Who said in a Country Existence Nothing Ever Happens?

    On the wall of my 'bar' (granddad's restroom, an old man's folly, the old man's retreat) call it what you will, there is a brass plate. It reads 'In 1765, on this spot, nothing happened'. Meant as a joke, at times it makes me wonder. As most of my readers know, I live, not for the first time in Derby, England, population around 250,000. I was born in the area, went to school roughly in the  area and likewise worked at various set ups over a number of years. An unimportant, anonymous sort of existence surrounded by many of similar 'working class ilk'. Surrounded by people, knee deep in people; except for one spell of four years.

    We, my wife and I lived for four years in Lincolnshire, in one of only four houses next to a farm and house. The house stood empty, we spotted it driving around prior to attending college. (The farm employed sixteen men before the war, now three only.)  No street lights and one bus a week.(Saturdays.) No gas main and no mains water (We did in fact have water from a tap but it failed miserably whenever a nearby golf course was watered.) Heat was from brick interior storage heaters (needed at least twelve hour notification of change in weather) plus paraffin delivered for paraffin heaters and coal fires if you could afford the coal. ( A Swedish girl stayed one weekend. I noticed she never took her coat off!)

  Television a godsend, no ariel needed, TV wired into metal window frame. Rats in the outhouse, mice heard chomping sweets indoors. Resulting in acquisition of cat, resulting in kittens. Dogs appeared spasmodically belonging to Irish itinerants. Collected when they moved on. True Romany gypsies plus horse drawn home stayed a distant apart from their travelling Irish compatriots. A generally unusual existence, but surely uneventful and thus boring? Nope!

    We had usually six neighbours, never more than eight. You fell out with anyone at your peril. One weekend Paulette arranged to go shopping in a nearby town with Bob and Alice. (Not their real names for reasons that will become clear.) Only at the last minute Paulette wasn't able to go; so the     foray went ahead, minus Paulette but plus Eric, recently returned from a spell incarcerated at Her Majesties Pleasure in a not too distant borstal. Quite influential was son Eric, so much so than a shopping trip became a distinctly organised shoplifting trip. A not very successful shoplifting trip, and all were 'nabbed' so to speak. Friend Alice was bailed fairly quickly, the menfolk were not so lucky. I seem to remember collecting Bob from prison at the end of a not too long prison sentence at a

non too distant prison. Ex- Sunday school teacher Paulette finding the whole episode distinctly mesmerising!

    Hare coursers on a Sunday Morning were another spectacle not available in our previous 'life', the participants (invariably travellers) intensely feared and hated in equal measure by most country folk.

    The blood thirsty antics of the shotgun brigade shooting pheasant, again on a Sunday morn. Birds so stupid, locally reared, that cleared the guns and landed not too far away, to await another salvo another day. The whole affair  reminiscent of the Alamo.

    One Christmas we were burgled whist we were away. As was our neighbour, 'Pop' an elderly farm labourer and Bob and Alice. Pop's mattress was destroyed in an apparent search for cash. Bob and
Alice's gas meter was raided but the 'burglar' was apparently a kind soul. He  fed coins through the meter so that Bob and Alice would have a fuel supply in what was after all the festive season! We seemed to have lost nothing in the raid; I was after all a very poor student at the time!

    On Boxing Day a visitor with two suitcases knocked at the farm requesting the use of a telephone to phone for a taxi. The kind farmhand, realising the difficulty the visitor was in, ran him to the station in the town. The burglaries had not been discovered at this stage! It turns out the 'burglar' had in fact been staying with Bob and Alice, having nowhere else to go. Country folk may not always be the brightest, but kindness is seldom lacking.

     One final bizarre memory stays in the mind from our stay in the country. One quiet, unexceptional  

weekend, (weren't they all) friend Alice knocked on our door to show us a perplexing letter she had received that Saturday morning. From a friend of some years standing, it stated that, by the time Alice would receive this letter, the writer would be deceased. Alice showed us the letter; it shared the dilemma without suggesting a response. In a way 'what to do' was there in front of us; we did nothing. The body of the young man, who incidentally was addicted to a type of cough mixture available at the time was found in the week ahead. Did Alice, Paulette and I do wrong by doing nothing; I've often wondered.

    We carry fond memories of our stay in the countryside. Both our children were born in this period of our lives. A special time in many ways; forever remembered.

Where Were You When it Happened?

