Clegg Young Thoughts of a Man

1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-83615-101-2
Verlag: Grosvenor House Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 281 Seiten

The book opens with early 1950's life as viewed through the eyes of a child up until the age of seven, when out flow the memories of growing up in Ludlow, South Shropshire in the late1950's-early 1960's, capturing a mode of existence now lost in the mists of time. In the two main streets featured, only one house had a phone; prior to the late 50's only one had a TV set; laundry was done in sink or boiler, before being wrung through a mangle; most family vegetables were grown in the back garden; there was no central heating; the only take-away was the downtown chip shop, over half a mile away; the nearest thing to an off-licence was a service hatch at the local; there were two main grocery stores, but no supermarkets; no domestic refrigerators; plastic in the shape of buckets, bowls and bags had yet to make an impact; most mothers wore corsets and most men didn't use deodorant. The small market town of approximately 6,000 souls boasted twenty eight pubs, but Chinese and Indian restaurants were as yet unheard of. There were two cinemas, seven butchers, four bakeries and two newsagents, but no hint of titillation along the top shelves, for shudder the thought, even the sexual mysteries of life were rarely explained. Compared to today, things were certainly Spartan, but underlying all was a sense of immense fun as the locals forged a fresh start emerging victorious from the Second World War. The food had far more flavour; beer was the equivalent of less than half the price of a pint today; the Sunday joint was succulent and would last well into the following week; there was no real need to lock house doors; children invented their own games, roaming far and wide without their parents fretting; the family doctor would visit for something serious, but for the usual round of colds, flu, mumps, measles or chicken pox, mothers took care of things. Play clothes were often hand-me-downs courtesy of family and friends and if a neighbour needed help, it was soon forthcoming. Very few owned cars, making the family bike essential and with money being tight, holidays were often taken by staying with relatives. Amongst all this was a small gang of lads, playing out the parts of their sporting and movie heroes; inventing games of dare; exploring as far as their legs would take them; building camps in trees and hedgerows and often puzzling over the mysteries of a sexual nature. Much of the humour is contained in the fact they considered themselves far more 'grown-up' and in control than they actually were, leading to many glorious failures. This book is a tribute to those I shared those escapades with, for we literally had the time of our lives and yes, I've published other works, but It has taken years to come up with a style that hopefully captures the fun and innocence of those days. Basically, this is the book I've always wanted to write.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Clegg, John

Leseproben

England

Next thing it was England. Alright, I obviously wouldn’t have realised that immediately, but in the fullness of time, began to get the drift. Also, even though the first birthday I recall was my fifth, logic tells me, that when I first saw that lady in a blue frock, looking dwarfed by a pair of black doors far side of a busy street, I must have been two and a half and also as my new nanna smiled, spreading her arms in welcome, instincts hinted she and I would be getting along famously.

Initially, it was all very confusing, but the way she bustled and fussed, cheered me up no end. Not as much as when first meeting cousin Jennifer mind you. She just had the edge on me age-wise, in fact was a full four months older and hadn’t wasted a single second of it, getting up to all sorts of tricks, leaving me quite breathless. Attempting to keep up with her was initially frustrating, but as I felt coordination improving, was able to assist in serious tasks, such as carrying glass bottles down to those huge black gates mentioned and we giggled together, listening to their cheery progress, rattling and clanking down the pavement outside. They were beer bottles, for I now lived at the Compasses Hotel, roughly halfway up the slope of Corve Street.

I don’t remember being told not to roll bottles down the street, it was more a matter of there not being sufficient room one day, to actually squeeze them under the gate. In fact, there was only just enough room for a one-eyed squint, for on certain mornings, if I lay on my side, I could just make out the quick-scissor flurry of hooves drumming across splatter, plus the odd skip at stick-thwack and guttural shout. The pub was located on the main road through town and the weekly auction was held in the large expanse of corrugated iron sheds and steel pens down near the train station. Sometimes, when the sheep were driven through it sounded like the sudden onset of heavy rain.

My mother told me, that I would often beg to be taken there to peer over the brick wall at the cattle packed in the pens, but to be honest, I have no recollection of it. Not the slightest glimmer. It seems you can’t choose memories any more than you can decide what to dream.

One day, the milkman gave Jennifer and myself a ride in his delivery cart. We were helped up onto the metal step, then through the small door that was clicked shut and we sat together, beyond the churns, on a neat little side seat. I remember the immensity of the horse, its not unpleasant odour and as we jerked forward, how its broad back with everything in motion, swayed from side to side and yet the cart whirled along in a perfectly straight line. The rhythmic clipping of hooves echoed in the lanes and we felt like the most important people alive. Not surprisingly, whenever catching sight of the nice Mr. Tilt, even though wagging fingers and serious reproaches warned us not to pester the man, we wanted to climb aboard at every opportunity.

On another day we were taken for a picnic at Wigmore Castle. I know that’s where it must have been, for I distinctly remember the grassed banking rising steeply above where cars were once allowed to park, at the lane end, opposite a muddy farm. I have no recollection of the ruins across the fields, but didn’t forget that grassed banking, for on it was some dried white poo to which cousin Jen laid claim, piping up brightly, “I just did that.”

Was there any end to this little minx’s abilities?

