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.

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.