大象传媒

When I was 12, my friends and I decided we wanted to do our bit for the war effort by raising funds for the Red Cross, and we started to produce neighbourhood concerts in our garden in Rotherham.

Dad built a wooden stage, with curtains, behind the garage. Improvised sketches, songs and chorus dance line-ups were eagerly invented. Everyone we could think of was begged for old clothes, props and jewellery. Dad went down to the rubbish dump to find old crates and boxes to make wooden seats for the audience to sit on. Mother was asked to serve cold drinks during the intervals and Dad was appointed official photographer, as he was the only one with a little Brownie box camera. Dad also provided a few of his precious chicken eggs to raffle.

Our only real problem was where to get our hands on a lot of safety pins, needed to pin up the curtains and costumes? They were in such short supply because everything of metal was used for the war effort. It was decided to tell the audience to bring a safety pin with them as part of their entrance fee. These were urgently collected before they were allowed into the garden, so that we could hastily secure our costumes and begin the show. A large safety pin allowed entrance to the one front row of the stalls, an ordinary or small one to the seats behind. Admission in addition was a hapenny. The queue sometimes had to wait and it meant that itchy little fingers picked at and ruined our neighbour's well-manicured privet hedge.

My sister Sylvia was two years younger than me, tall and lanky for her age with a head of shingled, wiry hair. She insisted on doing her own party piece with a friend whose father had been blinded in the trenches of World War One. 'Here we are again, happy as can be, all good pals and jolly good company' ... they'd sing and kick their legs high in the choreographed dances and then appeared in the most outrageous pyjama suits, always singing their favourite song, 'It's a Ukelele Dream Man Coming' and holding cut-out instruments on their chests.

The children roared and shouted all the way through while my sister and her friend acted like celebrities. Final choruses, linked hands on shoulders, ended with 'Goodnight' and everyone joining in. No one wanted to go home! We once collected 14 shillings from one of our concerts and the entire cast trundled down to the Town Hall to deliver the money for the Red Cross. How disappointed we were when our names didn't appear in the local paper the following Saturday. But it took more than that to put us off.

The concerts in the garden were a great success so we branched out to hiring halls and engaging our families in managing the audiences. Some vicars, protective of their church halls, refused outright to rent their hall to us and could not believe we were serious, but Dad usually came on the scene to help. Aunt Edna was called upon to play the different pianos for our concerts, even the ones out of tune and with notes missing. She made a fuss, but we always managed to persuade her because we declared every confidence in her rendering of 'Sweethearts' and 'Sweet Mystery of Life'.

When my turn came to sing 'We'll Gather Lilacs in the Spring Again', my sister appeared in the background and imitated me behind my back. It was some time before I learned why the audience laughed during my rendition.

Dad always had his half dozen eggs to raffle, but on one occasion forgot in his enthusiasm that he had them under his arm when he applauded. He smashed the lot and the audience was horrified!

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