ahu started to go there again so little Horowai could understand that she had a connection with the steamy place where people went to bathe and relax. Often there was dancing there and visitors would come to bathe in the pools to help ease their aches and cure all manner of complaints. It was a good way too to find out what was going on in their world as people from villages far away would go there. In this way Black Sands and their hot pools were perhaps a reason that great respect was made to the community as a whole and why some might say that adjoining villages left them alone as they provided a service to a far greater area and were never a threat to their neighbours.

Horowai knew now that she and Tangaroa would be married, probably next year and she asked Hatiti if they should tell these relatives too.

“You are Kaihutu’s daughter, Horowai, his family is your family, when we visit tell them you are promised to Tangaroa and we will ask if the wedding might be held in their meeting house there to honour your father.”

Horowai nodded uncertainly and looked at Hatiti sadly. “I have only known one family of you and Ahu and Ahuahu and my brothers and sisters. I love Tangaroa dearly and I feel that he has always been part of my life but of my father’s family I know so little, only that they do look on me and speak to me with affection when we meet. When I see them I try to imagine my father and compare them with what you have told me about him but I am ashamed to admit that they are but strangers compared with all that binds me with my true home.”

Hatiti hugged Horowai. “You will find the right words when you speak to your father’s parents. Your love is like the sunshine and warms everyone.”

The following day Horowai, Hatiti and Tangaroa visited the springs early in the day and spoke to her father Kaihutu’s parents.

“Tangaroa has asked Horowai to marry him”, announced Hatiti. “Ahuahu and Ahu have agreed subject to your approval too.” Kaihutu’s mother nodded and spoke quietly “It is no secret, we have many visitors here and for a few weeks there seems to much talk of the young couple.”

Kaihutu’s father nodded his head smiling. “Tangaroa has already got a name for his ability at fishing so no one is surprised that he has caught our granddaughter.”

“Grandfather, I should like the ceremony to be held here in the meeting house in honour of my father, if that pleases you?” said Horowai.

Kaihutu’s mother came to Horowai and hugged her and held her face in her hands. “Should not Hatiti have asked us child? Do you speak for yourself?”

“Shh! Woman.” Interjected the grandfather, it should have been Tangaroa that asked.”

Tangaroa looked bewildered; he glanced at Hatiti for help to sort the problem out. Meanwhile Hatiti was laughing.

“Do not worry children, they are joking with you. Did you not think that everyone in Black Sands has been waiting for this event? They are teasing you.”

“But we only decided the other day,” protested Tangaroa.

“Yes, but the whole village decided long ago,” responded Hatiti. “The love you showed for each other was not a secret.”

The old man continued “Of course you may have the wedding ceremony here and it would please us both if you permit us to provide you with your home here too. There is an empty whare that is most suitable for a head man’s son and his wife. I have not let anyone else have it. It will be our wedding present to you.” He then continued “This way we will be the first to see our first great grandchild. I am determined to live for that day.”

Horowai went over to him and knelt in front of old man. “Will you make me happy and give me to Tangaroa on our wedding day, papa?”

He touched her on the face and with tears in his eyes he mumbled “Of course my child. It will be a very happy day for me too…for all of us.”

They spent some time at the hot springs and inspected their promised whare that Tangaroa loved because from the entrance he could just see the sea. When they were walking back home, Hatiti said to Horowai, “You made your grandfather very happy today, did you realise you called him father?”

“Yes I did, didn’t I?” replied Horowai, “It just popped out and seemed the right thing to say as he is part of me too and he made me laugh.”

Recollections of a Warped Mind (No 12)

Hungary, Communism and the Suez Canal

A few years after WW2 our usual Geography teacher at school took extended leave to visit India. Her replacement was a rather plump and pleasant woman from Finland. Sadly she couldn’t teach Geography without putting a political slant on everything. Nowadays political geography and current affairs are quite normal, for us however the notion was quite new, and I for one took to it like a duck to water. We were allowed to ask the question "Why?” rather than just accept the facts. This put a completely different perspective on the countries of the world. She cooked her own goose of course because being a Finn she protested too much about the injustice that her country had experienced, when we all thought that they sided with Germany initially only to be attacked by Russia for their trouble.

Later when the Hungarian uprising took place in 1956 the Communist forces quickly crushed the protesters without much of a protest from the Western nations. This was because Britain was itself doing something ignominious at the same time. Egypt’s General Neguib had finally thrown out King Farouk as head of state. I say thrown out which is not quite correct he had been living on the French Riviera for years in luxury while his poor nation was a tool for both Britain and France to exploit the rest of the world with their control of the Suez Canal. When General Nasser came to power in Egypt he nationalised the Canal and said it now belonged to them. Britain under the Conservative Prime Minister, Anthony Eden then sent in the troops to reclaim it. World opinion, particularly that of the Americans was against this action. The Americans clearly could see some advantage for them if they opposed the British as their own presence in the Middle East might then be welcome and there was a lot of oil there.

