大象传媒

Memories of a War Baby
Part Three
By John Giffen

GAMES AND PASTIMES

Whilst not remembering any specific film at the regular Saturday morning 鈥榝licks鈥�, I think we must have seen something about the Three Musketeers because for a short time gangs of kids would be seen in the village sword fighting with wooden sticks as swords. We used to drape our raincoats over our shoulders with just the top button done up around the throat, so that they trailed behind us like cloaks as we chased, leapt and parried through the lanes. Cowboys and Indians was probably the favourite game for boys, obviously influenced by the Saturday morning pictures. There were strict rules. If you got shot, after dying dramatically, you had to lay down where you fell, in an attitude suggesting instant rigor mortis and count to a predetermined number. This could vary between about 50 and 100. It is surprising how quickly we learned to count very fast, usually in blocks of ten. Strangely enough, we never played war games. Everybody would have been the British tommy - nobody would have dared to volunteer to be a German soldier, even in a pretend situation. War time propaganda was very successful at making us hate the enemy. There was a popular programme broadcast on the Light Programme called 鈥淲histle While You Work鈥�. It was played in factories throughout the country to keep the worker happy. The words to the signature tune got adapted to;
鈥淲histle while you work,
Old Hitler is a twerp,
Hitler鈥檚 barmy, so鈥檚 his army,
Whistle while you work!鈥�

Games often follow topical events. There was a phase when we used to make parachutes by tying four bits of string to each corner of a handkerchief with a lead soldier where the strings met. You rolled this up into a ball and threw it as high as you could. The whole thing unravelled and you shot imaginary guns at the parachuting enemy as they descended. Conkers was another seasonal game. The collecting of conkers starts around mid-September when you find them under a mature chestnut tree. Very soon all the fallen ones are gathered and you then have to throw as heavy a stick as you can manage, into the tree to knock more down. A successful throw can also result in the thrower risking being hit by someone else鈥檚 stick as you dash to search for your conker. Many a bruised knuckle showed signs of inaccurate attacks on your conker. The crafty conkerers used to pickle theirs in vinegar or bake them in the oven to make them harder, to gain an advantage. Marbles was also a passing phase. I used to love the way the different colours swirled around inside them, especially the larger ones. Fag cards (or cigarette cards to the posh) were also popular for collecting and swapping. Unfortunately Mr. Jones, being a chapel-going non-drinker, was also a non-smoker, so we didn鈥檛 get much opportunity to collect them.

At the back of some houses in the village was a hill down which ran untreated sewage. One nasty game we played involved two gangs standing on opposite sides of this oozing, slimy, evil smelling stream. We threw stones, rocks and bricks into the sewage with the express purpose of splashing it onto the other gang. It was said if you got splashed on your skin you could die! Nobody did, but you had some explaining to do when you got home, if it got on your clothes.

One Saturday morning we had a nasty shock whilst Arthur and I were waiting for the only bus. The village bobby appeared and literally collared Arthur. Somebody had broken a piece of fencing or a handrail over a brook nearby and he accused Arthur of doing it. He vehemently denied it, but was led off by the policeman to put right this act of vandalism. The bus came. I didn鈥檛 get on and it sailed away to Ashbourne with other kids from our village and I missed the pictures. When we got home shortly afterwards, there was a lot of explaining to do. Had Arthur done what he was accused of? He strenuously denied it. Then the Jones鈥檚 asked me why I hadn鈥檛 got on the bus and gone to the cinema on my own? I was less than 5 years old at the

BOOT BOYS

There was one special Saturday when the Jones鈥檚 took us into Ashbourne to buy us new boots. I can still remember smiling down at those wonderful ankle-hugging, shiny, high lace-up, black leather boots and they shone back at me. Not for long, mind you. Footwear took heavy punishment from all the walking, skipping, hopscotching to and from school, footballing, playtimes and countryside pursuits. We used to walk miles to visit friends 鈥� there was one girl I鈥檒l never forget who lived on a farm nearby. She was either Milly or Molly or Mandy (but then I may have been influenced by some literature in the school at about that time). To actually live on a farm, to me, was magical. She was totally unafraid of cows and horses. When you are only four or five, they can look pretty big and an inquisitive cow looking at you and licking its lips with that enormous tongue can make you feel a bit funny inside. They say that cows are more nervous of people, but at that age you don鈥檛 try to prove it.

