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Vol.30 No.1 SPRING 2014
March Daffodils sway in the March winds, And early narcissus are seen, Daisies whiten the meadows, Buds star the hedgerows with green, Rooks are building their tree nests, Nocturnal March hares now appear, The gannet, merlin and hooded crow Fly northwards at this time of year. ROSEMARY YOUNG
QUARTERLY
1 Front Cover spring 14.indd 1
A Miscellany of This & That & Things Gone By SPRING 2014 17/02/2014 10:57
Contents
Spring 2014
April’s Charms . . . . . . W.H. Davies 4 Rural Rides . . . . . . . Steve Roberts 12 Nature’s Helping Hand . . . Graham Gough 18 The Literary Pilgrim . . . . John Hammond 20 Famous Names in Football . . Alan Robinson 25 Music Makers . . . . E dmund Whitehouse 26 Percy’s Postbag . . . . . Percy Bickerdyke 30 Countrycall . . . . . . . . Marc Harris 36 Bookworm . . . . . . . Stephen Garnett 40 Almanac . . . . . . . . David E. Norris 42 Spring in Rumgovia . . . . Roy J. Westlake 46 The Past in Colour . . . . . . . . — 49 Feast of Family Favourites . . . . . . . — 50 TV Memories . . . . . Michael Schwartz 52 Rib-Ticklers . . . . . . . . . . . — 58 Gleanings . . . . . . . . Dee Gordon 60 On the Air . . . . . Edmund Whitehouse 64 Then & Now . . . . . . Henry Spencer 68 My Dad the Soldier . . . . Haydn Davies 70 The Tidy Train . . . . . Alexandra Wilde 74 Cinemagic . . . . Edmund Whitehouse 76 Ogi, Ogi — Mabinogi! . . . Sharon Breese 82 Hey Diddle Diddle! . . . Charles Meredith 84 Whatever Happened to...? . . . H enry Hardcastle 88 From the Deputy Editor’s Desk . Angeline Wilcox 90 Clippings . . . . . Letters to the Editor 92 Castles & Cottages . . K. Marshall/S. Bryant 102 Gardens of Edinburgh . . . Barbara Bothwell 1 04 Hit Parade . . . . . Bill ‘The Beat’ Baxter 110 Juke Box . . . . . . Bill ‘The Beat’ Baxter 116 Byways . . . . . . . . Bryan Waites 120 Raise a Glass . . . . . . Jack Jakeman 126 Scrapbook . . . . . . . . . . . — 130 Bookshelf . . . . . . Henry Hardcastle 134 March . . . . . . . Rosemary Young 148 Front Cover: Cheers! Enjoying a pint and a paddle at the Black Country Living Museum, in Dudley, Worcestershire. GRAHAM GOUGH
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www.vintage-images.co.uk
THE PAST IN COLOUR
A
day out at the races but where and when? Firstly, it is one of the most famous Grade 1 courses in England and secondly it is home to two of the most prestigious races run over one mile and four furlongs on the same weekend. Races on the site date back to at least the 17th century and are mentioned in the diary of Samuel Pepys. Charles II is also believed to have been a racegoer here but would have been attired somewhat differently to the hundreds of people seen milling around between races. Suits, trilby hats and cloth caps are much in evidence together with long raincoats which were highly fashionable in 1953. Nevertheless, children in summer clothes suggest it might actually have been a warm day. A Union Jack and a mounted policeman, plus what look like several bookies can be seen near the Manns beer tent on the left while in the foreground is a two-tone blue-
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grey car, possibly a mid-Thirties Standard, with an old-style tax disc clearly visible on the windscreen. To the right of centre is the “Official Tote Return”, “tote” being short for “totalisator” which summarises the horses and betting odds. The five separate grandstands are a mixture of old and new, while out of picture it is possible many racegoers are sitting on top of the double-decker bus which transported them, acting as a temporary but highly satisfactory viewing platform. Still puzzled? In 1913 a suffragette threw herself in front of King George V’s horse at Tattenham Corner while in 2009 a huge new 11,000 capacity grandstand and conference centre was opened by the Duchess of Cornwall. Where is it? Epsom racecourse situated on the North Downs in Surrey and home to the worldfamous Derby and Oaks which are run every year in early June.