All such plans badly misfired as Egypt looked for Soviet Aid, the US continued to support Israel and from that time on the whole of that region of the world has been in total turmoil ever since. Meanwhile Hungary returned to Communist control for a few more years and those refugees escaping to the west we made welcome, depriving those on council home waiting lists of houses by their getting preferential treatment.

Newly married my wife and I put our names on the Council list for housing but we never got anywhere near the top of the list because we never had any children, didn’t live with our parents, didn’t work for the Council and were not poor enough. Oh! And one more thing - we were not Hungarian.

After word

This piece, as you may have guessed was written many, many years ago. Readers may throw up their hands in disbelief to contemplate Old Egg as a rebel and non conformist. Youth is a testing time and permits young adults to test the water of their own individuality. Living (and surviving) is making mistakes and learning from them. Thinking something radical 50 or so years ago does not stain you irrevocably but develops you and makes you more colourful. How do I feel now? Well in politics I usually vote for one party then when they disappoint jump ship and rebel. So should you. Never let a politician feel secure!

Thank you all for reading and commenting on these recollections of a warped mind.

Recollections of a Warped Mind (No 10)

6) Hitler’s Terror weapons and my disdain for them

Having started school in war time I knew no better than to accept that our way of life in the early 1940’s was normal. I was, as I have said before a miserable child. My first day at school presumably in September 1941 was not a happy one. I had to leave the comfort of home and the exclusive possession of my mother that I enjoyed during the daytime and mix with other children and possibly have to do things for myself. Mum was anxious to have me off her hands so that she could supplement the family income with some form of work. That first day is a blank, but the next morning I remember clearly as I refused outright to return to school having ‘been there and done that’. This was clearly a problem as I was left with Granny Kimber while Mum pursued her new career which initially was a helper in the school canteen. She later got a job in a Walker’s Stores, a grocery shop in Downing Street, Farnham, where she stayed for the duration of the war, rising to illustrious position of First Hand!

My minor victory on that second day was turned into total defeat for me the next when I had to return to school full time. Luckily I saw little of my brother as I was in the infants and he was two years ahead of me. Each morning we all got up after Dad had gone off to work in London. Our faces and hands were washed over the kitchen sink and we were bundled into our clothes and set off to walk with Mum to the school about a mile away. We boys carried our gas masks in square fibre boxes slung around our necks. It was heinous crime to turn up to school without them. Because the previous world war twenty years or so before poison gas had been used in the trenches and the likelihood of it being used on civilians this time was thought to be high. The walk to school was enjoyable and generally uneventful. One day however it wasn’t. Daydreaming as usual and not looking where I was going I walked straight into a traffic light pole and knocked myself out for a few seconds. After a scolding and a rub better we set off again.I would mention here that there were on 2 traffic lights in Farnham at that time so I should have marvelled at it rather than ignored it.

Occasionally the weather was too inclement to walk and we went in by the number 14 bus operated by the Aldershot and District Traction Company. The trouble with this was that we got to school too early and had half an hour to muck around before going in, Mum having stayed on the bus to get to work. Needless to say we explored the whole area around the school and found some very interesting places to play. There were brick air raid shelters built in the roads to provide people some protection in case of air raids. There was hardly enough room for delivery vans to pass by, but as there was so little traffic then it didn’t matter. We also found a disused factory site with a tall brick chimney that had a furnace under it. I climbed in and looking up could see the sky with clouds racing past ever so quickly high in the opening at the end of the stack, that was exciting as no one else was game to squeeze in. Then there was the large Farnham Park where huge concrete blocks had been built to discourage enemy gliders from landing and disgorging hundreds of German soldiers to overpower the citizens of Farnham and presumably our school adjacent.

We lived just far enough from London to miss most of the raids on that city, and there was no big industry to destroy in our neighbourhood. Later when Hitler did unleash his real terror weapons we had become very blasé about the war. We heard the doodlebug or V1 rocket for the first time when we were playing cricket in a field adjoining our street but we knew we were safe because if you could hear them it was all right. When their throbbing rocket engines stopped you had to take cover very quickly as it meant the bomb was then on the way down. The later more powerful V2 rockets were not a thing to worry about at all, either they missed you or you were dead! They were shot off high into the stratosphere and without much control landed where they liked with absolutely no warning at all, not even an air raid siren. The traditional bombing that did occur near to our house was of mainly stray bombs dropped by accident or unloaded when the true target couldn’t be reached by the then returning bombers. It was comforting to know that if a bomb did drop on the house it was not really meant for you!

Wars are not terrifying for boys only exciting. The true impact and meaning of the war only came home to us when we found that a chum at school stopped coming, and we had to pray for him at assembly. But we soon put that out of our minds and returned to our bartering for war relics like bits of shrapnel, bullet casings and foreign cigarette packets.

