Open Writing

It's a long time since we sat munching our potted meat around the television while the Queen sat waiting for her crown in Westminster Abbey.

There have been colourful Royal occasions since but none more glorious to me than my first view of the Coronation in black and white.

I was eighteen at the time, young, half-free with a multitude of delights as yet unexplored – television was one of them. Only having a wireless to turn off at that time we were delighted to take our sandwiches two doors further on, to our prosperous neighbours eighteen inch screen.

What changes have happened since then.

Looking at a photo of a young soldier holding up what looks like his consumptive mother, taken on our first holiday together, twenty-five years ago, I feel inclined to agree with the children, I did look ninety years old. Whether this was due to my old-fashioned clothes and hairstyle or was merely the result of the intemperate pleasures of our initial unchaperoned holiday together – I don’t know.

In 1952 my National Serviceman was stationed in Germany. Every Sunday with tears dripping silently into my Yorkshire pudding I used to listen hopefully to Cliff Michelmore and Jean Metcalfe swapping record requests from Forces and their sweethearts on radio’s Family Favourites.

Once a week I received an account of the unbelievable atrocities taking place on a certain parade ground near Hamburg, a small paragraph revealed the loneliness and a full page was given up to pleas for another parcel of coffee – love. This granular barter was in great demand for some reason. His weekends were spent learning the language with a friendly family in the village. When he returned home on his first leave he could say ‘Willhelmina’ like a native.

My friends were passing round pictures of gleaming ears holding up an army beret wearing suitable lovesick expressions underneath. After persistent requests plus another parcel of coffee mine finally arrived. Although I pondered carefully over the close-cropped khaki figures grinning round a table, I had to revert to the inscription for a clue. The romantic message read ‘Me behind the pint glass.’ But life had to go on. Covered in Pancake make-up with ear-lobes dabbed liberally with Woolworth’s scent we had several Saturday night harbours to shelter our fretting hearts, including over twenty cinemas and various dance halls.

Now that my favourite footballer was learning to ‘Sprechen sie Deutch’ instead of me being allowed to thaw my frost-bitten toes in comfort on a Saturday afternoon – I was now expected to accompany a claret and gold adorned father to Fartown’s terrace side.

They had a rugby team then, with tries scored regularly to prove it. With a voice twice the size of his small frame dad’s advice would ring out resonantly across the tightly packed supporters. Hunter, Devery, Valentine, Cooper and Banks were all given the benefit of his abundant sporting vocabulary. Because of his dark wavy hair and deceptively gentle eyes Cooper was my favourite. When I wasn’t dreaming of my score with him I was watching the crowd.

Any minute I expected someone to realise the loud insults at my side were not coming from the giant in front of us. But all the bullies were sergeants and NCO’s in the army, if letters were to be believed, so it was safe to argue.

Threats punctuated with ‘What yer talking about, man’ were thrown back and forth, but after the match everyone walked matily home, and rugby fans still do, says our recently retired supporter.

Radio highlights were Kenneth Horne’s ‘Much Binding in the Marsh,’ ‘Take it from Here’ with Dick Bentley and June Whitfield (Ramsden Street connections), ‘The Goons,’ Wilfred Pickles and Mable at the table and Ena Sharples on the piano was urging us to ‘Ave a Go.’ Mrs Dale was worrying about Jim twice daily.

Esther Williams was swimming across the cinema screens for three and sixpence, without wetting her coiffeur. Rock Hudson and Gregory Peck were helping us to forget our soldier heroes. Elizabeth Taylor had only just started collecting husbands. Old Mother Riley and Abbot and Costello were for amusement only. The only blue jeans we saw were clinging to the horseshoe-
shaped legs in cowboy films.

For afternoon tea we could tiptoe into the esoteric powder-puff atmosphere of Rushworths or follow the tantalising coffee aroma up Westgate to Fields’ were a coffee-grinding machine could be seen churning the beans in the front window.

This was a three-tiered, thick-carpeted oasis where one could lounge luxuriously over the silver teapot in basket chairs, strictly for the twin-set and pearls clientele. When my mother and I were not enjoying pie and peas in the top market hall we would raise our noses occasionally and crack a cream puff there.

Another famous landmark, the Theatre Royal, was still alive and well supported. Once a year I took out the greasepaint and entered the magical world of amateur operatics. Twenty-five years ago a local actress, Thelma Piggott played the part of Grete in Ivor Novello’s ‘The Dancing Years.’ Every night I watched her cry real tears as ‘Rudy’ left her for another, wishing that I could learn to develop this useful talent. Now I watch her walk down ITV’s ‘Coronation Street’ twice a week guised as ‘Mavis.’ Her name has changed but time has had little effect on the rest of her.

We wore seven-and-sixpenny fully-fashioned stockings attached to our suspenders. One-and-elevenpenny Rayon turned inside out with the fringes trimmed were a cheap substitute if you didn’t let the scissors slip. Tea towels were one-and-eleven each and Horrocks’s pillow cases were three-and-six. A three-piece suite cost £54, a gent’s worsted suit with waistcoat ranged from £6 to £12. Dr Williams’ pink pills were on sale for nerve sufferers. A train journey to London cost thirty shillings and one to York cost five-and-six.

Television’s one channel was uncontaminated by advertising, it started at 5pm and finished at 10.30pm. The first programme I saw was ‘The Barrets of Wimpole Street.’ I became enslaved, and the thrilling combination of my favourite pursuits – eating, viewing and fire poking – still has me in its intoxicating grip. That was also the year I discovered that gin tasted like paint stripper!