Open Writing

They weren’t really ancient. They just looked ancient. But then, all adults did to our eyes. We, at the time, were only in single figure years. These characters, however, seemed antediluvian -- or would have done if we had know such a word existed and what it meant.

We’d been told at school about ancient tribes who painted their bodies with stuff called woad, but we couldn’t see any on these old tykes. Maybe, we thought, they only did that in foreign places, like Barnsley or Harrogate. Besides we could see they didn’t wear bear skins. In fact, there was very little skin showing of any sort.

These characters were almost always ‘muffled up t’teen’, in wool mainly. Woollen suits were in abundance, courtesy of the 30 shi;llings or 50 shillings Lamb-to-Limb tailors. ‘Let Burton’s dress you’, and they did, in an abundant variety of shades -- blue usually, but sometimes brown or grey even, adorned occasionally with eye-dazzling pinstripes in mercerised cotton.

There was a certain uniformity about the dress display of those gentlemen, depending on the day in question. But, whatever the day, they were all ‘belt and braces’ men, braces which were used to hoist trousers so high that their tops chafed under the armpits. A pair of trousers for them made a suit in themselves almost, in every appearance like fishermen’s waders, and invariably cotton lined from waist to ankle. They weren’t going to be cold, not those fellows. Just to be on the safe side, though, waistcoats were obligatory.

As further protection of health, headgear was a must almost, and by far the most prevalent kind was the snap-nebbed flat cap. It was then, and still is today, a very versatile piece of wearing apparel, performing many duties besides keeping a wearer’s bonce warm and dry.

It could be batted against dusty footwear prior to entering a pub or a church. It could also be battered against some recalcitrant youngster. Kettles or pans of boiling water might be lifted from the fire-hob by using a cap in lieu of today’s oven glove. Besides, the cap was warm when replaced on one’s head. They made good flyswatters too, and fires have been known to be extinguished by a cap -- only small blazes though.

Winter often brought the sight of a flat cap being worn indoors, especially be those with a sparsity of hair on their heads. And it wasn’t unheard of to find one serving as a nightcap.

Motorbike riders wore specially designed flat caps. They had nebs at the back!

Normally, however, such headgear was sported at a jaunty angle, and, curiously, small men always seemed to wear the biggest caps. Or maybe it was an optical illusion. Still, the cry might at times be heard, ‘If yer can’t feight, ger a big cap.’ or ‘Cum aht, ah can see yer feet’. ‘Nay it’s nooan sooah big, ‘e only fatches a stooan o’ tatties at a time in it’.

There was an instance where a local barber, none too adept in tonsorial dexterity, would have two caps hanging behind his shop door, to hide any misjudgements in his application of scissors and clippers. And to spare a customer’s embarrassment the thoughtful barber would loan one of the caps to poorly shorn unfortunates so they might escape to the privacy of their homes without creating a public disturbance, the cap to be returned at a later date.

Trilby hats were also worn by our gallant gathering, each with its own encircling band of black crepe in varying widths. As with flat caps, trilbies served as more than head coverings. They functioned as repositories for eggs being transferred from backyard hen ‘oils. Piglets, even, were conveyed in this manner and, as with flat caps, trilby felt proved an efficient ear’oil batterer in moments of frustration.

Bowler hats, Billy-cocks, were displayed, but usually at weekends or on better days than Sundays.

Rarely did these gentlemen, and at times not so gentle men, appear in public without some kind of neck adornment, be it tie, muffler or coloured bandana. Union shirts were the norm, along with their associated ‘fronts’ -- ‘dickies’ to the initiated -- and collars, soft or stiff, plain-styled or the winged ‘come-to-Jesus’ model. Ties might at times be worn without accompanying collars. In such instances protocol was maintained, neckwear being displayed, often with the glint of a collar stud to catch an observer’s eye.

Central to this onion-style covering lay the heavy woollen vest, button-necked, with long or at least three-quarter-length sleeves. Long Johns were regularly to be seen, deeply tucked into hand-knitted woollen socks or stockings, which in turn were often encased in stout leather boots. Shoes were worn, but confined mostly to those with ‘dressed-up’ jobs -- bank clerks, gents’ outfitters and Co-op butter slappers. Some such wearers might sport spats, fawn or grey, shiny-buttoned in soft fleecy felt. These appeared when cold weather made its appearance.