Alright, I’d been rather naïve, just like when a massive low-loader truck rolled past one day in Shrewsbury. I was living there at the time, but won’t go into that just now, other than say the odd-job man who lived in the same residence, told me the vehicle was for scribing red lines down the margins of writing paper. It seemed an awful lot of rumbling equipment for such a small task, but I trusted Old Bill and so it wasn’t until sometime later I thought, ‘What a load of old dog poo! That truck was a tank transporter!’

Swiftly moving back to those early Ludlow memories; on market days the pub used to be heaving. It was fascinating and I’d watch all the activity as it unfolded below my secret vantage point, a tiny glass paned window at the turn in the stairs. Hanging above all, was a light haze of tobacco smoke and men in light brown coats stood in huddles or leant on the bar, as a never-ending supply of glasses full of brown liquid, went from the cranking pumps to awaiting hands.

Above the general hubbub of conversation, the odd voice would ring out, followed by guttural laughter and amongst all my mother would fearlessly wend her way, emptying ashtrays, collecting empty glasses and wiping tables. My grandfather, known to us as Uncle Stan, (I’ll explain later) seemed to be the main pump-puller, with sweat gleaming on ruddy brow, but also my mother would occasionally lend a hand at one of the mechanisms that kept the liquid flowing.

I remember one day a cheer ringing out, as my grandmother, with a white cloth of action draped over a shoulder, sailed amongst all to deliver an urgent demand. I was later told, she had given Uncle Stan strict orders to clear the men from the gents’ toilets, an outside facility with its entrance just beyond where she’d been slaving in the kitchen. She had grown heartily sick of the singing.

This tickled me no end, for that witnessed from my vantage point already went way beyond the behaviour expected of everyday, sensible adults, who I’d noticed seemed to find things in the bar far funnier than life normally encountered, but now came the news, some even went outside to linger and sing in the gents’ toilets. I was probably, only about three at the time and so was quite puzzled as to the cause?

Then one day, sitting there minding my own business, I realised I’d been spotted, for an angry face snarled up and a stick was prodded in my direction. Truly frightened, I retreated to my room, but then thought, ‘He really has no right to do that!’ I reasoned, it was my grandmother’s pub and she was quite happy for me to sit there.

Plucking up courage, I crept back to peep down into the bar once more, but there he was, waiting and my whole insides jumped as he approached to snarl and wave his stick. Back in my room I was truly shaken and felt deeply troubled, worried regarding the safety of my mother working amongst such monsters. How could she seem so blithe and untroubled, using just the odd flick of a tea towel to keep them at bay?

On quieter days, I’d sometimes venture down to the bar and without really inviting it, would receive a fair deal of attention and the odd small gift, but I always checked first to make sure that man was not there. Even on the occasion when he sat on a stool smiling, all his ruddy hatred dissolved and my mother coaxing me not to be frightened, for he’d only been joking, I still wouldn’t go near him. He could smile all he liked, but he’d had his chance and it troubled me not that he now looked sheepish.

Of course, I wasn’t allowed beyond the main doors of the pub, but was free to wander into the yard out the back, where I always felt rather overshadowed by the massive stone wall on the northern side. I wouldn’t have known it then, but it is a remnant of the town’s mediaeval defences and the Compasses pub stands on the western side of what would have been the Corve Gate.

There wasn’t much to do when out there on my own, the chickens in their coop being only of passing interest, but then one day, beckoned by a cheery call, I looked up to see my sister and a friend had somehow climbed onto a parapet running parallel with the kitchen roof. Now this seemed more like it, but how had they got up there? My admiration was tinged with mild frustration of not being able to join them.

During opening hours, folk would use the pub yard as a shortcut between Linney and Corve Street, marching straight through where I was playing and sometimes boys roughly my age, accompanying their mothers, would stare as if I happened to be some sort of local curiosity.

With them merely passing through, my efforts at friendship were at most faint-hearted, but being stuck there on my own, I’d sometimes give it a go. First, however, it was important to establish their age and after a brief exchange I’d put this question to the mother. I don’t know why it was, but even at that age I thought, ‘Why don’t they ever give a straight answer?’ What did, ‘Four in December,’ mean to a young lad who’d not yet learnt to count and certainly didn’t know the progression of the months?

Even so, I would politely say thank you and as they continued on their way, back it up with a nonchalant whistle, leaving them in no doubt as to my credentials. Sometimes a moon-faced boy would look back in surprise, but I’d think, ‘Why do so many faces seem so dull?’ Very few I met in those early days made me come alive like cousin Jennifer did.

So, the fact I could whistle, means I was probably approaching four years old.

Now, before I continue, I’ll have to take you back a bit, before that moment of shock and exhilaration, when that first perfect note had escaped my lips. I remember feeling really fed up one day, for I had nothing to do, could find no-one to talk to and even my mother seemed to have disappeared. Everything was deadly quiet, exceedingly dull, almost as if the very air had become too heavy to raise itself from the dust in the yard. I called out for my mother, then for my sister, but the reply I got shocked me to a standstill. Looking up, I spotted two girls atop the high stone wall and they were not only pulling faces, they were mimicking me. I certainly wasn’t going to run from view and so had to suffer those whiney voices, daring to mock me. I...