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As time grows short there is much left to say. I sometimes waste whole hours and minutes, but I try not to waste a whole day.

Monday, December 7, 2009

Chapter Three - The Garden of Eden


School would come as a shock to Gerry. He had been quite content after his brother was himself sent to the local infant school, to bask in the exclusive attention of his mother Joan. Here he could live in his fantasy world of toy soldiers, painting, drawing and, his latest obsession, playing the drums. Of course they weren’t drums at all, merely his own improvised set made of the empty Quality Street tins from the previous Christmas’ sweetie cornucopia. These he arranged about himself and, with his mum’s best knitting needles, beat out his own tattoo of military rhythms, carefully learned and religiously copied from the Trooping of the Colour ceremony which he would watch on the family’s black and white television.

His love of music was confirmed and his repertoire broadened by the arrival in the house of new technology, a brand new, reel-to-reel tape recorder. This wonderful new device - the only one in the street - would be set-up to record the weekly broadcast of his mother’s favourite radio programme Pick of the Pops. This was 1960 and the airwaves were thick with the output of some of the greatest songwriters and performers of the age. Tin Pan Alley was in full swing and Rock ‘n Roll penetrated the subconscious of a willing nation, albeit ushered in on the racist belief that were this music to be performed by its original black authors, society would somehow crumble and disintegrate. The music, which had in America been referred to as Race Music in the hands of its creators and performers - figures as influential as ‘big’ Joe Turner and Chuck Berry - was homogenised and sanitised into a version that was considered acceptable to the culture of the times when USA music journalist Alan Freed was required by his employers to rename it and came up with the sexual innuendo Rock n’ Roll. When Bill Haley and the Comets came to England their version of Rock Around the Clock caused mayhem when young men and women began spontaneously to Jive in British cinemas, or so the reports in Gerry’s father’s Daily Mirror claimed.

Elvis Presley’s hip gyrations were still considered so inflammatory that television recorded him from the waist up only. Music was clearly powerful stuff and the Hit Parade became Gerry’s abiding passion, recorded onto tape each Sunday and relentlessly played in the household throughout the week. George Formby, the world’s most well-known performer and British Film star, was, it transpired, in his twilight year, and his passing in 1961 gave rise to a retrospective of his career - which spanned three decades of culture and left its mark on as yet unheard of artists such as the Beatles - which Gerry watched assiduously on the ‘telly’.

Gerry’s first experience of ‘live’ music was courtesy of his uncle Vic, an unlikely source, given the size and shape of his hands. A former Army middleweight boxer, Gerry had experienced his somewhat less-than-gentle grip whilst submitting to Vic’s haircutting skills. This largely involved being held by one’s ear whilst the kindly bricklayer shaved the back and sides of his victim’s head with electric clippers. The result was similar to a species of canary, a pudding basin style, the only pleasure that could be derived from this almost brutal process being the satisfactory sensation of stroking the bristles on the back of one’s head immediately after being sheared.

Uncle Vic however was gentle in every other way and possessed both a chromatic harmonica - with the little lever that made it possible to play popular tunes - and a Dallas B banjo-ukulele with the George Formby signature on its vellum skin. Rather improbably, he could somehow fit his enormously thick digits on the gut strings and with the thumb of his right hand strum away in the fashion of Formby performing a number of his hits such as Chinese Laundry Blues and the ubiquitous Window Cleaner song. Gerry was entranced and remembered sneaking a ‘go’ on the precious uke, but was astonished at the pain that occurred when he stroked the taughtened gut strings with his own tender skin. It was however a seminal moment in his own musical development and one that would pay many dividends in his later life.

The family’s fortunes continued to prosper and a new Vauxhall Velox appeared on the street in confirmation of this. Day trips to the seaside ensued, to the east coast of England’s midlands with ‘kiss-me-quick’ hats and sticks of rock being emblematic of these halcyon days.

Gerry, alarmed at his elder brother’s growing literacy skills learned to read and write and, during a moment of impatience, he fell headlong from the top of the stairs whilst trying to carry his desk into the front room to continue his self-education, damaging his front-teeth irreparably. Nanny Cooksey was consulted, the amiable and knowledgeable next-door neighbour, and Gerry’s first traumatic visit to the dentist required him to submit to the suffocating experience of ‘gas’ as the damaged teeth were extracted. His raven-haired mother did quite a bit of sighing but, after her immediate reaction of anger at his “disobedience” all appeared to return to normal.

Normal that is if one allowed Gerry’s terror of the dark - which necessitated him sleeping with the light on all night - and his shared obsession with his mother for cleanliness and neatness. His and his brother’s clothes were always spotlessly clean, the result of his mother’s childhood spent in a Victorian orphanage where she was required to perform laundry and cleaning duties, on a daily basis, which even required the ironing of socks and underwear. Any besmirching of his pristine garments would result in frantic rubbing, with a spit-moistened finger, until the stain had spread and a change of shirt or shorts would then become so vital that a game of football might have to be suspended with immediate effect to allow a quick change.

