L
Langstraat
Guest
As a child I used to visit my Nan’s in Newcombe Road. Handsworth. each Sunday morning after church. Nan always sat in the chair beneath the window in the back room Dad said she needed the light to make her grow. Nan was tiny. She always wore a pinny and had hair clips wrapped in paper. The hearth was filled with shiny brass ornaments, best were the crocodile coal tongs, which I used to nip ‘Major’ the old terrier who slept under the table, a form of payback I guess. Nan had a biscuit tin, which was kept in a large sideboard and after she had made a cup of tea for for everyone and a saucer full for Major I was allowed to choose any two biscuits I liked. She always spoilt me that way.
One summer's evening Mom and Dad made a mid-week visit to see my Granddad for what was to be their last visit. Granddad had been bedridden for many years and hardly featured in my recollections of Nan’s little terrace house. His bed had been moved downstairs for it would be easier than to traipse up and down the steep flight of dog leg stairs and of course easier and more dignified for the undertakers when the time came. It was usual for a coffin to be removed through the front sash window than to up-end it to get it into the hallway. Granddad’s foldaway bed had been placed between the Piano and the fireplace, a large plant shaded him from the effects of the sun through the nets. His teeth were kept in a glass and appeared to always be smiling which was more than I could say about him. Granddad wore his waistcoat over his pyjama jacket and on this occasion he reached into his pocket and beckoned me closer, Granddad and I had rarely been close, his coughing had scared me as did his spittoon. On this occasion he withdrew something and beckoned me closer. He gave me a Florin, a fortune to a lad whose pocket money was a tanner and started to cough trying to muffle the sound for fear of scaring me. Dad came in and ushered me out to play outside till it was time to go.
Nan lived in the middle of a row of Terrace houses built shortly before W.W.1. The terraces had an ‘entry passage’ which gave access to the rear gardens every 12 houses. These entries passed through the terraces affording the adjoining houses an extra couple of feet width upstairs. I used to play in the entry shouting and screaming to hear the echo. Best of all was letting off ‘caps in an exploding bomb. You could put loads of the little round caps under the firing pin or sometimes a whole strip. I liked the smell from these caps. You could get them on a roll for 1d or four for threpence they came in a tiny cardboard pillbox. I had a ‘Buntline Special’ toy gun I could load up with a reel of caps and fire at a rate greater than the real Billy the Kid could; although strictly speaking it was Wyatt Earp who used the Buntline, apparently he killed more using it as a club than he did by firing it. I was a cowboy until I saw Chingacook in the children's television series ‘The Last of the Mohicans’ and then changed my allegiances over-night. I can honestly say things were never the same after that and owe everything to what we called Red Indians. My ‘Indian’ name is still to this day ‘Glowing Embers’ because of my pathological attraction to lighting fires.
Getting back to my Nan's passageway (excuse the expression), I had tried for many years to climb the inside of the entry with my back against Nan's terrace and with my feet against Mr. Riley’s. Eventually nature prevailed and my legs became long enough to span the void. On that summer’s evening I played in the entry while my parents said their farewells to Granddad. I bounced a ‘Mega ball’ on the blue-bricked path up to the overhead ceiling. I managed to get it to do a double bounce but the triple evaded me. After many attempts I heard Dad call me through the front room wall to “pack it in and play quietly”; which I did immediately for he never had to bid me to do anything twice. I started my shimmy between the two houses to see how far I could progress and to my amazement found that my 'Tuff’ shoes for boys gripped better than my previously worn sandals or my beloved Welly-gogs had. I climbed effortlessly with these marvelous shoes and only stopped when my head reached the top.
I paused, a little out of breath and thought about calling Mom so that she could see proudly what I'd done but at the same time slightly fearful that Dad would find it inappropriate in the circumstances.