Recollections of a Warped Mind (No 9)

5) My involvement with Fighter Command in 1940

The indoctrination that took place during the war affected everything we did. It was one thing to be bombarded in the newspapers with acceptable news, but even in peripheral things there was the subversive mind twisting of our young brains. On one hand the bad news was reported obliquely. “Bombing raids took place in several industrial centres in Britain overnight,” not telling us where, as though that was reassuring. At the same time advertising happily talked of winning through, we were urged to save for victory, dig for victory, and to be like Dad and keep Mum! The jungle telegraph however was quite effective, it took next to no time for the news of heavy raids on the cities of Southampton and Portsmouth to be passed word of mouth across the country and the bombing of London we knew about because Dad would tell us about it the evening after work or in the morning if he had been on fire watch duty the previous night.

One incident in our own family which brought the war very close to us was the tale of the egg. One poor chicken in our backyard run laid and enormous misshapen egg. This egg was raffled off to the neighbours and friends of the family and the proceeds were sent to the “Buy a Fighter fund” which many a local Council had organised. So our poor chicken unwittingly helped the war effort and contributed in some small part to the building of a Hurricane or a Spitfire fighter plane.

The elements are not conscious of the deeds of man and the summer of 1940 was a glorious one. For Britain however there was little joy, having had to endure a defeat of massive proportions when the allied forces finally came up against Hitler’s advancing armies and escape from them at Dunkirk. It was at this time however that Chamberlain the lame duck Prime Minister had been replaced by the far more dynamic and forceful Winston Churchill. As a peace time politician he was regarded somewhat as a renegade or a stirrer. In war it was essential that he was in control as he was clever enough and strong enough to see the whole situation and to take the unpalatable decisions when he had to. His fighting spirit, his rhetoric and charisma and his ability to inspire trust was what was needed when defeat seemed so close to the nation at that time.

As that summer drew to a close the German Luftwaffe had for weeks been pounding the cities and industrial centres of Britain and our embattled fighter planes were being knocked out of the sky almost faster than they could be replaced, either by machines or manpower.

In September 1940 just before children returned to school for the new school year we made a trip down to a small village between Alton and Winchester, where a friend of my Father, Charlie Humphries had a small pub on the main road. This pub which was named an unlikely, “The Shant” was the place that I witnessed a dogfight between German and British fighter planes high above the rolling chalk downs of northern Hampshire. It was impossible to tell the planes apart as they were so high above us. Their tiny silhouettes and their vapour trails were all we could see. But it was there then on that hot summer afternoon in September that I too was part of the Battle of Britain.

It was fortunate then that our chicken had done her deed and the money contributed to the Fighter Fund had been put to good use. By the 15th September the major aerial dogfights were over, the Battle of Britain had been won. Winston Churchill talked later about how much was owed by so many to so few but our long suffering hen got not one word of praise.

Recollections of a Warped Mind (No 8)

The full impact of War as I stand face to face with Hitler.

I was a few months over three when war was declared. We as a family had quietly enjoyed one last holiday away from home in that sad summer of 1939. Those precious last few weeks of peace in August were for me my first holiday and also the last for six years. The adaptation to a life away from home, in those sunny days was less than satisfactory for me. It wasn’t that I had to contemplate the vulnerability of Britain as I faced the English Channel and unknowingly the threat from continental Europe, as I played on the beach with much of it being cordoned off to install barbed wire and to mine the waters. It was that I no longer had the run of the house, as we were in a cheap bed and breakfast in the back streets of Hastings. My toys had been left behind and I was subjected to new sensations as part of my growing up. Ice cream and the sea were the better ones and marmalade and sand in my orifices being the downside. (Work out for yourself which orifices I am referring to)

In those first few weeks of conflict after the declaration of war on the 3rd September 1939 there was at least a stalemate or phony war when nothing really happened. What conflict there was being conducted was well away from home in a foreign country. Being from a family a fair way down the socio-economic scale, (not that they had such things in those days), we did not suffer great deprivations on account of rationing or the absence of exotic foodstuffs and other wares from the shops. We merely continued to buy the cheapest of whatever there was available and were thankful for that.

For me the war and its regimentation was a way of life which I grew up with. I knew of no other life. I did not notice that things changed; that papers and the news therein grew smaller, as did the advertisements. Foodstuffs were standardised and for the most part were without brand names. Mind you, Stork margarine continued to advertise their non existent product all throughout the war to maintain their brand name in the public’s mind.

Confectionery which for us was a treat in any event remained so and the allowance per person did not really concern us. Later when I had pocket money, alternatives to sweets could always be found. My brother and I found that Horlicks tablets, Foster Clarks solid soup concentrate and lemonade powder were quite acceptable stand-ins.