Other children in the area were far less fastidious but accepted this idiosyncrasy more with amusement than with any resentment. The brothers, whilst regarded as eccentric, had other qualities. They possessed an unusual degree of athleticism and were always welcome on the ’big field’ when either football or cricket games were organised. The annual ’Olympic games’ - the invention of the White brothers who lived opposite the ’big field’ - were a popular local innovation. Running, jumping, relay-racing and throwing of cricket balls were organised and the top three competitors in each category rewarded with ‘medals’ which were simply flattened milk bottle tops , in gold top, silvertop and bronze (actually orange) strung on cotton and hung ceremoniously around the victors necks to a fanfare of a comb and paper orchestra.

These were proudly worn until they quickly fell apart or traded for the local currency, ‘fag-cards’. These cards, much prized gifts from cigarette packets of the time, usually bore the images of famous sportsmen of the day - but which might include film stars, butterflies or other items of natural history. Their value was calculated on how complete a collection was. They could be won in games where several were leant up against a nearby wall and by ‘flirting’ a card in one’s valuable collection toward those leaning cards - the ‘flirted’ card being held between the index and middle finger and propelled with stunning accuracy - by knocking them over hasten the end and duration of the game, at the end of which a winner-takes-all situation developed as the last card was knocked down. Entire family heirlooms were thus gambled away in this way and younger brothers sometimes slunk away in shame having squandered older brothers’ entire collections, without their knowledge or consent.

Disputes were often resolved in the time honoured tradition of a thick-ear, delivered in swift and brutal retribution, but quickly resolved without need for parental intervention. Everyone knew and tolerated one another. Everyone had some unique skill and could be called upon to augment each others’ needs.

The Hood’s - Gerry and Glenn’s family name - were considered enterprising and inventive. Gerry and Glenn’s father, an apprentice coachbuilder, had developed many different skills and currently made his living as a joiner, hanging doors on the burgeoning RAF married quarters which were hastily under construction in the outlying areas of the city in which they lived. But he could also build a wall, make furniture and was a charming and handsome young man who worked hard and looked after his family. Hair slicked back and Brylcreemed into a modest quiff, he had an eye for the ladies, but busied himself building a future for his family with Tom Duff, his affable business partner who lived four doors away on Blakely Crescent. The redbrick council houses they occupied were newly-built and though modestly appointed all had large gardens that were often divided into herbaceous lawned areas giving on to a vegetable patch in which grew potatoes, beans, peas and also featured a small greenhouse, in which were grown varieties of tomato. This might be augmented by a small cold-frame which produced hefty crops of cucumbers.

Food was plentiful in sixties Britain and Gerry’s father indulged himself with an unusual leisure activity, breeding Budgerigars. Often the cause of conflict between his mother and father, Gerry’s dad spent many hours with his birds and became a knowledgeable ‘bird-fancier’. The aviary displayed the spoils of his efforts, many coloured rosettes which proclaimed ‘best’ in various categories, such as ‘Novice breeder’, but also included his most proud possession ‘Best in Show’. These were no accidents and the colourful ribands were the result of many hours spent reading books on genetics and conversations with other bird-fanciers. Gerry’s father had somehow cheated the odds and defied the convention of buying expensive breeding stock in order to breed and develop his own birds to such an excellent degree.

All Gerry knew was there were many pots and water-drinkers to empty and clean, and many boring hours in his father’s company craning his neck upwards at the rows of birds stacked on staging, displayed at village and town hall exhibitions throughout the county, where they would be driven in the Vauxhall early on weekends.

His father would stare interminably at the birds, gently moving them from perch to perch with a telescopic rod, specific to the purpose, as he inspected their feathers, particularly their spotted feathers around their ‘mask’. How one could tell a good bird, or an Opaline Cinnamon Cock bird from a Lutino hen was, and remained a mystery to Gerry and his brother Glenn. They’d rather be outside playing in the amusement arcades where they could hear the ringing of bells and the gratifying sound of pennies being disgorged into the trays that held the winnings on the many gambling games they both enjoyed.

The brothers, it seemed, had somehow developed prodigious memories, and had perfected their own ‘system’ which allowed them to plunder the arcades’ roulette and racing games. Neither considered themselves exceptional, but Gerry had, at the age of four, memorised the entire football league’s club nicknames, ground names and capacities, record attendances and many other sundry facts, during one afternoon, from a magazine delivered by Littlewoods’s pools, the latter-day equivalent of the National Lottery. They were renowned as having photographic memories and encyclopaedic knowledge, though as far as they were concerned this was nothing extraordinary. But it was their sense of humour which gained them the greatest popularity.