Our boots came into their own on a farm and the countryside. The farmyard in winter is nearly always perpetually muddy. Mixed in with that mud, in the case of a livestock farm, is a lot of rather disgusting manure. Horses aren鈥檛 too bad but cows are decidedly messy about what they deposit, with some frequency. It isn鈥檛 so bad in summer, in the meadows, especially if you are a fisherman. Many is the hardened cow pat I have turned over in summer to collect the brown horse fly maggots underneath for fishing. But a farmyard in winter requires stout footwear and our boots were up to the job.

That winter, the question of waterproofing footwear came up. Mr Jones showed us how to apply dubbin. This is a greasy substance applied to leather 鈥� boots, shoes and footballs (which were made of leather in those days). It gets absorbed into the leather and makes it very supple and very waterproof. It also made footballs even heavier. If you headed a well dubbined leather football in winter you were brave. Apart from nearly knocking you to the ground, you could finish up with a greasy forehead. Footballs in those days (and even for many years after the war) were made of leather panels, sewn together and then turned outside in. There was a slit to allow a rubber inner tube to be inserted. This had a nozzle which was blown up with a bicycle pump and tied off with string. The nozzle was then poked inside the leather case and the opening was laced up with a special lacing gadget. It could leave a nasty mark if you headed the lace holes. On the other hand, if the football had not been dubbined, when wet it became even heavier as it soaked up the water and you risked being knocked out by it.

Arthur and I were standing around in the playground with our dubbined boots on and some big boy told us that dubbin made the leather very soft and easy to cut. He then produced a penknife and showed us just how easy it was, slicing right through one of Arthur鈥檚 boots. Luckily he missed his toes. I don鈥檛 remember the aftermath, but there must have been some serious repercussions.

WINTER 1943

Winter had truly arrived 鈥� it was freezing cold going to the lavatory, which was in an outhouse in the tiny back garden. There was a small oil filled lantern which we could use in the dark. The choices were stark 鈥� go in daylight, but freezing cold, or go after sunset in the cold and dark. Due to the large ventilation gap at the top and bottom of the door, it was impractical to apply black out. We had a little oil lamp that barely lit what you were doing, but you had the chance to warm your hands on the flame.

One day we woke up to find that the world had been transformed overnight. It had snowed. Not just a slight covering like we usually get in towns, but really deep snow. It must have been at least 12 inches (30cms) deep. I couldn鈥檛 walk through it on my own to school. I had to follow Arthur and walk in his footprints. The schoolyard was in pandemonium. Snowballs whizzed through the air in every direction until the snow got packed down by thousands of footprints and became a glorious slide. When we went into class there was so much steam coming off everybody it was like being in the scullery on washday.

There were no washing machines in those days. A large boiler in the scullery was filled with cold water. Then the dirty washing; sheets, pillow cases, towels, shirts, tablecloth, etc., followed by some soapsuds and perhaps a bluebag. This was a little pouch containing some blue powder 鈥� to make the whites look whiter 鈥� don鈥檛 ask me how. This was then heated by a gas ring underneath until it boiled. You stirred it all up occasionally with a wooden gadget called a rubby dubby, or a pair of wooden tongs. When you considered things clean enough, they had to be rinsed in cold water and wrung out by hand. This was very physical work and explains why so many pictures of housewives show them with strong arm muscles. Particularly dirty clothes, shirt collars, etc., were rubbed up and down a washboard. This was a wooden frame with a corrugated metal insert 鈥� usually zinc or galvanised iron so as not to rust. After hand wringing came the mangle. This fearsome thing usually stood outside if it was a full sized one, although we had one which was clipped to the edge of the sink with a little spout to direct the water down the sink. The clothes to be mangled were fed into a pair of rollers whilst you turned the handle to draw them through. I liked the sound of the water being squeezed out, especially if there was a folded sheet and it made a bubble in the material as it approached the rollers, hissing and gurgling. These mangles were dangerous things. A year or two later I was playing with one and got a finger drawn into it. It was severely squashed and I still carry the scars on the end of that finger to this day.