Clothes of course were of no concern to children excepting that time wasting part of putting them on and taking them off, except in the winter when much of what you wore during the day would stay on at night as well. Naturally you complained if the shoes had holes and let the water in or the jumper had shrunk and no longer fitted. It was more likely however that the clothes wore out on you. When that happened you continued to wear them until your parents could afford to get you newer ones. Socks had potatoes in them, this is the description of bare heels and toes pocking through the worn wool.

Shoes were always a problem with boys as it is impossible for a boy to walk without scuffing his feet. And if anything is kickable it is kicked; stone, ball, stick or brother.

Being a younger brother I did get a few hand-me-downs but not so bad that I complained about it. I did complain about the kicks though.

The meaning of war was rammed home very early in my boyhood. War is the confrontation of two disagreeable parties who have or want the property of the other. My brother and I were at war. At best we were in a position of mutual dislike and in a shaky truce. When we were told to go out to play together it was like being punished. The only thing we had in common was parents, and I could never believe that I was really their child either. Once my Mother had to find the carefully preserved notice of my birth from the local paper to prove it to me on the day when I suggested I was adopted and they hadn’t told me.

When we were out of sight of the house, I had to keep my wits about me to avoid or at least fend off the blows that were certain to come my way. Regularly we went playing with other boys from the street, and often I would be left at some point while they continued their game or adventure. So I became a weak, introspective and miserable child. It didn’t help that I thought my (adoptive) parents loved my brother more than me. It was only as an adult that I found out that my brother felt the same way and was jealous of the attention that I received.

Recollections of Warped Mind (No. 7)

Mr. Chamberlain brings us the good news from Munich 1938.

I can honestly say that despite my tender years I was aware of the Second World War. My war was however coloured somewhat by the daily dose of propaganda on the radio or wireless as we knew it then and the daily papers. This information or misinformation had been served up to the masses daily from well before the war began. Quite by chance some sixty or more years later I had given me a British weekly magazine called Picture Post. It was the edition that celebrated the return from Munich of Mr. Chamberlain the Prime Minister of Great Britain, who had achieved what he thought was meaningful negotiations with Herr Hitler the Chancellor of Germany, over the Czechoslovakia problem. Czechoslovakia was a small, made up nation formed at the end of the First World War in 1919 from part of the former Austrian-Hungarian Empire. Chunks of the losing nations were joined together to create a composite of nationalities in the border region between Germany and Hungary. There were Czechs and Slovaks of course, but within the boundaries there were minorities of other peoples. I won’t use the term ‘race’ in case you think me racist. There were Poles and Magyars and Gypsies (or Romany) and not the least, Germans.

Czechoslovakia was an excellent example of peaceful coexistence of differing nationalities. It was comparatively rich in minerals and had a well developed industry. The Skoda motor works being a case in point.

Happiness and contentment are all very well in themselves but never let anyone know you feel this way. When Hitler came to power in 1933, he looked around Europe to see if anyone was happy and he noticed that the Czech people were looking pretty pleased with themselves. So he thought he would put a stop to that by demanding that the happy Germans living in Czechoslovakia should have the right to be happy Germans in Germany, so long as they stayed where they were and where they lived became part of Germany.

These thoughts of Hitler’s clearly became a crisis in the minds of those ‘good’ nations such as Britain and France that wanted to keep everything in Europe and the world for that matter just as it was. They needed to discuss the problem with Hitler. So the leaders of France and Britain decided the fate of little Czechoslovakia at a meeting in Munich and agreed to slices of that country being handed to Germany. This was the Sudetenland.

Incidentally no one invited the Czech prime minister to the talks but those that did take part emerged with smiles on their faces. The Czech government wisely accepted that they had no control over their own country. War had been averted. In hindsight this was patent nonsense. It had given Hitler a chance to assess the resolve of the Western powers and they proved to be lacking in this regard. Hitler marched into the Sudetenland and occupied the rest of Czechoslovakia in a very short time to the silence of the Western ‘powers’.

I was blissfully unaware of this crisis, as my advisors had left me woefully ill-informed. Like the rest of Europe, except for the Czechs that is, I slept peacefully in my cot and was mindless of the dragon that had been unleashed.

Recollections of a warped mind (No. 6)

Me and Mrs. Wallace Simpson

Now there isn’t a lot I can say about King Edward Eighth and the love of his life Mrs. Wallace Simpson. The problem being that almost no one knew what was going on. People in those days did not have the suspicious minds that we have today. A nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse as the saying goes. The British press were obliged to keep their traps shut about the romance, whilst the foreign press had a field day. There was honour amongst the press barons then. Not that we should give them any applause. In late 1936 when the story just had to come out because the King chose abdication “for the woman I love,” the British papers had for several years systematically censored out all reference to the future king’s affair.