It was a Dichotomy; but wouldn’t realise that till years later when I would read that word for the first time. I was stuck. I couldn't get down. It was too high to drop and anyhow I would have made a racket. I didn't know what to do. I was wedged, quite comfortably with my long legs locked into position. My shoes held me against Mr. Riley’s House and my short school shorts with snake clasp belt held me against Nan's. After what seemed ages I heard Mom and Dad bidding their farewells to Nan from the kitchen yard, Dad called me to come and say tattar. I didn't answer. He called me again this time coming into the entry. My Dad was a little Man, correction was Dad was a giant of a man, he was just short in stature 5' 6" He walked beneath me before I gave a polite little cough, he turned and seeing no one there continued down the entry his cleats making a metallic echo, I coughed again, he turned this time seeing me way above him. "What the ..." he started to say, "For goodness sake" he exclaimed. "Get down at once" he commanded. I informed him I was stuck. For the next few minutes I waited while he went from neighbour to neighbour trying to find a ladder eventually borrowing one of those short triangular ones window cleaners use. He propped it up within my reach and beckoned he down. At this stage my legs had locked and I couldn't move; Dad had to climb up to help me down, it was difficult for both of us at the top of a triangular ladder the rungs were narrower at the top and didn't provide much room for my clown sized 10’s and Dad's size 7’s Co-op Brogues. Mom and Nan clutched each other as we both descended to terra firma. I was coated in the grime from the entry, about 70 years worth of industrial progress I guess. I never climbed an entry after that. I never needed to; I'd done it. Dad gave a lighthearted cuff about my ear and stifled a smile. We drove home as the sun was setting in Dad’s Blue Thames 15 cwt van. Between the two front seats the mid-engine was covered in a 1/8" metal cowl. Dad had customised it and covered it in a 1/4" thick cork sheet for comfort that's where I sat between them on short journeys. Anything longer than half an hour it became so hot you could fry and egg and I would inadvertently trump. If he had to break hard he would put his left arm out to stop me going through the front screen. This frighteningly fast reflex forearm smash sometimes hurt but I accepted that he was only trying to protect me and avoid having to buy a new windscreen. I understood. On our way home from Nan’s Mom and Dad kept laughing I haven't got a clue what about. We stopped off at Hamstead and Mom and I waited while Dad got us Fish and Chips the share. Mom and Dad often laughed at ‘things’ when we were all together, I can't think what events they found so funny.
One summer's evening Mom and Dad made a mid-week visit to see my Granddad for what was to be their last visit. Granddad had been bedridden for many years and hardly featured in my recollections of Nan’s little terrace house. His bed had been moved downstairs for it would be easier than to traipse up and down the steep flight of dog leg stairs and of course easier and more dignified for the undertakers when the time came. It was usual for a coffin to be removed through the front sash window than to up-end it to get it into the hallway. Granddad’s foldaway bed had been placed between the Piano and the fireplace, a large plant shaded him from the effects of the sun through the nets. His teeth were kept in a glass and appeared to always be smiling which was more than I could say about him. Granddad wore his waistcoat over his pyjama jacket and on this occasion he reached into his pocket and beckoned me closer, Granddad and I had rarely been close, his coughing had scared me as did his spittoon. On this occasion he withdrew something and beckoned me closer. He gave me a Florin, a fortune to a lad whose pocket money was a tanner and started to cough trying to muffle the sound for fear of scaring me. Dad came in and ushered me out to play outside till it was time to go.
Nan lived in the middle of a row of Terrace houses built shortly before W.W.1. The terraces had an ‘entry passage’ which gave access to the rear gardens every 12 houses. These entries passed through the terraces affording the adjoining houses an extra couple of feet width upstairs. I used to play in the entry shouting and screaming to hear the echo. Best of all was letting off ‘caps in an exploding bomb. You could put loads of the little round caps under the firing pin or sometimes a whole strip. I liked the smell from these caps. You could get them on a roll for 1d or four for threpence they came in a tiny cardboard pillbox. I had a ‘Buntline Special’ toy gun I could load up with a reel of caps and fire at a rate greater than the real Billy the Kid could; although strictly speaking it was Wyatt Earp who used the Buntline, apparently he killed more using it as a club than he did by firing it. I was a cowboy until I saw Chingacook in the children's television series ‘The Last of the Mohicans’ and then changed my allegiances over-night. I can honestly say things were never the same after that and owe everything to what we called Red Indians. My ‘Indian’ name is still to this day ‘Glowing Embers’ because of my pathological attraction to lighting fires.