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Nature’s Helping Hand
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e had a blackbird’s nest in a rambling honeysuckle growing up the side of our house and my wife and I had great pleasure watching the frenzy of the parents feeding their offspring. But early one spring morning I witnessed the nest being ripped apart by a magpie. Most of the nest was on the floor, and there were two birds left; they were hanging from what remained of the nest. Their two siblings had not been so lucky. One of them lay lifeless on the ground; the other had vanished, presumably becoming the magpie’s prey. Fearing the tiny creatures would perish if I did not step in I decided to rebuild the nest. So, with a plastic plate and bits from an old hanging basket I reconstructed the nest. The
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parents stayed away for some time, so we fed the chicks with little bits of worm until eventually the adults returned to their family. Over the next few weeks we kept a close eye on the young
birds as they grew larger and stronger, until one morning we watched with a little sadness as they fledged. It was a lovely experience to help nature and hopefully they survived to have a brood of their own and perhaps return to our garden. GRAHAM GOUGH
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vividly recall the day when I cudgelled my brains to recollect I purchased my copy of The what I knew about him. I had a Woman at the Door. I was visiting vague idea that he had written a Ely for the day and was enjoying bestselling novel called Sorrell and Son myself browsing through the market which had enjoyed a certain vogue stalls in search of an in the 1920s and had elusive bargain. By a The neglected novels been filmed, but since process of serendipity then his reputation of Warwick Deeping had apparently I had discovered gone into terminal the book stalls and decline. quickly skimmed the serried ranks The book was priced at ÂŁ2, which of “airport novelsâ€? and spy thrillers seemed to me a bargain (especially in search of more substantial fare. for a first edition) and I decided on Among all the paperbacks there the spur of the moment to indulge. were a handful of hardback novels, I began reading it almost at once. and one in particular caught my Since that day I have reread the eye: a fat, chunky volume entitled story several times and derive great The Woman at the Door by Warwick pleasure from doing so. To me it Deeping, first published in 1937. is a novel of genuine worth which The name Warwick Deeping carries the reader along in a gripping meant little to me at the time and
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narrative and weaves a story of compelling power. The characters created by Warwick Deeping are solid, believable people who interact with one another in a manner which rings wholly true. The central character is John Luce, a man of integrity who longs for a life of peace and quiet in order to fulfil his quest for solitude. While exploring the countryside he comes across an old signal tower which he thinks will be ideal as a base for his writing. He takes an immediate dislike to Tod Ballard, the neighbouring farmer. Ballard is an uncouth, surly man, embittered by his experiences in the First World War and suspicious of strangers. His wife Rachel is a gentle and compassionate woman with whom Luce falls deeply in love. Then there is Mr. Temperley, a shrewd and wily lawyer who agrees that Luce can rent the tower and befriends him as a man after his own heart. I will not spoil things for the reader by revealing in detail the plot of the novel. Suffice it to say that the narrative holds the attention from beginning to end, so much so that it is difficult to put the book down until the last page is reached. It is a romantic love story but it is also a mystery story and a wholly convincing tale of passion and intrigue set in the English countryside of the 1930s. It is one of those novels which convinces by its true-to-life quality.
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During the 1930s, a series of cigarette cards portrayed “Famous British Authors”.
Like Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, John Fowles’s The French Lieutenant’s Woman and Robert Nathan’s Portrait of Jennie it remains in the mind and has a strange pull on the imagination. Here, one feels, are real people caught up in a real-life drama whose lives are changed by forces beyond their control. In addition to telling a good tale Deeping succeeds in building up an atmosphere of suspense which ensures that the reader keeps on turning the pages to find out “what happens next”. Novelists of his generation were well aware that what readers demand above all is a story rooted in human experience and which will ring true. Since reading The Woman at the Door I have read a number of
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n Gawthorpe’s Darby & Joan story of how the race began. Club the price of a hot dog and a Lewis Hartley eyed up his friend cup of tea had not been hiked. It Reggie Sedgewick, in The Beehive may well have been the biggest day Inn, over a Sunday lunchtime drink. of the year in the village, but this was “You’re looking tired,” said Lewis. not a time for making a quick profit. “I’m as fit as thee,” retorted Reggie, It was Easter Monday, the day when and somewhere in the argument Gawthorpe’s finest pit their strength Amos Clapham, who was a coal against the rest of the merchant, got Reggie world, in a sport that to challenge Lewis to Taking coals was invented in a pub a race with a sack of to Yorkshire just up the road. coal — his coal — on Gawthorpe is an exhis back. mining community on the edge of It took Fred Hirst, the secretary of the almost extinct woollen industry the Maypole Committee, to spot the of West Yorkshire. The pit shafts real potential. have gone and the mills almost all “Hold on a minute,” he said, been demolished but there remains “haven’t we been looking for a ruggedness about the area that just something to do on Easter Monday?” hasn’t gone away since the event was That’s why the main street of first run in 1963. this tough little village is lined with Over an extra portion of apple spectators each year. They come to crumble and custard I was told the watch this, the most unforgiving
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They’re off! The Veterans’ Race gets underway.