Truth it is said is the first casualty of war. So the British people of which I was one, albeit only a few months old, were kept in the dark. Everybody of course had an opinion after the event. This was particularly the case because King Edward was a lovable man. He was the Brad Pitt come Princess Diana of the day. He visited depressed areas, talked to the unemployed and promised something would be done. People loved him for that despite the fact that he could in fact do nothing. The only thing to alleviate unemployment and poverty at that time was to have another war. And that wasn’t too far around the corner. Edward was a weak, misled and gullible fool and clearly none of his lady friends up to that time had the ability to make him think he was the opposite. When Wallace Simpson came on the scene she had that peculiar drive and ambition of an American, to be able to persuade him, incorrectly as it turned out, to assert himself and make his own decisions. The British had centuries before decided to behead kings who made up their own minds. Parliament was in charge through the elected government and the lovers soon found this out to their cost. Nowadays nobody gives a toss and who is sleeping with who, that is quite is immaterial. The sin was that he was king and as such had to marry a suitable person, with the right pedigree. Wallace Simpson had had two previous husbands, the last of which had been a house guest of the future king a few years previous. To embark on a marriage with her would have been making a morganatic marriage which was not good for the monarchy and the belief that kings of Britain were defenders of the faith, chosen by God and many other things besides, which made the populace love and adore them. So he went and lived a life of idle loneliness with his lover and performed no useful function for the rest of his life.

One sidelight to this sorry affair was the decision to have the coronation for his brother Albert (Bertie) on the same day regardless of the crisis and furore that was taking place. Thus on the 12th May 1937, I received, being a one year old at that time, a silver spoon to commemorate the event. The new king took the name George presumably because Albert the name of his revered great grand-father (at least by Queen Victoria) was too sacred to be recycled. Luckily the spoon had the right king’s portrait on it together with the word ‘Farnham’ my birthplace, engraved in the spoon itself. For years this was a treasured possession of mine and I even added it to the family silver when Maureen and I were married. It has disappeared now of course. Three children all needing to have spoons to dig in the garden over a number of years meant that it is probably laying buried awaiting archaeological discovery centuries hence. But I doubt if it will tell of my relationship with Mrs. Simpson.

Recollections of an warped mind (No 5)

What did you do in the war Daddy?

This was once an appeal to the not so patriotic to do their duty when the country was in peril. The child’s simple question would be answered by the parent feeling guilty or responsible and would thus be persuaded to do their bit for King and Country.

I thought it might be amusing to ask the question of myself or at least very similar ones, to determine what I was doing at momentous times, and how I can now account for my actions or lack of action at the time. Clearly it may be necessary for me to be economical with the truth, and bend facts and dates and events to suit my own personal history. That is the history that I remember.

Was I there? Well if not I was pretty damned close!

I play my part in the Spanish Civil War

Having been born on the 4th May 1936, the Spanish Civil was raging at this time. Looking back, had I had my current political inclinations as I emerged from the womb, no doubt I too would have been marching off, in my nappies to join the International Brigade, in order to defend the fledgling democracy that was too far left politically for it’s own good, in a country which unhappily nursed the Inquisition a few centuries previously to force the populace to conform to the unreasonable demands of the Catholic Church of the time. Well I can say that now but in truth I have always tried to avoid conflict particularly when a stranger you don’t know wants to put you in uniform and carry a rifle while he sits at home drinking his scotch while contemplating your next move. You move all right because you are a puppet on a string, with a stupid smile on your face because it has been painted there by propaganda.

History shows us time and time again that good does not prevail, so General Franco won in Spain, hundreds of foreign volunteers were blacklisted and his dictatorship lasted over thirty years. History also shows us that good does get a chance every now and again but good by its nature is weak, because it is reasonable, benevolent, considerate and anxious to please everyone. Bad, or the forces of evil, on the other hand is the opposite and by its unreasonableness, inhumanity, blindness and desire to please only those in control will be in power more often that not.

So what did I do at the time?

I cried. But my parents thought that I only had a dirty nappy.

Recollections of a warped mind No 4

War & Peace, Politics and Nationalisation

After all the dancing in the streets, the children’s’ Victory parties, the self congratulation, bonhomie and good will at the end of the World War 2, the real hate began. Basically this took two forms: politics at home and statesmanship abroad. Winston Churchill had delivered victory to the people and on Election Day 1945, the war was still being fought in Japan. So the voters delivered defeat for his Conservatives for getting us into the mess in the first place. It was my first awareness of a general election and I naturally assumed that as we took the Daily Mirror each day that my parents would vote Labour. Not so. We all trooped up to the polling booth as a family. I was only nine at the time and I preferred the colour red of Labour to that of blue for Conservative. I was most disappointed to hear Mum whisper that she had voted Conservative and I guess Dad did too. He always bought the Daily Express and that made him a bit suspect in any case, because the editorial used to be rather patriotic and criticise scathingly any suggested change to the established order, supporting the maintenance of the Empire and the continuation of fox hunting. But the paper did have Rupert Bear as a comic strip and so much of the former was therefore forgivable by a nine year old. I realised later that having two different political views to consider did me no harm at all. I could always listen to the other person’s point of view before arguing with them!

