By Richard Johnson, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6589924
Another of the articles I wrote for Best of British magazine.
Winter is almost upon us once again. I wonder what the next few months have in store for us weather-wise?
Looking back, I can’t remember many
bad winters over the last forty odd years, none that match the winter of 1963
at least. It stands out in memory as the worst (and best) winter I have ever
experienced; I was nine at the time.
We kids welcomed the snow and all
the extra time off school. We made snowmen, toboggans from bits of old wood or
old pram parts and the most lethal pavement slides you ever saw. We had one on
our road that would carry you a good twenty five yards. Adults hated us for
making them; as I said, they were lethal. Once a fresh covering of snow had
landed there was no telling it was there until an unsuspecting adult tried to
negotiate the pavement. I can remember my father getting a letter from the
milkman saying we would have to pay for any more breakages ourselves. The slide
was there for almost three months so you would think he’d have remembered where
it was after his second or third fall.
In the early 1960’s we moved from our old Victorian slum to a brand-new house on a brand-new estate in Kirk Hallam, Ilkeston. I was about seven at the time
The old house, which was tied to my father’s job at the iron works, had been flooded. We lost just about everything; the waters had come half way up the stairs.
The flood struck at 8.am on Sunday 4th December 1960. The normally placid Nutbrook stream, swollen by heavy rain, burst its banks and flooded the Ironworks and the bottom half of Crompton Street. The water carried a hidden danger in the form of highly flammable, Benzoline oil that sat on the surface of the water. I didn’t know until years later that the oil had been a problem. I remember my father sitting on the sill of the upstairs window of our house as he smoked and chatted to the people next door. Cigarette stubs were flicked into the water at regular intervals.
We were rescued by the fire brigade who took us all to a community centre where we slept in sleeping bags on the floor for a few nights.
It was a major adventure for us kids but not so much fun for the parents or the older members of the community. I could have slept on a clothes line in those days but I doubt some people there got a wink of sleep.
We were fed soup and sandwiches by the Salvation Army. Before the evening meal we all had to stand and sing ‘I’ll be a sunbeam.’ My father, a reluctant Christian at best, would move his lips like a poor ventriloquist then burst into song on the final line of the chorus.
A sunbeam, a sunbeam, Jesus wants me for a sunbeam; A sunbeam, a sunbeam, A bloody fine sunbeam am I.
During the day we played Beetle, Draughts, Snakes and Ladders and Monopoly. The older residents must have been sick to death of Ludo, but they gritted their teeth and played on. I think they’d have done anything to keep the more energetic kids on their backsides, sat at chairs and tables instead of hurtling around on the parquet floor.
Children of an eastern suburb of London, who have been made homeless by the random bombs of the Nazi night raiders, waiting outside the wreckage of what was their home. September 1940. New Times Paris Bureau Collection. (USIA)
Exact Date Shot Unknown
NARA FILE #: 306-NT-3163V
WAR & CONFLICT BOOK #: 1009
Chapter One
‘See who’s at the door, please, Peggy.’
Mrs Henderson pulled open the heavy blackout curtains with a
grunt. The late August sun lit up the cosy sitting room, highlighting the
floral pattern on the square of carpet that sat neatly between the brown,
horsehair sofa and the high-backed chair that nestled next to the open
fireplace.
‘It’s the postman.’
Peggy Larkin walked into the lounge carrying a handful of brown envelopes. She handed them to the tall, grey haired woman, who had been Peggy’s guardian since she had been evacuated from London to the big house in the small country village, almost a year before. Their relationship had begun poorly, but over time it had flourished and they had become very close.
Mrs Henderson flicked through the letters and selected one
with a London postmark. She recognised the fine, neatly-spaced handwriting,
immediately.
‘Ah, a letter from your mother, Peggy. Let’s see what news she brings us.’
Mrs Henderson picked up a small silver knife and slid it
across the top of the envelope. She took out the two-page letter and scanned
the first page quickly before handing the second page to Peggy.
‘Here’s your share.’
She smiled broadly as she re-read the first page, then sat
down on the sofa as she waited for Peggy to read her portion of the letter.
‘Aunt Margie is getting married!’
