In 1941 my father was in the RAF. I was always a little proud of the fact that he did not wait to be called up. He volunteered.
At this time he was a Flight Sergeant: a wireless operator, air gunner. However, this was not combat status. He trained others to fight for King and Country.
And so it was, in the year identified, that Dad was posted to a camp near Porthcawl called (if my memory serves me well) Stormy Down. We, namely my Mother, my Brother and I, left our temporary abode in Dunstable (about which more on another occasion), and moved to South Street, Porthcawl. I was quickly registered at Station Road School, which was the fourth of nine schools I was to attend until I left education at the age of sixteen. Although it was my fourth seat of learning, it was there that I met my first love (about which more on another occasion).
Anyway, the point of this tale is to relate what happened to me one sunny afternoon on my way to school. It was not too far from my temporary home in South Street, so it was my custom to return there for lunch.
On this particular day, I was walking alone down Station Road, and was about 200 yards from the School gates, when I heard my name called from behind me. I turned, and there were two lads of my age, one that I knew (let’s call him David), and the other was unknown to me. I stopped for them to catch up with me, and David said something along the lines of ‘My friend says that he thinks he can beat you in a fight, and I said I didn’t think he could’. From that day, to the present time, I have not understood why this simple statement should signal the start of hostilities. But it did. For no other reason, the two of us started fighting in the middle of the pavement. I use the word ‘fighting’ rather loosely. Arms and little ten year old fists were flying all over the place. However, unsophisticated though the encounter was, it soon became apparent that my opponent was much better at it than I was. There were certainly two occasions when I requested a short break to recover from blows to the head. I sat on a low wall for this purpose, and once sufficiently recovered, launched myself forward for what seemed to be the sole purpose of enduring further pain.
Suddenly, everything changed. Being close to capitulation, and the lifelong shame that this would bring, I found that my fist had landed quite a wallop on his nose. Wow! There was blood everywhere, and it is possible that the Station Road pavement still bears the stain. I was elated at this change in fortunes, but before I could think of pressing home my advantage, a lady pushing a pram passed by, and stopped to tell us that we were disgraceful and said that we should be ashamed of ourselves. Anyway, why aren’t you in school she asked.
School! In our efforts to establish physical superiority, we had overlooked our educational needs. It was now past two o’clock, and we should have been seated at our desks.
Not only was this lad a better fighter than me, he was also a faster runner. So, with the evidence of my questionable victory still running from his nose, he raced into the school and went straight to the wash basin area. As I ran past, his head was under a running tap. ‘Sorry’ I called out as I headed for my classroom. Sorry? I have never understood why I said that. It probably says a great deal about the person I grew up to be. Who knows?
I opened the classroom door, and there it was. The only unoccupied desk in the room. With head down I moved as quickly as possible to fill the empty space. I had almost reached it, when the teacher, a Mr Thomas, called my name. ‘da Costa’ he said, ‘come out here’. He had a strong Welsh accent, and a rather deep voice. I can hear it to this day. I sheepishly moved to the front of the class to receive whatever punishment he thought fit. ‘Did I see you fighting in the street just now’ he asked. I nodded. This was not good. Being late was bad enough, but brawling in public was not the best image for the school. I held my breath. ‘Well now’ he said ‘if this
happens again’. I waited. ‘Keep your left hand up in front of your face, push your right hand forward, and keep moving round. Don’t just stand there waiting to be hit’.
What a teacher!
Thursday, 22 November 2007
Thursday, 11 October 2007
Down on the farm in Dunstable
About a moth after the start of the London Blitz, the whole family moved out of the London area to a farm on the outskirts of Dunstable. My grandparents went, together with 5 uncles and an aunt, plus attendant families. Dad was in the RAF, so mum had the job of overseeing my brother Gerald and myself. In addition to renting the farm, we also rented a house nearby. I was nearly 10 years old at the time.
There was another farm adjacent to ours, where the Fenn family lived. I often walked to the local school with Jack Fenn. We would cut across the field opposite, through one or two lanes, and there we were. It was a very small school, and I recall the pupils (including me) happily misbehaving, thereby encouraging the teacher to cane our hand, as he was very gentle about it.
I have just three other school related memories. One concerned the action of one of the kids with whom I was walking home from school. He felt a bit thirsty, and squatted down in the road, leaned forward, putting his lips to a rain puddle, and drank it. I had never seen that done before, and doubt I will again. The other memory concerns a Dr Barnado's home near the school. There were some girls staying there, and we would sometimes see them walking nearby. One of them caught my eye, and I decided that she was my girlfriend. I think I saw her twice in all, but the memory has lingered on.
One day, the field across which we walked to school was a hive of activity. The corn was being harvested, with the machine going round the perimeter of the field, in ever decreasing squuares. Around the edge, were many locals with shotguns, and when eventually the rabbits had no choice but to make a break for it, they were destined for the cook pot.