With summer temperatures in the high 70sF however, caution was occasionally cast aside, and then the top waistcoat button would be ceremoniously unfastened, hat or cap pushed aback and a deep exhalation of breath emitted in total relaxation of such bodily freedom. This abandonment of moral dress code quite often released onto the heated air vapours which were then strange to the senses of us young innocents, but which were later to be identified as a combination of warm goose-grease impregnated onto brown paper along with the sinus-clearing tang of camphorated oil. Clothes themselves often reeked of the latter, the result of liberal quantities of moth balls, pocketfuls of them.

Combine all those gases with the aroma of plug, twist or pig-tail tobacco, and there was the prevalent bouquet of those grey-haired veterans of toil, the Old Age Pensioners of their day, 65 years too young to qualify as Senior Citizens. Men who, when the weather was fine and the air warm would gather on park seats, hyphenating the borders of the bowling green, that square of turf, which to them was as hallowed as any ancient English playing field. It was the crowned glory of those yesteryear sportsmen, the domain across which tournaments were keenly fought, triumphantly won or sadly lost, where pleasurable destruction of opposition was pursued in activities akin to a snake-pit, often silent but nevertheless deadly.

The time would come when we young ones would also play that ancient game. Meanwhile, however, we sat, as it were, at the feet of those old worthies on the narrow grass strip which bordered the green proper. From that position we could almost achieve a worm’s-eye-view of the scene and could also poke in fascination amongst the discarded dottle shreds of other viewers or break open tab-ends to reveal their mysterious contents, then inhale the scent of tobacco when it stained our fingers.

Discovery of an empty match box aroused in us the desire to refill it with spent matches, of which there was usually an abundance, since it seemed pipe smokers smoked more of these than they did tobacco. In this way our hands would become begrimed by the carbon-tipped match stalks, but who cared? We achieved our goal, a box full of black-headed match-ends which were of no further use to us. But we didn’t care. We had fun gathering them from among the rows of boot-clad feet whose owners carried on their conversations above our heads. “Well bowled, Walt.” “Tha was a bit short thee on, Fred.” “Tak ‘im across t’corner, Joss, ‘e dun’t take t’that.”

Some of these commentators rested their chins on hands crossed over walking stick handles, their moustaches drooping across top lips, muffling speech often by their abundant growth, which at times resembled walruses. There was also the ‘road-sweeper’, the ‘besom’, the ‘gravy-sopper’, some neatly trimmed, others bedraggled, nicotine-stained entanglements in sad contrast to a well-clipped military styled newly wax-pointed display, aptly described as ‘bristling’.

Tired of ‘grobbling about in t’muck’, we would turn our attention to the field of play, longing to ‘skenner’ the circular rubber foot mats as we saw the bowlers do, and keenly watching for bowls rolling into the gutters. Then, thinking it helpful, manly, we would roll them back onto the green before the end was up. This was done in all childish innocence, totally unaware that such actions could have triggered off a second world war several years earlier than actually happened. We were not to know of the deadly bitterness existing in those ‘friendly’ games and that a wood on the edge of the green might have the ‘edge’ over a competitor’s bowl at a similar distance further onto the grass.

For us at that period of our lives ignorance really was bliss. We then roamed in fairylands where people lived happily ever after, unaware that the green around which we sat was indeed a veritable battleground on which invisible wounds might be inflicted that would, in turn, leave invisible scars to be borne for a lifetime, all in the name of ‘sport’.

We too, in a very few years would fight our battles on that same turf. Only then, still in our salad days, a tense situation could be defused with a few well-chosen words, removing anger from someone’s overheated attitude by a gentle reminder of perspective on the game, such as “Shur up an’ ger on wi’ it. It’s nobbut a game, than nooan laikin’ for t’taan ‘all clock!” Play would then resume and the crash of wood against wood helped relieve mental pressure. We were developing the ways of adults. True, we didn’t need to spit as our elders often found cause to do, but we could yell louder and longer, wear open-necked shirts, pumps and sport belts without braces.

Finally, we were able to ‘skenner’ the circular rubber foot mats, thereby achieving our childhood ambition and also preceding frisby throwing by some 50 years.

The green still exists, and some of my schoolday associates sit around its borders in the apparent timeless fashion of past generations. Long may that tradition go bowling along.