Peggy looked up from the letter, a huge grin on her face.
‘And Mum wants us to go home for the wedding!’
Peggy danced around the room, clutching the letter to her
chest.
‘It’s only for a few days,’ Mrs Henderson advised. ‘Your
mother thinks you’ll be safe enough in London for a short time at least. The
bombing everyone thought would come, hasn’t materialised.’
‘I know,’ Peggy replied. ‘Some of the evacuees in the
village went home at the start of the school holidays and they haven’t come
back. People think it’s safe now. My teacher, Mrs Johnson, says the Germans
might not bomb us at all. Mr Hitler seems to be busy fighting in France.’
‘We’ll have to see about that,’ said Mrs Henderson. ‘Don’t
count your chickens before they’ve hatched, Peggy. It’s not safe to go back for
good.’ She folded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope. ‘Anyway, on
a selfish note, I’d miss you too much, and your mother has a very important job
at the armaments factory. With the long shifts she has to work, I doubt she can
find the time to look after you as well.’
Peggy nodded.
‘I know,’ she said sadly. ‘Mum works twelve hour shifts at
different factories around London, she has to train women how to make the bombs
and mines as well as doing her own job. It’s very dangerous work.’
Peggy was quiet for a few moments, then she stepped across
the room to give Mrs Henderson a hug.
‘I’m very happy here. It will be nice when I can go home,
but until then, I know you’ll look after me.’
Mrs Henderson hugged Peggy tight.
‘It’s been a pleasure my dear.’ A tear ran down her cheek.
She hurriedly turned her head and dabbed her face with a white, handkerchief as
Peggy pulled away.
‘Something in my eye,’ she sniffed.
Mrs Henderson walked through to the kitchen, shook the
kettle, decided there was enough water in it to make tea, and placed it on the
hob.
‘We have to make plans,’ she said. ‘We’ll need to check
train timetables, buy tickets…’ She placed both hands on Peggy’s shoulders, her
eye wide in excitement. ‘… and you’ll need a new dress to wear. We only have a
couple of weeks to get ready. Your auntie’s fiancé has only got limited leave.
He’ll have to go back to his regiment the day after the service. It’s all a bit
rushed, but that’s what young people have to do today, what with the war and
all.’
‘Are you coming too?’ asked Peggy.
‘Oh, I’m not invited,’ laughed Mrs Henderson. ‘It’s only a
small, family occasion. So, we’ll need to find you a chaperon.’
‘A chapel what?’ Peggy looked confused.
‘It means a companion,’ explained Mrs Henderson. Someone to
travel with, to make sure you get there safely.’
‘Harry can be my chappie, thingy,’ replied Peggy.
‘Your brother’s younger than you, dear,’ said Mrs Henderson
with a little laugh. ‘I bet he’s had a letter too; we’ll have to drop in at the
Watsons’ to organise things.’
Peggy and her younger brother had been split up the day they arrived. Harry was staying with a middle-aged couple on the other side of the village.
‘I think Harry’s forgotten all about Mum,’ said Peggy
softly. ‘He never mentions home when I see him.’
Mrs Henderson patted Peggy on the shoulder.
‘I’m sure he remembers her; he’ll be just as happy as you
are to go back to London for a while.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Peggy with a shake of her head. ‘He’s
changed so much over the past year.’
‘Don’t worry about him, Peggy,’ said Mrs Henderson, softly.
‘He’s just settled in very well, that’s all. It’s a good thing really, you
wouldn’t want him to be unhappy now, would you?’
‘He calls them Mum and Dad,’ said Peggy, ‘but they’re not.’
‘No, they’re not,’ replied Peggy’s guardian, ‘and I’m sure
he knows that. It’ll just be a habit he’s gotten into that’s all.’
Their conversation was interrupted when they heard a frenzied,
hammering on the front door.
‘Goodness me,’ said Mrs Henderson. ‘Something sounds
urgent.’
She hurried to the front door and flung it open, Peggy
rushed along behind.
On the doorstep stood a young boy. His hair was
close-cropped, he wore a dirty, white shirt, trousers that were torn at the
knee, and mud-caked boots, which he scraped on the edge of the step as he
waited.
