In Good Company: Swinging Arms
Enid Blackburn looks back to yesteryear and the days of Whit Walks.
For the first time this year I am actually bearing signs of sunburn. My mottled arms and kneecaps are living proof that the sun shone all day last Wednesday. Sunshine always makes me nostalgic especially as Spring Bank approaches. My husband has always to sort out this holiday confusion and tries to explain each year where Whitsuntide and Whit Monday have disappeared to. But if we can’t look forward to Whit now, we can always look back.
It used to be easily recognisable. Hail, snow, rain or shine, Whit Sunday meant going to church in our new summer clothes. Underneath our thick woollen coats we wore our thin ‘best’ dresses and held on smartly to our straw bonnets, while we dropped suitable hints as to what we would be wearing for the most coveted event of all – ‘The Whit Walk.’
Fine or not, you wore the brand new ‘washing frock,’ my mother’s name for the cotton print dress, white ankle socks and pumps, all these courtesy of the Co-op dividend or a cheque that was paid for by weekly instalments.
The Whitsuntide advent had its anxieties, this was no time to be churchless and I was a shameless advocate of the Easter, Whit and Christmas trinity; or I could be found lurking in the congregation when a Baptist concert was imminent.
A week or two before Whitsun I usually mingled with the Anglicans; their recreation ground was the largest.
The excitement of marching on, arms swinging, behind the brass band is an experience I shall never forget. As our procession joined the others, pride and loyalty welled inside me. I always felt fiercely attached to whichever church I had temporarily joined; vowing that it would always be mine. This euphoria would take me through at least two sermons before the call of a tadpole binge with the rest of the secularists overcame my righteousness.
But at the moment of marching nothing could beat the rhythmic fellowship as we blazed our way down the main road, spirits soaring as high as the royal blue and gold banner which two youths struggled bravely to master.
Mothers who had spent all morning coaxing children and taming husbands were pushing prams blissfully down the crowd-lined streets, morning troubles long forgotten. People were hanging from windows, squashed together in doorways, the call of the brass even charmed pub occupants out of their saloon corners to wave their pints gaily at us as we passed.
Then on we went to gather at a garden gate where we all sang full throttle until an elderly church member, too frail to attend services, found strength to open the door. After the initial surprise the drooping white face would come alive for a few moments as verse after verse of a favourite hymn was sung.
Next, the most longed for treat of all – double quick march into the school-room where a feast of potted meat, currant buns and steaming hot tea awaited. The tongue salad was reserved for the band which had more blowing to do after tea. Afterwards more fun with races, pop and crisps in the field.
My own children started their Whitsuntide in style – on the wagon. A lorry kindly lent, glowing with flags and streamers for the primary scholars and their teachers. As I spent the first half of my married life being pregnant I was usually included. Now Whitsuntide passes by almost unnoticed – no one to witness to – too expensive – instead we have a service and a schoolroom cele-bration, which hardly causes a ripple. Walking out with the band, the joie de vivre, the mighty feeling of matiness and church solidarity which accom-panied this has faded – but what have we replaced it with?