The Armistices of Two World Wars are in the news this time of year and rightly so. There are people who will remember exactly where they were as they were announced, in 1918 and again in 1945. Even the second is not within my memory although I do remember VE Day celebrations quite vividly. Which set me thinking, how many events in life do we remember for whatever reason. Not the everyday events thrown at us on life's long journey, but those unique, special one offs never to be repeated. It would be easy to browse through an almanac of world events but that would be cheating. For if we have to look it up, so to speak, has it really been implanted forever on our hearts.
I remember as a child a teacher coming into a classroom (I can remember which particular classroom and the teacher's name, Mr Jones.) and announcing that a man called Gandhi had been killed. We did not know of a man called Gandhi, or for that matter where India was but the word assassinated intrigued.
How many remember where they were when John F Kennedy's assassination was announced. I was outside my grandmothers in Ockbrook, Derbyshire, tinkering with a vehicle when someone came outside to announce the news. Yet I am unsure as to which vehicle was involved. Surely I haven't imagined so important a moment in history? I certainly didn't imagine being told of Elvis's death whilst on holiday with the children in Chapel St Leonards, Lincolnshire. The whole campsite was full of the news for hours if not days; nothing much ever happens in Chapel. In fact this is one of the few memories of the place retained more than twenty four hours. (Though childhood memories of Chapel are positive if unexciting, at least in adult eyes.)
Being a retired person with nothing better to do I was idly watching the news at home when the events of 9/11 unfolded on the TV screen. Transfixed I watched for hours as the sheer horror and importance of the event became apparent. History in the making, who wouldn't remember for ever such an awesome event.

My wife and I sat in a garage on Harvey Road in Derby when the sensational, sad news was announced on the radio that Princess Diana had been killed in a road accident. I even remember where we were going, to Wirksworth to buy a dog grate for the fireplace and then on to Chesterfield. I am not a Royalist so why should this event be so firmly imprinted in my mind?

It is a fact now that almost any event in the world can now be reported at very short notice indeed. Tsunamis, plane crashes, wars, disasters in general blur into each other; we are so bombarded with the worlds terrors and tribulations. Is it that we are fascinated by the dramatic or the morbid, for many of our memories involve death and destruction.

When I was a schoolboy capital punishment was still the norm in this country. Some murderers were hanged. At eight in the morning in London, nine o'clock elsewhere I seem to remember. I, and some other schoolmates were undoubtedly morbidly fascinated, to the extent that we would knowingly glance at the clock if it were a nine o'clock 'happening'.

It is virtually impossible to escape world events almost as they happen. But why do some events burn into our psyche more than others. I don't remember where I was for instance, when it was announced that John Lennon had been shot. What do you remember? Put it another way, to paraphrase Hal David and Burt Bacharach's 1960's song, 'What's it all about, Alfie.'

Home Sweet Home Seven

Much as I enjoyed full time youth work it was obvious the unsocial hours made life difficult. Another career was sought and after much deliberation I applied to become a teacher and was accepted as a student at Kesteven Teacher Training College at Stoke Rochford in Lincolnshire. We had little money so buying a house was way beyond our means. (Houses were available around three thousand pounds, we did not even have three hundred in the bank!)

We drove around the area south of Grantham looking for empty houses. We eventually espied a virtually derelict farm cottage, found its owner and persuaded him to rent it out for the princely sum of eight shillings a week. (The owner was a gentleman farmer, county councillor and governor of the college. I later offered references and was informed they were not necessary, he had looked at my file in college.) Welcome to Lincolnshire, 'Big Brother' was alive and well!

So began one of the happiest periods of our lives. Our new address was Ponton Heath. The Heath consisted of a farmhouse and four other houses including ours. (Before the war the farm employed sixteen men. mechanisation meant only three men were now required hence the proliferation of empty farm cottages.)

The house had roof tiles missing frequently. It was almost impossible to heat, even with the aid of paraffin heaters, the paraffin delivered fortnightly plus we improvised with home made briquettes on coal or wood fires, the briquettes made from coal dust and cement. (A young Swedish lady stayed one weekend and never took her coat off. I hadn't realised how 'nesh' even the Scandinavians could be!)

There were no street lights, the only bus ran once on Saturdays and the nearest shop was a mile or so away in Great Ponton. We were visited weekly by vans, the butcher, the baker and, no, not the candlestick maker but the greengrocer. We shared our house with many, including mice from the neighbouring fields until the acquisition of a large ginger cat solved that problem. He was so grateful for his sparse but welcome new home that he brought us frequent presents; rabbits, even larger hares and at least one full grown pheasant. Though a weasel he brought home proved his match, it's ferocity for its size amazing.