The farm itself was a chicken farm, with the hens in the now frowned upon batteries. A guy called Nobby was emloyed to manage the place, and the eggs were collected and sold as a commercial undertaking. I recall a water pump outside, with inside lighting being provided by gas mantles.
There was quite a difference between my friends from London, and the farm lads I was now getting to know. One particular incident provided a notable example. I was chatting to a boy, possibly a year or so older than me, and his friend, a year or so younger than me. We were walking along a lane, when the older boy asked me 'Have you ever had a f**k'. As I had no idea what he meant, I said that I had not. 'I have', he said, 'and so has he; haven't you' he asked, nodding his head at the the young lad with him. The young one nodded enthusiastically. After some more conversation about the birds and the bees, I went home, where I promptly asked my mother to clarify the subject. Mum wasn't very good at dealing with such crises, so she did the only sensible thing. She wrote to my father (in the RAF remember) and asked him to come home and deal with the problem! As this hardly came under the heading of compassionate leave, Dad sent me a long letter, setting out the basic facts, accompanied by numerous drawings of matchstick men in the margins.
And so my sex education began.
There was another farm adjacent to ours, where the Fenn family lived. I often walked to the local school with Jack Fenn. We would cut across the field opposite, through one or two lanes, and there we were. It was a very small school, and I recall the pupils (including me) happily misbehaving, thereby encouraging the teacher to cane our hand, as he was very gentle about it.
I have just three other school related memories. One concerned the action of one of the kids with whom I was walking home from school. He felt a bit thirsty, and squatted down in the road, leaned forward, putting his lips to a rain puddle, and drank it. I had never seen that done before, and doubt I will again. The other memory concerns a Dr Barnado's home near the school. There were some girls staying there, and we would sometimes see them walking nearby. One of them caught my eye, and I decided that she was my girlfriend. I think I saw her twice in all, but the memory has lingered on.
One day, the field across which we walked to school was a hive of activity. The corn was being harvested, with the machine going round the perimeter of the field, in ever decreasing squuares. Around the edge, were many locals with shotguns, and when eventually the rabbits had no choice but to make a break for it, they were destined for the cook pot.
The farm itself was a chicken farm, with the hens in the now frowned upon batteries. A guy called Nobby was emloyed to manage the place, and the eggs were collected and sold as a commercial undertaking. I recall a water pump outside, with inside lighting being provided by gas mantles.
There was quite a difference between my friends from London, and the farm lads I was now getting to know. One particular incident provided a notable example. I was chatting to a boy, possibly a year or so older than me, and his friend, a year or so younger than me. We were walking along a lane, when the older boy asked me 'Have you ever had a f**k'. As I had no idea what he meant, I said that I had not. 'I have', he said, 'and so has he; haven't you' he asked, nodding his head at the the young lad with him. The young one nodded enthusiastically. After some more conversation about the birds and the bees, I went home, where I promptly asked my mother to clarify the subject. Mum wasn't very good at dealing with such crises, so she did the only sensible thing. She wrote to my father (in the RAF remember) and asked him to come home and deal with the problem! As this hardly came under the heading of compassionate leave, Dad sent me a long letter, setting out the basic facts, accompanied by numerous drawings of matchstick men in the margins.
And so my sex education began.
My earliest memories
I was born on 10 April 1931, in the front main bedroom of my paternal grandparents’ house at 76 Brent Street , London NW4. I was in the vicinity a few years ago, and decided to knock on the front door. Unfortunately, the property was devoid of people and furniture. Even the garden gate was locked, so I couldn’t visit the area where the wartime Anderson shelter used to be.
Unlike most people, I have hardly any memory of my very early years. I was about 9 years old before reasonably continuous memory set in.
At the age of 9, we lived in a block of flats on the North Circular Road, not far from the Finchley Road, and not far from 76 Brent Street. My bother Gerald and I went to Bell Lane School, which was halfway between our flat and No.76. As my brother was, and still is, 16 months younger than me, I was given the responsibility of seeing him across the North Circular at the appropriate set of traffic lights. At that time the North Circular was far less busy than it is today. Nevertheless, it was a main road, and my father instructed me accordingly.
One day, my young uncle Derek, who was only two years older than me, and also went to our school, told me that his cat had had kittens. I abandoned my little brother, and went to No.76 to inspect the newcomers. I then hurried home. Just before the entry to the flats, I met my mother coming out, and she was also hurrying. I didn’t know why she was leaving at lunchtime, but I was soon to find out. You see, she didn’t like to hear her children crying! I have a vague memory of yelling before my father’s hand (or maybe slipper) reached by behind. He gave me a few hard slaps, pointing out that I must never again leave Gerald to cross that road on his own. And I didn’t.