‘ALFIE!’ cried Mrs Henderson. ‘What on earth is the matter?’
Alfie was a few months older than Peggy; he had been
evacuated to a nearby farm at more or less the same time that she had arrived
in the village. He and Peggy were best friends and had shared a scary
adventure.
‘Nothing much,’ said the boy, looking puzzled. ‘Can Peggy
come out to play?’
Mrs Henderson blew out her cheeks.
‘Thank goodness for that. I thought someone had come to tell
us the Germans were invading the village.’
‘They’re tied up in France,’ said Alfie seriously. ‘I heard
it on the news this morning.’
Mrs Henderson turned away and returned to the kitchen. Peggy
walked out onto the front step. She waved her letter at Alfie.
‘I’ve got exciting news,’ she said. ‘I’m going back to
London in a couple of weeks.’
‘London!’ he exclaimed. ‘Brilliant news.’ He stared at her;
excitement written all over his face.
Peggy grinned.
‘Mrs Henderson is going to find me a… a, chappie something…
Someone to look after me on the journey.’
‘There’s no need for that,’ said Alfie. ‘I’m the only chappie you need. I’m going to come with you.’
This is a serial I began writing in 2010. Sixteen chapters were written and published on a blog. It proved to be quite popular and I’ve been asked many times if I’ll finish it and turn it into a book. I think the time has now come to do that, so, I’m going for publish the first four or five chapter’s on here to see if there really is an audience for it. Thanks for reading. Comments appreciated.
Chapter One
Manuscript Night
‘Will stared down at the lifeless body of Sir Charles Montague and
smiled thinly. It was over, his tormentor was dead. He pulled his sword from
the neck of his victim, wiped it on the grass and sheathed it. He looked at the
brightening sky, the sun said noon, time to make for Durberry Vale, Elizabeth,
and the rest of his life.’
Stephen King looked up from his manuscript and surveyed the hall. The
audience of mainly elderly members stared back at him. The silence was
deafening. Then from the table behind him came a solitary clap.
Margot Sugden, the writers group secretary, rose to her feet.
‘Thank you for that, Stephen, I’m sure we all found it very interesting.
Not many members read the last chapter of their novel on their first manuscript
reading but there’s no rule that says you can’t.’
She held up her list and squinted at it.
‘Now, whose turn is it? Ah yes, Deirdre, do you have more from ‘The
Quilt? You do? Excellent!’
Stephen made his way to the row of empty chairs at the back of the room
and sat down with a sigh.
A white-haired woman turned to face him from the row in front.
‘Awfully good.’ she whispered. ‘For a first timer.’
‘Thank you,’ said Stephen, ‘I don’t think it went down too well.’
‘I think it needs work,’ she replied, ‘quite a bit actually and people
tend to read novels from the first chapter here. But you’re writing and getting
an audience, that’s what counts.’
She paused, popped a mint into her mouth, thought for a moment, then
offered the packet to Stephen.
‘You will find it will take a while to become accepted here. We’re an
ancient bunch with a very old-fashioned mentality. We probably see you as a bit
of a threat at the moment, but we’ll get used to you…eventually.’
Stephen took a sweet from the end of the roll and smiled.
‘I’ve only written the last five pages of this particular novel so far,
‘I thought if I got the end done, I’d know where I was heading with the story,
if you see what I mean.’
A warm round of applause greeted Deirdre as she took to the stage. Mary’s
voice dropped to a whisper as she was shushed by the members in front.
‘You ought to be writing horror stories with a name like yours. I’m Mary
Clark by the way.’
‘My English teacher said the same thing at school. Nice to meet you,
Mary.’
It began with a trivial moment of carelessness, but the shockwaves that reverberate from this seemingly insignificant incident, spread far and wide.
Ed and his heavily pregnant wife Mary are on an errand for Ed’s ailing father before the pair depart for warmer climes. But the winter of 1962 comes early and one innocuous event and a hastily taken decision will have devastating consequences for the family of young Rose Gorton. Mary’s already fragile mental state is put under further stress while Ed tries to make sense of events that are spiralling massively, Out of Control.
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