My wife constantly sewed and made bread in large quantities. I made copious amounts of home made beer. ( Left outside in winter it froze up and cracked the bottles. No problem, carefully remove the glass and there you have it, alcoholic ice lollies!)

Someone presented us with a television. (Often relations gave us all manner of goods. It gave them a warm feeling no doubt; we were grateful and did consider registering as a charity.) The picture on the television was obtained by connecting it to the metal window frames of the house. (You could actually see the television mast sited at Waltham near Melton Mowbray from our garden.) Our improvisations knew no bounds.

I became a reasonably proficient gardener, growing all manner of vegetables, though my knowledge of such matters left much to be desired. A crop of perpetual spinach was amazingly proliferate and, yes, perpetual. Every visitor left with a bundle. Evidently it is best served with olive oil and garlic. How on earth were we supposed to know that! I have neither grown or eaten it since, it is sadly way down our list of favourite food.

It was indeed a simple life. One day gardening I hit what was seemingly a large stone orifice in the garden. Having spent the best part of two hours uncovering it, I proudly showed my only neighbour the results of my labours. "Oh," he said dismissively, "that's the old cess pit, best to leave well alone." We we not in fact on a watermain. The toilet emptied into a huge tank in a nearby field, emptied twice a year if you were lucky. Our drinking water came via a borehole in the ground and failed regularly when the nearby golf course was being watered; someone had their priorities right!

Yet it was an innocent yet exciting existence for two newly weds. My wife worked for Aveling Barford, a local engineering company in the town, I had a grant, the huge sum of £750 pounds a year plus I worked on the farm for all of 38 pence per hour in the holidays. My wife used to turn down overtime in the factory. Her fellow workers were amazed, but their priorities in life were not our priorities. We were self contained, totally oblivious to the world outside Ponton Heath and Kesteven College. Life was indeed good and I looked forward to four years of the same. But, surprise, surprise, life is never that simple.

I told You it's All in the Mind.

The weather is appalling for this time of the year and my bones ache with the constant moving of everything from fridges to garden ornaments. Add the effects of antibiotics for a painful infection and I confess I have felt better. I am definitely feeling my age. Except I am unsure how my age, sixty eight should feel.

I was at the first match of the new football season, Derby County versus Doncaster Rovers. It was a dreadful match and we lost, nothing new there. We, the supporters commiserated with each other. An elderly gentleman sitting behind me suggested it was as bad as he'd ever seen. Now it's very common for supporters to reminisce about the 'good old days' but he seemed more knowledgeable than most. Plus mention of 1930's players he had seen was surprising. "Would you mind telling me how old you are" I ventured. The gentleman was evidently a mite bit deaf, for his companion, evidently a mere seventy five years of age spoke for him, proudly informing me his companion was ninety six. There is a walk from the car park and stairs to climb to our seats in the stands, no mean feat at so great an age. Not to mention the stress of following a team that has failed to win in its last thirty plus matches. Plus both men had been farmers, far from an easy life I would have thought.

We had an afternoon at Foremark Reservoir, a local beauty spot to get away from the 'removal blues'. I commented to an elderly gentleman sitting in his car that there were worse places to be. He volunteered that he came four times a week including winter. "I've been coming for many years" he said. "I miss my wife coming with me, I'll be ninety one next birthday." A sad situation but a grand old man, an ex-milkman he told me, battling on in spite of life's trials and tribulations.

I was in a village in Lincolnshire gathering material for a magazine article. The sign 'Lordship Way' looked interesting. The banging from a nearby building attracted my attention. I wandered into the open door and in the gloom saw a small elderly individual, cigarette dangling from his mouth enthusiastically wielding a large hammer. "Excuse my interruption" I called across the forge, for he was obviously the blacksmith, "but could you tell me how Lordship's Way got it's name."

He thought for a while. "Well, my father were here before me, and I've been here since 1926." He lapsed into further contemplation. "And do you know" he answered triumphantly, "I've no idea!"

I looked at the old man with disbelief. Surely his maths were suspect. Again the question, "Excuse me. do you mind telling me how you are."

"Ninety three, I were born in 1913." It was obvious there was nothing wrong with his intellect or his maths. I thanked him for his time and stepped out into the sunlight. Leaving a remarkable man to the smoke filled forge and more than likely another cigarette.

