Papa’s journal

My earliest memory is of my mother melting goose oil in a spoon held over an old fashioned gas jet in a bedroom, then making me open my mouth so she could pour the nauseating liquid down my throat.  This was to bring up the thick viscid fluid that threatened to choke me.  One never hears of the illness croup today, nor of the remedy, but back then this remedy was very effective, though loathsome.

It may be my avidity for the imaginative that forced me to withdraw into myself and become something of a lonely child.  I have never had any difficulty in keeping secrets and confidences.  Another thing, we were very poor, but very proud, and I personally have always had an abhorrence of accepting charity.  On one occasion I found my mother had accepted a parcel of groceries from a neighbour at a time when we were struggling against adversity – I begged her to return the parcel.  Mother ignored my pleading; she believed implicitly in God and that Providence would always provide – and he did! 

Mother was a devout churchwoman, and with my brothers I attended the English church of St Mary, situated on the Bristol Road, Selly Oak, near Birmingham.  Here I revelled in all the Old Testament Bible stories, which my imagination made very real for me:  Joseph with his coat of many colours was let down into a pit at the bottom of our narrow garden in Heeley Road, whilst David slew Goliath in the same surroundings, and Daniel turned the lions into docile friends near where we grew a few potatoes to make up for the scarcity of money. 

We had a small grotto in the tiny garden, in which we placed pieces of coloured glass and anything else that seemed to give it colour and unusual interest.  I suppose we couldn’t afford to aspire to a rockery, and had to be content with this cheap imitation. 

My memories of our neighbours is still very clear; one grew masses of beautiful sweet peas on a trellis, which I thought was wonderful.  Another was a drunkard who had a sickly child about whom the women sadly shook their heads ominously.  I remember my detestation of the father on hearing it said that when a neighbour sent along an egg custard for the child, the father ate it himself. There was also the woman who obviously could never get her finances in order and was continuously paying visits to the local pawn-broker, either to pledge something or redeem an article before her husband returned home.  Then there was the wife who took in washing because her husband was too lazy to work; she was often not seen for days because ‘she don’t want to show her black eye’. 

One of the highlights of my life was the occasional visit from our uncle Charlie, from the great City of London.  He seemed always to be wearing knee britches and a Norfolk jacket.  He was a graduate of Cambridge University, became a headmaster of a London grammar school, and was the chairman of the political party that sent the late Horatio Bottomley to parliament.  Horatio Bottomley is mainly remembered today for having been sentenced in 1922 to penal servitude for fraud! Uncle Charlie’s visits were anticipated with keen expectancy because he was very jolly, and guffawed heartily after every sentence he uttered.  He demonstrated his interest in us children by dipping his hand deep into his trouser pocket, then, with his jolly manner and air of mystery, he’d say ‘now, what do you think I’ve got for you?’  And we, having been warned in advance by mother to not say anything, but to maintain an expected silence.  Then with a loud guffaw and feigned difficulty in extracting his hand from his pocket, Uncle Charlie would look with great surprise at the shining silver coins.  He would then place a bright new shilling in the hands of four astonished boys and one little sister. 

Uncle Charlie lived in a large house in Hackney, London. – in those days an important residential district, and once, as a very small boy, I was taken there for a holiday by my beneficent uncle as a result of one of his visits to Selly Oak.  The only thing I remember about the journey was the thrill of being taken in a horse-drawn tram across London. My memories of the house are far more fresh in my mind, for I remember that I had to live ‘below-stairs in the servants’ quarters, being cautioned that I must never go upstairs unless taken there.  Occasionally I was allowed to climb the stairs to the ‘forbidden’ territory to play in the nursery, the highlight of which was to ride my cousin’s splendid rocking horse. Once a week, on Sunday afternoons, I was taken to the large dining room to have tea with my aunt, uncle and any guests.  On these exalted occasions I was instructed not to speak unless spoken to, to be careful not to make a noise when drinking my tea and to not take a cake until one was offered to me.  I had two cousins, a boy and a girl, both older than me.  I concluded that they were either kept away from me or were away at boarding schools, for I never saw either of them. 

There was a servant called Lizzie, who looked after me, and I, being only six years of age, slept in a small bed in Lizzie’s room.  She was always very kind to me and I became very attached to her.  I was dependent on her, particularly to make sure I was properly dressed on my weekly visits to the large dining room. Lizzie occasionally took me into the large garden at the back of the house.  It had a beautiful lawn that was like velvet to walk on, and there was a wooden summerhouse stacked with wicker chairs and other garden furniture, but I was never allowed inside; in fact, I was permitted in the garden only when no one else except Lizzie was there. I remember with an air of reverence and mystery, a winding iron spiral staircase leading up from the garden to my uncle’s study.  Lizzie told me I had better keep away from it.  However, once I crept up to the iron balcony at the top of the staircase, and gave a quick, guilty, burning with curiosity, look through the window.  There was a large globe of the world and rows and rows of books lining the wall.  Overlooking it all was a picture of King Edward the 7th, resplendent in crimson and gold.  Truly, this was a ‘holy of holies’ and I stole away feeling that I had had a glimpse into a hitherto unknown world. 

There was a special occasion when Lizzie took me into the garden, and this was a wonderful experience for me, for she gave me a piece of bread and told me to walk softly as far as the summerhouse, adding that if I was very quiet a little robin might come to me.  Once I had seen a picture of a robin in a book, and I asked excitedly whether the robin would have a red breast, like the one I’d seen in the picture.  Lizzie smiled at my excitement and assured me he would have a red breast, then to my astonishment, she confided that she knew this robin very well and he might be friendly if I didn’t frighten him. Lizzie followed me to the summerhouse and I waited, but the robin didn’t come.  She then told me to break off a bit of bread and throw it, which I did, and to my great surprise and joy, a robin seemed to come from nowhere and picked up the bread.  I was thrilled, and when the robin hopped towards me, chirruping, I was so happy that my eyes filled with tears.  Smiling, Lizzie stooped and wiped away my tears, then said ‘bend down and hold out the bread on your hand, but don’t be afraid’.  The robin gave a couple of chirrups, cocked its head to one side, then flew up and settled on my hand, pecking at the bread.