It was wonderful to experience Clement Attlee’s dynamic government in action doing so much for the country. All at once, there was the nationalisation of the transport particularly the Railways, the nationalisation of the Steel Industry, the Coal industry, the Docks, the establishment of a National Health Service, and the reform of the Education System. All this was achieved when the country was just about bankrupt from the war.

Then slowly the former Empire was given more independence, India, Pakistan, Ceylon and then a gaggle of African States were given the right to speak for themselves. It was a marvelous and stirring time to be living in. But clearly something was wrong, we still had food rationing right until the 1950’s, our car industry produced cars for export but few for home consumption and then we had an enormous debt to our allies the Americans who wanted to be paid or at least compensated for their contribution to the war.

So the miserable child became a cynic. Now of course, a child no more, I am just a miserable cynic.

Note: This piece of nonsense was written many years ago and discovering it I thought it deserved an airing.

Recollections of a warped Mind No 2

A long life gives you a varied and cosmopolitan view of transport. It is so changing so variable, so frustrating in its illogical way.

When I was younger during the war years, transport was limited to the public kind, buses and trains. Buses took me to school, took Mum to work otherwise we had to walk. Other than buses there were trains. Trains were far more exciting. They went to more interesting places, such as London where my Dad commuted every day.

Our world was very centralised around home. We lived a mile or so from Farnham, where I went to school at East Street School, which was on the eastern end of the town. Another few hundred yards on was the main shopping centre, West Street and The Borough, off of which was Downing Street where Mum worked in a Walkers Stores grocery shop. The Borough was where we caught the bus home at night after school, because we walked along East Street to the shop each night then went home with Mum after she finished work. Dad worked in London and he came home most nights after six o’clock. We travelled on the number 14 bus that in those days went from Aldershot to Winchester every hour.

Dad caught the train at Aldershot early in the morning after a long brisk walk from our home at Heath End to the Railway Station there. None of us had a bike and strangely enough my Mum never learnt to ride one. She was funny that way, she would have been more at home if modern inventions like the bicycle, the car, escalators and lifts had never been in invented. She didn’t understand them and was consequently petrified of travelling on them. Buses were O.K. but only just. I remember once she nearly had a fit when the bus driver took his hands of the steering wheel to comb his hair, the bus was probably stationary at the time!. She was up out of her seat and banging on the glass partition that separated the driver from the passengers to get him to be more attentive. She then protested long and loud to the bus conductor who embarrassed by this outburst was clearly hoping we wouldn’t be travelling far with him.

Because we so rarely rode in a car we were unaware of the correct etiquette in doing so. After the War when we were permitted to go on holiday again our once a year trip in a taxi would take place. It would be from home to the station and from the destination station to the holiday accommodation. Everyone in the family would be embarrassed not knowing whether we were allowed to talk in the car while we were being driven or worse still if conversation with the driver was permitted. Our journeys in taxis were therefore endured in utter silence or rarely in self conscious whispers. Dad was left to conduct business with the driver and handle the luggage. Mum and us boys were mute and invisible.

All this changed when my brother and I were given bikes. Learning was easy as the road we lived at that stage was level and not frequented by many vehicles. It was many years before the ownership of cars by the ordinary citizen became possible. If our road was used by vehicles they were mainly delivery vans plying their goods at a very slow place along the street. The baker in fact used a horse drawn van for a very long time. The Milkman came so early in the morning on his electric milk float that he was never a threat, the Grocer, the Coal merchant, Rag and Bone Man were easily avoided and the French Onion man travelled by bike too. So our wobbly beginnings were unimpeded by traffic and confidence was soon reached.

Later cycling opened up the countryside for us as we were able to explore the whole of the environs of Alton where we then lived up to about 15 miles radius. Our passion in those early teen years was train spotting and having done our dash with the local shunting engines and boring electrics, we went further afield to Basingstoke, Hook, Winchfield and Farnborough to sight these denizens of steam that were like the dinosaurs soon to become extinct. With our Ian Allen check list of locomotive numbers we hoped the next express train to pass by was hauled by a locomotive not sighted before.

Train journeys too after the War were great broadeners of the mind. Travel in wartime was a problem especially in the early years when the bombing of London resulted in many delays to schedules. It was exciting then to visit the capital, because that was where Dad worked and we boys were fascinated by the crowds, the traffic, the noise and the dirtiness of the place as well as the destroyed and derelict buildings to show what war really meant. London as I remember it from those days was a damp and grey world, almost like a nether world of strange sights and sounds that were quite alien to our cosseted way of life forty miles away.

