Open Writing

Early darkening evenings of the falling year provided us young ones with varying sources of amusement. Such times found us roaming the village in search of what some would say was mischief.

Entertainment for us at such times had to be of our own making since buying pleasure was a rarity. There was the occasional ‘magic lantern’ show at some Sunday School or the annual winter concert parties provided by local amateur groups. Indeed, it was at one such that I as a three or four-year-old was seen on stage waving an inflated rubber fish, occupying one of the official chairs, chatting to the reverend vicar, who was waiting to perform the opening ceremony.

Later at the same event, as was traditional, the final scene comprised a tableau representing the various countries of the British Empire. Ladies of the cast would dress in the national costume of their represented nation and at the centre, heart of Empire, sat Britannia in full regalia.

When I viewed such a scene from my mother’s knees, it seems I was moved to comment on the appearance of the great lady by announcing loudly, “Oo look, she’s gor a muck fork in ‘er ‘and!”

No memory remains of the outcome.

Later in our young lives dark evenings and impish notions led us to disturb peaceful folk who sat by their firesides resting after a day’s toil.

Raw materials needed for such pranks had to be sought in advance, not being readily available, well, not to such as we. Ask for a length of band, there would be a lengthy enquiry as to the reason why it was required. A drawing-pin was a rarity at home. One such had to be ‘acquired’ from school.

An empty cotton reel was more readily available. Mother’s sewing box provided these at regular intervals, there being much make-do and mending undertaken.

With the three items to hand we would prepare to disturb some villager’s serenity.

Secure the cotton reel a few inches from one end of the length of band. Insert the drawing-pin through the same band extremity and attach it to a house window frame. Remove oneself to a safe distance, depending on the band’s length. Then with gentle pulls on the line the swinging bobbin would tap on the window pane and hopefully frighten some householder out of their wits. When the house door flew open, as often happened, a quick tug on the band removed all evidence, and we removed ourselves post haste with the threats of the disturbed householder ringing in our ears.

Door snecks and horse muck made an interesting combination.
Bait a drawing-pin with horse muck, seek out a house where it was known the occupant was absent at some neighbour’s. Place ‘loaded’ drawing-pin point upwards on the sneck. Home comes the prey, presses sneck handle and receives a pierced thumb. We would then hope it would be an automatic reaction to place the punctured thumb in one’s mouth. It didn’t always work, but it was entertaining to watch.

A length of old clothesline could be put to wicked use. Tie two neighbouring door handles together, knock on both doors simultaneously, wait until the line was drawn taut by the two neighbours, then cut the rope and wait for the crash as one or both fell backwards.

That ruse worked excellently on one occasion and was a high point of our conversation for a long time.

One of the victims, a woman living alone, had to perform her household chores in the evenings, being out working during the day. When we applied our mischief, she was in the process of washing the floor behind the door. So when the rope was cut the victim fell backwards into her bucket of water.

How sad that memory blots out the resulting details, yet the sadistic humour remains.

A further use for a length of rope was again to secure our end to the door handle and the other end to the cellar grating situated beneath the house window. Knock on the door to view with delight the struggle which followed.

Throwing stones at dustbins was another happy pastime. Alas, one night we were ‘collared’ and hauled into an adjacent pub, the Commercial Inn, where our names and addresses were demanded along with threats to inform the police. Fortunately for us the threats were never carried out. Perhaps our interrogator forgot as a result of his imbibing, such a one as our headmaster would tell us about.

The Commercial Inn backed onto Commercial Street, and across that stood our school with school house attached. The headmaster, Mr. ‘Nobby’ Knowles, was wont to sit by his window of a late evening and -- as he would later relate to us his pupils -- watch the antics of men who had spent their money on beer and were then tottering homewards.

There were those, we were told, who had consumed such a quantity of ale that it was necessary for them to walk with head held back gazing upwards, for had the head been held in its natural position, a large amount of beer would have flowed forth.

Other topers would have called at the local fish and chip shop and by the time they crossed Nobby’s line of vision, consumption of fish and chips would be completed, but there remained the ‘gravy’. Once again the head went back and a stream of fat-laden vinegar was poured from its reservoir into an awaiting mouth.

The event most prominent in my memory from that period was when my pal and I entered a large field behind his house. There had evidently been a dry spell of weather. Somehow we discovered that a ‘live’ match inserted into an air rifle barrel and then fired against a boundary wall ignited the match. When the match fell onto the dry grass, that was ignited also.

That was fun, we thought. So much so that the gun was discarded and small fires were started purely for the excitement of extinguishing them. How stupid could we get?

We could move quickly in those days, but not as quickly as fire through dry grassland, and before we knew it the blaze was racing away from us at an unstoppable speed.

There was only one thing for us to do, run for it. We took to the high ground from where we had a bird’s-eye view. Our chief worry was the two large wooden hen huts lower down the field, which were well stocked with hens.

My last and lasting recollection is of the owner racing down the field en route to the protection of his property. I don’t know if he did so but suspect he did.

What has since struck me as strange is that we never heard any more about the episode. We certainly expected to and waited for a visit from the police, but no, silence ever after.

Some 58 years later, whilst in conversation with someone who lived in the area at the time, I confessed to the deed. All I received by way of a reply was what I took to be a very knowing, “Aye”. My thought was to let sleeping dogs lie. I have never pursued the matter.