This was the first winter that I can remember sledging. Posh people called it tobogganing, but we called it sledging. The field opposite our house was the crest of a steep hill, leading down to the river Dove. The steepest slope started just behind the Co-op shop a hundred yards or so down the road. It resounded to the screams and shouts of the children as they shot down the slope. The problem was that the slope led almost straight down to the river and you had to stop short of the river bank or risk finishing up in the icy water. As far as I recall nobody actually did, but it lent an extra thrill to the event.

Normally we ate and lived in the kitchen at the back of the house. It was very cosy in there with a big coal fired range where a kettle was usually singing away on the hob. It was the only room in the house with any heating, coal being too scarce to light the fires in the front room or the bedrooms. The gaslight also added further to the cosy atmosphere in the evenings as it hissed away with its bright white incandescent light occasionally casting shadows on the opposite wall.

We did not get much meat and mostly we existed on corned beef and vegetables. I remember Sunday dinners (now called lunch) which were very special. If we were lucky, we had slices of veal and ham pie or pork pie in delicious cold water pastry with jelly under the lid, with roast potatoes and carrots, turnips, swede or cabbage. We were too hungry to be fussy about was put in front of us 鈥� we ate everything. Sunday was also special because we all ate together and listened to the latest war news on the wireless. 鈥淭his is the 大象传媒 Home Service - here is the news and this is Alvar Lidell reading it 鈥︹��..鈥� I could never understand why it was called a wireless because it had wires running into it and bits of wire inside! We always had bread and butter (or more usually margarine) for tea 鈥� bread was never rationed during the war. We were lucky 鈥� we had a choice of jam or condensed milk to spread on our bread. Mr. Jones worked in a local factory that made condensed milk, so somehow we were rarely without it. One of his strict rules was that whichever you chose to spread on your bread, you had to stick to it during that meal. He would not allow a jammy knife to contaminate the condensed milk tin, or vice versa. If you chose condensed milk, which was very sweet and also very runny, you had to perform a careful balancing act holding your bread level or it dripped off the sides. In the evenings, before going to bed, we had a mug of hot Bovril. The advertisements showed a big beefy bull saying 鈥淏ovril is good for you鈥� and everyone believed it.

That Christmas we had a party in the front room 鈥� only ever used for special occasions. We had some neighbours in for tea and after eating sandwiches, jelly and blancmange, cake and biscuits; we donned paper hats and played games under the paper chains (which I had helped to make). Eventually, tired out with the excitement and nearly bursting with too much unaccustomed food, we were packed off to bed at about nine o鈥檆lock, clutching the few (but precious) Christmas presents that Father Christmas had brought us.

SPRING 1944

Spring eventually came and with it a very special treat. My father visited us. It must have taken him all day to get there by tram, bus and train I don鈥檛 remember the sleeping arrangements but Arthur and I must have squeezed into the same single bed to let dad use Arthur鈥檚 bed.

We proudly showed him around the village and showed him off to the other kids. Apparently he had some trouble understanding us as we had picked up a Derbyshire accent. I can remember we went for a long walk towards Ashbourne which was about two miles away. On the way back I had trouble keeping up with dad and Arthur and suddenly developed an agonising pain in my lower chest. 鈥淒on鈥檛 worry about it, son鈥� my dad said, 鈥測ou鈥檝e got stitch!鈥� He told me to keep my legs stiff, then bend down and kiss my knee. It did ease the pain and I marvelled at how knowledgeable he was about medical matters. He went home after promising Arthur and I that we could return home soon, as the bombing had nearly stopped back in Croydon. Little did he know that Mr. Hitler and his friends were just about to launch their 鈥榲engeance weapons鈥� on us 鈥� the V1 - the notorious doodlebug!

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