At the war’s end train travel meant holidays, new adventures, sunshine and the blessed release from the normal way of life. Most of the south of England of my childhood was serviced by the ubiquitous Southern Electric trains. Generally they were comfortable, fast, smooth conveyances that we should have been really proud of. We were not! Our fascination for steam meant that these trains were boring and as more of our holidays were spent on the South Coast we had no option but to suffer trains without steam engines to haul them. Luckily we spent one holiday on the Isle of Wight at Sandown in 1950. The trains there were all old steam tank engines of great vintage. That holiday we spent much of the time exploring the island by train which was possible back then. Us boys were delighted and mother was calmer as she couldn't see the driver!

When I was at Grammar School, I lost interest in steam and concentrated far too much time with the opposite sex. One dear friend I had then, a stunning girl who lived at just a few miles out of town took the train home each night. I used to walk her to the station and the little push-pull engine and one or two carriages would take her from me each evening to wend it’s way through the Itchen valley to Winchester and on to Southampton. That is when transport took on a different meaning, I myself was transported! I had discovered love which was to be my life long hobby.

Recollections of a warped mind No 1

Many years ago I fell in love with Connie. No, that is not true, I lusted after her. She was young enough to have been my daughter. She was a young tracer in the Drawing Office where I ran a section in a now defunct government department. She was assigned to me and in the days of very short mini skirts she used to attract the attention of all in the office when she worked on her drawing board, getting off of her stool, standing up and bending over to reach the top of the plan she was working on while the eyes of males around admired her pretty frilly briefs and curvy youthful thighs. Once she was mine to supervise, I tactfully told her of the distraction she was causing. She was surprised, but not offended by my mentioning this and somehow she seemed to bond to me after that. I became a second father figure to her so I alone was allowed to admire her legs and bum and sweet face and also to share all her confidences. These included the disaster of her leaving home to share some digs with a girlfriend as well as learning that the reason for leaving home was the impending split up of her parents. Later I had to enthuse over the news of her new boyfriend at Uni and their future plans culminating in her marriage where both my wife and I were invited to the ceremony. I said to her before the big day “I’ll be there but you won’t see me”. She looked at me puzzled “Of course I will” she retorted. Later after the honeymoon when she returned to work she had to admit she hadn’t seen me.

Her skirts however became longer. She still needed to talk about her life though; so their day to day problems were brought to me, such as the need to find a decent flat for themselves; the frustration with her husband’s little foibles such as how scruffy he was and their grand plans of building their own house in the foothills outside of town and him starting his own business. I was always there to nod and sympathise and let her give vent to life’s frustrations.

When she talked to me it was ostensibly about work but I could tell when it was personal when she would plonk the plans she was working on onto to my desk and draw up a seat and get close enough so no one else could hear what we were saying. I must confess as I perused her work and checked it, my hand would occasionally stray and touch her hand as we discussed everything under the sun other than plans she was working on. This was a very pretty hand, albeit with a wedding ring on. She never withdrew it straight away but contemplated our joint misbehaviour and then gradually took that temptation away. This was never done in such a way as to say don’t do it next time which was just as well as fingers were touched again on many occasion.

Many, many years later as I recall those years, I wonder what on earth I was thinking about. However when you come into contact with a beautiful person who you can bond with and clearly like each other, how do your show them? I never kissed her other than one peck on the cheek when she was heavily pregnant as I presented her with a gift from the office on her last day at work.

I know what I was thinking about. It was telling someone that they were special. She knew I cared for her and thought she was beautiful. She also knew that she could trust me to keep what she said to myself alone. Even that time she said “You don’t think I am getting varicose veins on my legs do you?” showing me some flesh above the knees. I must confess I never even told my wife that.

Recollections of a warped mind No. 3 - Game

Over fifty years ago when we were first married we both worked together for the same firm. It was a big national brewery with branches all over England, but that is another story in itself. We had both been brought up in families that found our amusements at home, before the insidious TV ruled the world. So we were used to board and card games and these were always a constant pastime with both relatives and friends.

Our Saturday evenings out were rarely to a commercial establishment but a quiet game of cards or such at another couple's home or they visited us. There was however a social club at work that on Tuesday evenings ran a progressive Whist drive. This old game of cards, a forerunner of Bridge, was a great game for socialising as winning pairs had to split up and either go up or down the tables whilst the losers similarly sat at the same table but with a separate partner.

We were quite adept at the game and often were in the prize money. We got used to the partners that played well and groaned inwardly when the ones that didn't have a clue sat down opposite. Just before Christmas a special event was held and even more couples were encouraged to take part because of the special prizes that had been donated.

As luck would have it, I managed to get the highest score that night. My card was checked and rechecked and I was duly pronounced the winner and invited to go and collect my prize. I could see Maureen beaming all over her face in anticipation. There at the prize table I was duly presented with a brace of Pheasants! When the applause died down I looked back at Maureen and she at me, both with horror on our faces.