race imaginable, and as befits the surroundings the sun seldom shines on the runners. It is no place for the faint-hearted. A police car blocked the High Street just as I arrived, last year. Traditions seldom stand still and this was no exception. A brass band played in the play park. An ice-cream bicycle was parked next to the bouncy castle and from a mobile van coffee and pop (lemonade) were on sale. The big race build-up now takes the form of a set of children’s races. These are short 150-metre sprints carrying sacks made to look like sacks of coal but of course not so heavy. They are for 5-8 year olds, 9-11 year olds and 12-15 year olds. All managed to empty The Boot & Shoe and The Conservative Club
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along the route to the maypole so they can claim to have been a success. Along the A638, the Veterans’ Race was about to start. This new innovation for the 50th anniversary race was restricted to men over the age of 40, but the sacks weighed just the same. A coal waggon was stationed outside The Royal Oak and 22 souls circled around in their logo-decorated T-shirts. Here was an example of real Yorkshire black humour: they promoted the services of a local undertaker! The waggon supplying the 50kg (110lb) sacks doubled as the press corps’ mode of transport for scooting them along to the finishing line. Last year 22 entered the race that earns five minutes of fame.
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f you weren’t a teenager in the enterprise was an experience in 60s, then the chances are that itself, as someone used to a guest they didn’t “swing” too much house with Mum and Dad. Who for you. However, the working remembers the spaghetti-eating class, (and Northerners!) started race, the cramped chalets with to have a voice on screen and in bunk beds, paper-thin walls and literature; and teenagers, like me, noisy plumbing, the tropical South found there were plenty of jobs Seas bar, the glamorous granny available. contest, and the early “Good We had our own morning, campers” clothes for the first announcements? The time, no longer Teenagers, Swinging Sixties hankering to dress children and like our parents. parents were We had our own music, our own actually catered for separately dances and dance halls, our own when it came to entertainment. language, and our own voice, But I’d go with a girlfriend, resulting in many of us attending another mod from the East CND or anti-Vietnam rallies. End of London that my parents Unpredictably perhaps, as a mod, “trusted”; little did they know! To the place I was to gravitate to on my horror, Miss Butter-wouldn’tan annual basis from 1965 onwards melt-in-her-mouth (I’ll call her was Clacton — not to riot on the Betty from here on, not her real beaches or insult the rockers — but name) was looking for notches on to Butlin’s for the first holidays her early teenage bedpost — and without Mum and Dad. the notches she wanted were Aaah, Butlin’s! The scale of the from the members of the featured
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rock band, starting with the lead singer! Was she the first “groupie” (the word not yet in circulation)? Probably she was! So, Betty and I went our separate ways on these holidays. She would often disappear for the whole night and reappear for breakfast wearing sunglasses. I have a photo of her with a plateful of English fry-up in front of her, fork in one hand and cigarette in the other. I wonder what happened to her? As for me, I just danced the day away, and well into the evening. In 1965, mods were into bespoke tailoring, usually from Brick Lane in London, although Biba in Kensington and all the shops in Carnaby Street were also mod haunts by then. My favourite mod outfit was a floor-length mustard coloured suede coat, with navy blue sleeves, collar, trims and belt. I wore it everywhere, including the dance floor where, for the first time, you didn’t need a partner. Chubby Checker’s “Twist” had introduced solo dancing, but many other funkier versions followed, with mods adapting them with their own individual moves. And it was on the dance floor at Butlin’s when I spotted him: a Rod Stewart lookalike with the hair, and a mod Italian-style mohair suit with the on-trend number of cuff buttons, pockets and vents. I
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The author of this article in the 1960s.
was more of a Twinkle* lookalike, and I know the blonde hair and two sets of false eyelashes attracted attention, but not his, which was a bit annoying. He did notice me in the bar later, and turned out to be my waiter in the very functional and noisy dining room where cheap food was dished up three times a day — and he would tip me off as to what foods to avoid — very useful. Yes, reader, we married in 1971 after he had five seasons at Butlin’s, ending up as a chef. When holidaying at Clacton, I managed to avoid any clashes between mods and rockers. But you couldn’t avoid hearing about them as even the national press were interested. The worst was at Easter Bank Holiday in 1964, before my first visit, but it seems the “terror” was vastly exaggerated.
