Uncomplicated pleasures & the innocence of childhood

As an only child of parents who were only children – and whose mother had been fostered from birth by an unmarried lady – I had few uncles and aunts, no maternal grandparents, and of course no brothers and sisters. Was this an unusual situation? In many ways no doubt it was, and yet it has to be asked, “What would a ‘usual’ family be like?” My father, as an employee of British Railways, was exempt from call–up. Had he not been, I could well have never known him; and it is not inconceivable that my mother would have had to return to living with her foster mother. Because, without my father’s wages, it is next to impossible that my mother could have worked, brought me up, and afforded a flat. 

So it was that Jessie Squire, my mother’s foster mother, was the ‘aunt’ that I knew best. And it could well be said that I was the grandchild she never had, just as my mother was the child that she never had. The relationship, as I remember it, was entirely unproblematic. I liked visiting and sometimes staying at, her house; and I’m sure that she was equally happy during these times. Her house – semi–detached and bow–windowed – was in Elphinstone Avenue, Hastings (and was, I’m sure a ‘between the wars’ development). Everything about it took on a significance that can only occur in childhood. For example the front garden gate – wooden and half fan lighted – was painted, as I now see in my mind’s eye, in a perfectly hideous green. But no matter: it was aunt Jess’ gate, and entrance to a house that was much more homely and comfortable than our own near–austerity flat. Furthermore, there were such treats as bread and condensed milk, bread and Demerara sugar, bread and dripping, and – delight of delights! – breaded plaice, well–buttered mashed potato, and peas. This I would eat at the end of the bare wooden kitchen table. Almost, I can see myself as the subject of a Cruikshank illustration (though I have difficulty in conjuring how he would have depicted Jess). My mother told me that there was once one problem when I stayed with aunt Jess: “I wouldn’t have come if I’d known you were going to give me a bath.”!

In my exploration of the house and garden, I remember two things that particularly fascinated me: cigarette cards, which I discovered in a draw; and a Victorian (or perhaps Edwardian) knife– sharpening machine in the garden shed. I cannot remember with any certainty what was depicted on the cigarette cards. I seem to remember a nautical theme – battleships and so forth – but if they were Players Navy Cut cards, then I may be remembering the striking packet design, as here illustrated. But they may have depicted footballers, coronations, or wild flowers. I will never know. As for the knife–sharpening machine, it seemed to contain an inexhaustible supply of light reddish–brown knife–sharpening powder. At least I

managed to get the stuff to spill out every time I played with this machine that looked for all the world like a mini organ–grinder. It frustrated me that I had no idea how to work it, and suspected anyway that it was beyond repair. This is, I think, a common frustration of children: to find something – like an old bicycle – and not to be able to get it to work!

One of my earliest of memories is of a present I bought aunt Jess, when my mother and I were on holiday at Ventnor in the Isle of Wight. I remember nothing of the journey, except for the tunnel under St Boniface Down on the approach to Ventnor. The coaches on the train were of the old compartmental, non corridor type; they also had no lighting, so that in the tunnel

Ventnor tunnel

we were in pitch darkness. And, until we closed the windows – the old heavy strap-type – enveloped in smoke from the engine. There was a man in our compartment, and I remember a vague fear that he might ‘do something to us’ . . .

I remember playing on the yellow sands of Ventnor with my bucket and spade; and if it rained while we were there it cannot have been sufficient to spoil our holiday. The present I bought aunt Jess was a Toby jug, in the colours of the Union Jack . . . Well, aunt Jess put some flowers in it and put it on top of the piano. But it was made of alabaster, and the water percolated through, and the paint began to peel off. I was mortified, but learnt from my mother years later that aunt Jess was quite relieved because she couldn’t stand this piece of latter–day tourist tat!

In later years, when Jess moved to a flat in Pevensey Road, Hastings, I would often visit her after school, and she would cook me an evening meal. I would listen to the Goon Show, while aunt was cooking; and after we’d eaten we’d play cribbage or rummy. I had no impatience to go, and I was not bored. These were pleasurable times: for me and aunt Jess. And, of course, a break for my mother.