I still visit the village where I lived for the first twenty five years of my life. Until a year or two ago I still saw on occasion Miss May. The last I heard she is in a nursing home and will be over a hundred years of age.

May drove her small car until she was I believe ninety eight years of age. May did not travel great distances but visits to the local Asda at Spondon meant negotiating roads that challenge the most experienced of drivers. May coped admirably in her own way, others seemed more concerned than she was. A mutual friend who accompanied her on her travels once told me " I pray when I get in the car and I give thanks when I get out!"

The village is quiet by city standards but still needs care if accidents are to be avoided. At ninety eight years of age Miss May was reprehended for driving too fast through the village. Shortly afterwards May gave up driving; I would imagine many people gave a sigh of relief. It's not funny really but how many of us would settle for being told off just short of our hundredth birthday.

And What's in Your Loft.

My wife has been steadily packing boxes though our house move is not immediately imminent. Feeling guilty I stick my head in the loft, seemingly considered my domain and survey the scene. Amid the dust are numerous loose items and probably in the region of forty cardboard boxes. I hurredly close the door (it is a walk in loft) and retreat to the settee downstairs and an all important play off match.

I listen to the dear lady for the rest of the week, packing through gritted teeth, she not me until I can stand it no longer. My wife goes shopping and I enter the loft, reluctantly, not too far in and extract the nearest box. Clouds of dust fill the air as I carry it downstairs. I place it on the table and survey the contents. Ten minutes pass and the contents of the box still resolutely refuse to unpack themselves.

I remove the items on top of the pile. Derby County football programmes. The first one Derby versus Southend United in the Littlewoods Challenge Cup, Wednesday September 28, 1988, kick off 7.30pm, programme price, eighty pence. I notice tickets for next Saturday's game are on sale, eight pounds each. I also read that the illustrious Robert Maxwell is still chairman and Arthur Cox is the manager. All very interesting to a football fanatic.

A scruffy envelope beckons. I open it to see, for the first time in years a faded certificate from the University of Nottingham. Awarded to Kenneth Stevens on the eleventh day of July 1974, Bachelor of Education. I am immediately transported to Kesteven College of Education in Lincolnshire. Four happy years and two children later my wife and I returned from an idyllic rural student existence to a life as a schoolteacher in downtown Derby.

Some extremely tatty stamp albums are next to surface. I remember buying them as a boy at a Moravian Church jumble sale and they were even then somewhat ancient. Fascinated I study the contents. Mention of Abyssinia, Carinthia and Heligoland; Labuan, Loningermanland and St Pierre and Miquelon. Places unknown in my limited experience but interesting all the same. Talk of krones, rupees, paras and rigsbankdalers. I become engrossed in a hobby I had discarded over fifty years ago. Reluctantly I put down the last of the stamp albums,

A World Review 1942, price 1/6d catches the eye. Amazingly I read in an article concerning the Free French that Admiral Muselier has unexpectedly taken over St. Pierre and Miquelon. To think that fifteen minutes ago I had never heard of the place. But perhaps of more interest an advertisement suggesting 'a loose denture makes it impossible to masticate your food properly.' What quaint language! Evidently the answer is to carry Kolynos sprinklet tins in your pocket or handbag, price 1/3d.
The box is a treasure trove to be sure. My days in charge of a school community service programme are recalled as the class register for 1988/89 is uncovered. Mainly involving girls but not exclusively so the names reflect the era. Maxines, Sarahs, Melissas and Donnas; Simons, Garys, Craigs and Stuarts. Where are you now I wonder. And do you look back with fondness at those shared experiences.

Times change, never more epitomised than by the small pamphlet at the bottom of the box. Called simply 'Games for Socials' by Sid Hedges, first published in 1929, this edition reprinted in 1947 recalls a more gentle, innocent era long since gone. One of Sid's games, called simply 'Treasure Hunt' involves one person being given sixpence secretly before the game commences. The tenth person shaking hands with the recipient of the sixpence is the winner. Everyone frantically shakes hands with everyone else. The holder of the sixpence keeps score and eventually whispers to the game leader as to who was the winner. At which point 'You promptly announce this; present the coin and lead off the applause.' Good old Sid, happy days!

I hear the door opening as my wife returns. Three hours have passed. I ought to be aghast but I am surprisingly upbeat. I have as yet discarded no item whatsoever. Never mind, only thirty nine boxes to go.