I have one other memory relating to my place of birth. Derek, the young uncle, and I used to play hide and seek in his house. On one particular occasion, I found a hiding place in a small room at the back of my grandparents’ bedroom. This room had another door which led to another small bedroom in which the maid slept. Just to complete the geography, her bedroom was accessed through Derek’s bedroom, which was where I first saw the light of day. Where I was hiding was full of mattresses and bed heads, so I hid behind these and waited in the hope that I would not be discovered.
Suddenly, I heard the sound of my grandparents coming into their bedroom. I had completely forgotten that it was their habit to have an afternoon nap in bed, and heaven help the individual that disturbed their rest. So I had only the second door as a means of escape, but I was in no hurry, as I wanted to stay hidden. And then, unbelievably, I heard someone coming into the maid’s bedroom. Now I was completely trapped. I decide to see if I could determine who was in the room, as I could see that there was a keyhole in the door. I put my 9 year old eye to it, and there was the maid! I would guess that she was a teenager, but it wasn’t her face that seared itself into my memory. Oh no. For, before that very same 9 year old eye, she began to undress. And there she stood, before the full length mirror, totally naked. Even at that early age, I remember feeling a stirring. And then she started to comb her hair; but not on her head! I suppose it was a bit of a waste on a 9 year old, but at least it become one of my earliest memories. Any further developments were cut short as Derek burst into her room from his side, pulled open the door with the all seeing keyhole, and I was dragged out of my hiding place.
Back in the flat, life was as normal as it could be in 1940. The air raid siren became a nightly occurrence, and we used to go down into the caretaker’s flat, with others, because it was situated in a more protected area than our own. There were many incendiary bombs that landed in the surrounding grounds, and I only remember one large bomb landing nearby, which caused the picture on the wall to rock.
It was in 1941 that we moved from London to a farm near Dunstable, which will form the start of my next tale.
Unlike most people, I have hardly any memory of my very early years. I was about 9 years old before reasonably continuous memory set in.
At the age of 9, we lived in a block of flats on the North Circular Road, not far from the Finchley Road, and not far from 76 Brent Street. My bother Gerald and I went to Bell Lane School, which was halfway between our flat and No.76. As my brother was, and still is, 16 months younger than me, I was given the responsibility of seeing him across the North Circular at the appropriate set of traffic lights. At that time the North Circular was far less busy than it is today. Nevertheless, it was a main road, and my father instructed me accordingly.
One day, my young uncle Derek, who was only two years older than me, and also went to our school, told me that his cat had had kittens. I abandoned my little brother, and went to No.76 to inspect the newcomers. I then hurried home. Just before the entry to the flats, I met my mother coming out, and she was also hurrying. I didn’t know why she was leaving at lunchtime, but I was soon to find out. You see, she didn’t like to hear her children crying! I have a vague memory of yelling before my father’s hand (or maybe slipper) reached by behind. He gave me a few hard slaps, pointing out that I must never again leave Gerald to cross that road on his own. And I didn’t.
I have one other memory relating to my place of birth. Derek, the young uncle, and I used to play hide and seek in his house. On one particular occasion, I found a hiding place in a small room at the back of my grandparents’ bedroom. This room had another door which led to another small bedroom in which the maid slept. Just to complete the geography, her bedroom was accessed through Derek’s bedroom, which was where I first saw the light of day. Where I was hiding was full of mattresses and bed heads, so I hid behind these and waited in the hope that I would not be discovered.
Suddenly, I heard the sound of my grandparents coming into their bedroom. I had completely forgotten that it was their habit to have an afternoon nap in bed, and heaven help the individual that disturbed their rest. So I had only the second door as a means of escape, but I was in no hurry, as I wanted to stay hidden. And then, unbelievably, I heard someone coming into the maid’s bedroom. Now I was completely trapped. I decide to see if I could determine who was in the room, as I could see that there was a keyhole in the door. I put my 9 year old eye to it, and there was the maid! I would guess that she was a teenager, but it wasn’t her face that seared itself into my memory. Oh no. For, before that very same 9 year old eye, she began to undress. And there she stood, before the full length mirror, totally naked. Even at that early age, I remember feeling a stirring. And then she started to comb her hair; but not on her head! I suppose it was a bit of a waste on a 9 year old, but at least it become one of my earliest memories. Any further developments were cut short as Derek burst into her room from his side, pulled open the door with the all seeing keyhole, and I was dragged out of my hiding place.
Back in the flat, life was as normal as it could be in 1940. The air raid siren became a nightly occurrence, and we used to go down into the caretaker’s flat, with others, because it was situated in a more protected area than our own. There were many incendiary bombs that landed in the surrounding grounds, and I only remember one large bomb landing nearby, which caused the picture on the wall to rock.
It was in 1941 that we moved from London to a farm near Dunstable, which will form the start of my next tale.
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