Getting back to my Nan's passageway (excuse the expression), I had tried for many years to climb the inside of the entry with my back against Nan's terrace and with my feet against Mr. Riley’s. Eventually nature prevailed and my legs became long enough to span the void. On that summer’s evening I played in the entry while my parents said their farewells to Granddad. I bounced a ‘Mega ball’ on the blue-bricked path up to the overhead ceiling. I managed to get it to do a double bounce but the triple evaded me. After many attempts I heard Dad call me through the front room wall to “pack it in and play quietly”; which I did immediately for he never had to bid me to do anything twice. I started my shimmy between the two houses to see how far I could progress and to my amazement found that my 'Tuff’ shoes for boys gripped better than my previously worn sandals or my beloved Welly-gogs had. I climbed effortlessly with these marvelous shoes and only stopped when my head reached the top.
I paused, a little out of breath and thought about calling Mom so that she could see proudly what I'd done but at the same time slightly fearful that Dad would find it inappropriate in the circumstances.
It was a Dichotomy; but wouldn’t realise that till years later when I would read that word for the first time. I was stuck. I couldn't get down. It was too high to drop and anyhow I would have made a racket. I didn't know what to do. I was wedged, quite comfortably with my long legs locked into position. My shoes held me against Mr. Riley’s House and my short school shorts with snake clasp belt held me against Nan's. After what seemed ages I heard Mom and Dad bidding their farewells to Nan from the kitchen yard, Dad called me to come and say tattar. I didn't answer. He called me again this time coming into the entry. My Dad was a little Man, correction was Dad was a giant of a man, he was just short in stature 5' 6" He walked beneath me before I gave a polite little cough, he turned and seeing no one there continued down the entry his cleats making a metallic echo, I coughed again, he turned this time seeing me way above him. "What the ..." he started to say, "For goodness sake" he exclaimed. "Get down at once" he commanded. I informed him I was stuck. For the next few minutes I waited while he went from neighbour to neighbour trying to find a ladder eventually borrowing one of those short triangular ones window cleaners use. He propped it up within my reach and beckoned he down. At this stage my legs had locked and I couldn't move; Dad had to climb up to help me down, it was difficult for both of us at the top of a triangular ladder the rungs were narrower at the top and didn't provide much room for my clown sized 10’s and Dad's size 7’s Co-op Brogues. Mom and Nan clutched each other as we both descended to terra firma. I was coated in the grime from the entry, about 70 years worth of industrial progress I guess. I never climbed an entry after that. I never needed to; I'd done it. Dad gave a lighthearted cuff about my ear and stifled a smile. We drove home as the sun was setting in Dad’s Blue Thames 15 cwt van. Between the two front seats the mid-engine was covered in a 1/8" metal cowl. Dad had customised it and covered it in a 1/4" thick cork sheet for comfort that's where I sat between them on short journeys. Anything longer than half an hour it became so hot you could fry and egg and I would inadvertently trump. If he had to break hard he would put his left arm out to stop me going through the front screen. This frighteningly fast reflex forearm smash sometimes hurt but I accepted that he was only trying to protect me and avoid having to buy a new windscreen. I understood. On our way home from Nan’s Mom and Dad kept laughing I haven't got a clue what about. We stopped off at Hamstead and Mom and I waited while Dad got us Fish and Chips the share. Mom and Dad often laughed at ‘things’ when we were all together, I can't think what events they found so funny.