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A picture of the author’s father, Private Richard Llewellyn Davies (on the right) in August 1914. On the left is Private Edwin (Ted) Summers who died on the Somme on 4th November 1916 (see footnote to this article).
My Dad, the Soldier
M
y dad — Richard Llewellyn Davies — was a First World War soldier, and served the whole of the conflict in France, with the exception of ten days' home leave, which was after the Somme battles of 1916. Dad was a great and humorous character, he wanted little in life and managed on next to nothing, he was completely non-materialistic. He wore boots from the time he left the army as a wounded corporal in 1919 until the day he died. Often in summertime he wore no socks. He
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maintained that the feel of leather was more natural to his previously frost-bitten feet. His favourite snack was bread and cheese, which he broke and ate with his fingers, this was always chased down with about three cups of tea and two Woodbine cigarettes. Dad maintained that it was not shell fire and bayonets that “saw Jerry out of France in 1918", but good, morale boosting, hot lashings of tea, served up to him and his mates on the front line. Dad had seen the decimation of his battalion on no less than four
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The old railway station (on the right) in the village of Hollybush, Monmouthshire. Richard Llewellyn Davies caught the mobilisation train from there, along with seven other men, on 5th August 1914. They mobilised as the 3rd Battalion The Monmouthshire Regiment. Two more from the same area enlisted during the war. When Richard came home in January 1919 he learned that he was the only one to return.
occasions. He was a friend of the battalion quartermaster who also survived the war, and whenever they met in France the QM always greeted my father with the words: “Good God! Jerry not got you yet?" Dad had experienced mustard gas attacks on three occasions and maintained that because of this, his unit, The Royal Welsh Fusiliers, were the most “seasoned" troops on the Western Front. Dad had came home wounded and pensioned in 1919. His pension was eight shillings and sixpence per week
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(about 42 pence). I once commented on this and he replied: “It was that pension that bought all our groceries throughout the depression." His pension was raised to over £2 in 1950. I remember well his jubilation at that. I took Dad back to France in the spring of 1964; he wanted to see it again. We went to Bard Cottage Military Cemetery where most of his battalion were buried after the Second Battle of Ypres in 1915. He wanted to see a particular grave, that of his mate Private Richard
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The Tidy Train Every year, in early spring, volunteers on the West Somerset Railway work on a “Tidy Train”, clearing the line and ensuring everything is ready before the new season begins. Tall men, short men All in hi-vis vests; Fat men, thin men, All enthusiasts! A few ladies ready To be put to the test; No matter if they’re not that tough, They will do their best. Strong chaps, weaker chaps, Some who aren’t so fit; All aboard the tidy train, All will do their bit. Some sit in the guard’s van Crouching round the fire; Others grab a mug of tea Before they start to tire. With chairs to lift and rails to move The loco’ trundles on, With “Stanier” hoots and pauses Until the work is done.
Loose coupled, all the waggons jerk With every stop they make; The bare wheels close along the track As the guard applies the brake. No time to watch the scenery As Blue Anchor passes by; When legs and backs and muscles scream For hot baths in which to lie. But oh, sweet satisfaction! When the long day is done; The trucks are full, the tracks are clear, The train can end its run. One last brew of steaming tea As the engine works the line; Thank God tomorrow’s Sunday — When the work begins at nine! ALEXANDRA WILDE
With knitted hats and cheesecutter caps To beat the March winds’ chill The workers’ heads go bobbing As the skips begin to fill. Full steam ahead! A train on the West Somerset Railway and pretty Washford station on the same line. NORMAN BROWNE
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Gardens of Edinburgh
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n 2006 in the Royal Botanic Gardens in Edinburgh a beautiful Memorial Garden to HM Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother was opened by her daughter, HM Queen Elizabeth II. It draws heavily on the landscapes of Caithness where the Queen Mum’s home, the Castle of Mey, is located. Caithness slate has been used for the main pathway and vertical overlapping slabs edging some of the flowerbeds. These vertical slabs
are engraved with the names of the many organisations with which the Queen Mum was associated, as well as the names of contributors to the fund which was set up to finance and care for this peaceful corner. The flowerbeds and herbaceous borders are filled with plants representing many of the places around the world which she visited during her long life. Each corner represents a different geographic region with a signature tree — oak (Europe), tulip tree (North America), southern beech Above: The Royal Botanic Gardens in autumn, a rhododendron bush in summer (right) and slate tiles in the Memorial Garden (left).