As the other minor prizes were awarded we sat together contemplating our luck to have a pair of sad, undressed, feathery birds to take home. As we discussed the possibilities of their disposal to any likely relative or at the worst an early burial for the unfortunate creatures, we were joined by well wishers, saying how lucky we were. As we expressed our doubt of being able to cope with the hanging, plucking, dressing, and other preparation of the prize, let alone the thought of eating them, an interested player with no luck at cards offered to buy them from us.

Never had we ever felt so relieved to hear his words. With scarcely a nod to each other the deal was struck, the birds and money exchanged, and there were happy customers all round.

So it was that in those long gone days we were not game to eat game!

Picture - Brace of Pheasants, Oil painting by Jessica Brown

My Roman Affair

(OK, so this isn't new but it has not been posted to a prompt before so I thought it needed another airing for newer readers.)   

I looked down at the plate. What had they given us this time? It was 9.30pm Maureen and I were in a ristorante in Rome with the rest of the coach party. It was our last night in the city and and we were enjoying our farewell dinner. The place was crowded, and this was no understatement. It was packed to the rafters! When we had arrived our hearts sank as we could see the place was full. Surely the arrangements had gone seriously wrong. But no, we were ushered in, through the ground floor dining rooms, down a passage, past the kitchens when ten or more chefs and kitchen hands worked in a typical latin frenzy.

At the end of the passage we turned left and squeezed past waiters moving back and forth from service areas to eating areas. Then we went down some steep stairs to the lowest rooms of the building, we had arrived in a series of subterranean vaults that had been converted to dining rooms. We made our way through the mass of diners already eating and eventually found ourselves in a corner with just enough tables and chairs to seat our party.

I automatically looked for the fire exit; there was none! In my mind I read the page three European news in my local Australian newspaper. "Hundreds die in restaurant fire in Rome. Australian tourists believed to be victims. Difficulty in identifying charred bodies. Police have issued an arrest warrant for missing restaurant owner."

We all sat down. Then with typical Italian flourish we were welcomed by the waiter who fussed around the women with smooth courtesy. Wine and water were placed on the table and we were encouraged to ask for more when that ran out. It was included in the meal. So things were not so bad after all! The bottled water might help to put out any fire that started!

The gourmet food and wine were consumed, course by course. Laughter erupted out of the conversation like a natural by-product at such a gathering. New friendships forged in recent days spoke of enduring relationships and the wine flowed. The waiters teased, picked their favorites and customers allowed them liberties that they would laugh about or perhaps choose not to remember in the morning.

My eyes strayed from the group. Through an archway in the wall another party were similarly disposed. A family group of Italian grandparents, parents and children joined in the repartee with the waiters and shouted encouragement at their antics. The eldest granddaughter was a Gina Lollabrigida type; dark eyes, flowing black hair and a sensuality that reflected in every movement.

The main course was served and with a clatter of plates, the most handsome waiter chose his favorite at each table to present their meal on a silver platter. He insisted on a reward of course. He drew his napkin from his arm and with no lack of Latin charm shielded his chosen lady while he stole a kiss. If she resisted he persevered. If she encouraged he took his time. There was no escape and the crowded room erupted with laughter. The wine bottles were exchanged.

I glanced back to family through the arch. A three piece group of musicians were serenading each table and had arrived at Gina Lollabrigida's. She was entranced. She wriggled with desire and rose willingly when the singer invited her to dance. She swayed voluptuously in his arms, her eyes shining and her body reflecting the rhythm of the music. The singer was called away by the leader of the group and she stood in hurt solitude, her supple young body not yet ready to give up. A passing waiter found himself dancing with her, but he was too keen and held her close to feel that young body against him. She frowned, shook her head and released him from her grasp. Yet another waiter was chosen, this one was a fine dancer too. He held her lightly, and led her around the tiny space available, their bodies moving in perfect timing with the music. She closed her eyes in ectasy with a seductive smile on her face.

I was captivated.

The band of minstrels moved away from their area and she reluctantly returned to the family's table and sat down.

I returned to my Gnocchi.

A little while later the musicians approached our table. What fun it was. The ladies were serenaded in turn and the men were encouraged to place a note on the guitar if they approved of the music. There was certainly no room to dance where we were but the thrill of the seductive music, the charm of the Romeo musicians and the effect of the wine showed in the eyes of our partners.

I do not know what made me glance back to the dark eyed nymph through the archway, but I did. She was pouting with exasperation that the music was so close again but unavailable to her. She remonstrated with the singer to come back to her, but he merely smiled and turned back to our group. I kept my eyes on her. For the first time now facing in our direction she saw me too. There was the merest hint of understanding. We searched each others faces and for just one second she was mine. But the moment was brief. In that time I too held her in my arms and danced with her. I could feel that sensuous body against mine and I kissed those red lips.

We both turned away at the same time, then she was lost to me forever.

I returned to my glass of wine and smiled brightly at Maureen and the others on my table hoping my eyes would not reveal my passionate affair.

(Danse a la ville, painting by Renoir c 1883)