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JOHN EDWARDS
(Australasia) and katsura (Asia) — surrounded by plants, including several exotics from each area. The herbaceous borders are filled with flowers such as roses, lilies and whatever blooms in the appropriate season. When meandering around the central beds the aroma is delicious because, instead of using box or yew for the labyrinth, bog myrtle has been used. This is a plant native to the area around the Castle of Mey. On the east side of the parterre is a fascinating small building. Roofed with scalloped Caithness slate and entered through solid oak doors, it is breathtakingly exquisite. The walls are faced with intricate designs made up of Scottish shells and pebbles
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A section of the shell decorations.
— large white cockles, small clams, dramatic black pearly mussels and many others. Look up at the ceiling and there is more decoration with a difference — pine cones of various shapes and sizes. Set in the back wall is a very pretty stained-glass window which gives the impression of looking out into a forest. The Queen Mother’s Garden is just a small section of the Royal Botanic Gardens. In that same area are the Demonstration Gardens (set out in “rooms”), the Ecological Garden and the Herbaceous Border. A stroll through the shady copse can lead either to the Azalea Down — very colourful in late spring — or to the Inverleith House Gallery
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Hit Parade Singers & Songs from the Sixties & Seventies
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t was a two-up two-down house in Scotland Road, one of the poorest parts of Liverpool, but Cilla Black (grandly christened Priscilla Maria Veronica White) has always remembered it as a home full of laughter, love, and, most importantly of all, music. Her mother, also called Priscilla, ran a market stall, while her father, John, was a docker. From an early age, young Cilla (born on 27th May 1943) loved to perform. When her dad and his mates came home after the pubs had closed, she’d climb onto the kitchen table and entertain them with a few songs, while the visits of aunts who lived nearby usually meant a singalong. In fact all the family
were musical: one of her brothers, a jazz fan, played the clarinet and saxophone. Cilla attended St. Anthony’s School, close to where she lived, but her thoughts were usually elsewhere: on music, fashion and fame. In an interview with The Word in August 2012 she recalled how, even at the age of 13, she wanted to be different: “I was mousey-blonde and I bought a Camilatone rinse from Woolies, and I turned up bright red the next day. My headmistress sat me by a window with the sun blazing, to make an example of me. Well, I thought this was my spotlight! She couldn’t have done a worse thing, and I’ve kept it ever since.”
Cilla Black Liverpool Songbird
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to sing alongside Gerry and the Pacemakers, The Big Three, Rory Storm and the Hurricanes, The Fourmost and, after their return from Hamburg when they first began to be noticed,The Beatles. Cilla, whose idol was Peggy Lee, would sing with anyone, anywhere, and soon began to make a name for herself in the city. She was known as “Swinging Cilla” (or “Swinging Cyril” to the irreverent Beatles!) and was mentioned in the first edition of a local music paper, Mersey Beat. It was there that the editor, Bill Harry, misprinted her name as “Cilla Black”, which she liked and decided to keep. When John Lennon told Brian Epstein about the exciting new singer whose voice was causing such a stir, The Beatles’ manager agreed to give Cilla an audition, with the band supporting her, at the Majestic Ballroom in Birkenhead. Unfortunately, they were unable to rehearse and, too late, Cilla realised The Beatles were playing in the wrong key for her. “My voice sounded awful,” she recalled in her autobiography (What’s It All About?, 2003). “Destroyed — and wanting to die — I struggled on to the end.”
Cilla Black in the early days of her singing career.
Even though after leaving school at 14 she became a typist, there was no way that this ambitious teenager would heed for long the comment she once received in a school report: “Suitable for office work”. In her lunch hour she occasionally worked at the Cavern Club where she hung up the coats, and in the evening was employed as a waitress at another trendy venue, The Zodiac in Duke Street. It was here that she met the great love of her life, Bobby Willis, then a baker’s assistant. This was the period when “Mersey Sound” was about to explode on the world, and it was in clubs such as these that Cilla began
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Vol.30 No.1 SPRING 2014
March Daffodils sway in the March winds, And early narcissus are seen, Daisies whiten the meadows, Buds star the hedgerows with green, Rooks are building their tree nests, Nocturnal March hares now appear, The gannet, merlin and hooded crow Fly northwards at this time of year. ROSEMARY YOUNG
QUARTERLY
1 Front Cover spring 14.indd 1
A Miscellany of This & That & Things Gone By SPRING 2014 17/02/2014 10:57