For some reason they had created the most unusual collection. Farts! Inside the brick-built shed, amongst their father’s tool collection, they had scavenged a shelf on the metal shelving unit and populated it with many of their mother’s unused Tupperware containers. These held, in suspension, a range of their gaseous output, all carefully labelled and preserved in sacred order. As the collection built in terms of volume and infamy they would hold special days when close friends would be admitted into the hallowed chamber and by dint of deftly opening the lid by a very small amount ‘xmas dinner 1960’ could be shared with their fellow ‘connoisseurs’. As the lid would be carefully pried open, to release enough but not all of the foul odours thereby contained, Glenn might remark “A fine specimen” as his carefully selected friends giggled uncontrollably. They were weird but popular and their unique though puerile humour won over their doubters, with a few exceptions.

The Hall brother’s -the oldest of whom had distinguished himself by losing an eye by throwing a 6” nail into the air and watching as gravity returned it into his right eye - were allies. As were the Trigg’s, aficionados of farts themselves. The White’s courted the boys for their annual Olympic games and even Sally Bell could be relied on to share her luxurious pedal-car (which featured pneumatic tyres, leather upholstery and chromium hub-caps!) most of the time, the transaction depending upon their pedal-power and charming good looks.

The Butler family next door were partially onside in spite of the brothers’ father’s disapproval of the eldest boy who had become bewitched by the local tattoo artist, necessitating days off work to recover from his latest illustration. The sister, Christine had distinguished herself by becoming trapped in a deckchair and forcing a lollipop stick through the roof of her mouth, but it was the middle child Paul who occasioned the greatest concern with his passion for fire. Paul liked nothing more than to play with it. A box of matches were his admission ticket to his own personal heaven. His annual performance was to burn down the local cornfield, immediately prior to its harvest, which somehow went undetected for several consecutive harvests. The only year that the boys could remember that this didn’t occur was most unfortunate for Glenn. The boys’ mother had knitted them both elaborately patterned cardigans, both matching, with zippered fronts. After a particularly warm afternoon playing surreptitiously in the corn, they had returned home only to discover that Glenn’s had been left behind in the den they had constructed in its midst. It was agreed that in order to conceal their whereabouts nothing would be said about this; they would simply return and retrieve it the following day. An early start was greeted with the shocking discovery that a farmer’s day started much earlier than their’s. The field was now fully harvested and its sheaves of hay, neatly stacked. A cursory inspection of the stacks failed to reveal the red and black jumper and, once the wrath of their mother had been negotiated, the boys waited expectantly each morning for it to reveal itself in their weetabix breakfast, but to no avail.

The eldest of the Butler boys had acquired a reputation as a constructor of what were then known as soap-box or trolley cars. Gerry would never forget the day when Paul, seeking variation from his arsonist leanings, arrived in the latest and most elaborate model of his big brother’s genius. He was easily persuaded to join Paul in this maiden voyage which resulted in a day-long adventure that would eventually result in a Police search for the missing boys before their adventure was eventually curtailed with a high speed collision with the Co-op stores’ steps. This resulted in a re-arrangement of the front axle and a good thumping from the incensed owner.

There seemed little to spoil the joy of life to Gerry, apart perhaps from the vicious-Fisher’s, who’s three sons had perhaps been shaped a little too savagely by their Sergeant-Major father’s occasional re-appearance from his latest tyrannical task. They had never actually met the father but the eldest of the three boys had become twisted and cruel from they knew not what. Having variously attempted to pin Gerry against the mighty oak tree, which dominated the local playing field, with the hedge trimmings of Hawthorn which he had piled up against it in anticipation, there was apparently no limit to his sadism. At one time, in apparent emulation of the White’s ingenuity, he had constructed a recreation of the Horse of the Year obstacle course in their back garden. Had a similarly constructed course appeared at Hickstead for equine competitions there would no doubt have been an outcry, constructed as it was to maim or injure anyone foolish enough to attempt it. It was the work of an evil mind and his bullying attempt to get Gerry to attempt jumping over the sharpened stakes and rusted barbed wire jumps was only averted when his mother’s timely call for dinner arrived. But it was the incident at the quarry that Gerry would never forget.

Entrance to the limestone quarry was strictly forbidden, but its extensive perimeter could easily be breached, even by a four-and-a-half year-old boy. The bigger and braver of the boys would scale the wall to the rear of the garages on Willingham Crescent and then in an adrenaline-fuelled rush, fed by the cry of “The farmer’s wife is coming!” sprint across the ploughed field into the scrubland undergrowth which surrounded the rim of the man-made crater which yawned fifty feet or more below them. Once inside the quarry, and depending on whether excavation was in progress, or not, the moonscape was an adventure playground for various games of ‘tig’, hide-and-seek, and the many variations of ‘war’ which boys - no girls could be admitted to this holiest of holies - inevitably resort.

Gerry couldn’t quite remember the route he had taken on this particular day, or who exactly was there, and on his ‘side’. His recollection began when, standing on a lofty premonitory, high above the sheer-sided cliff edge, he turned to find himself confronted by the most vicious of the Fisher’s, Philip. Philip was perhaps nine years-old and more than twice the size of Gerry who knew enough already about his savagery to fear any encounter, particularly in such an exposed and isolated situation as this. Philip was clutching a broom handle which, as he advanced on Gerry, was prodded toward him, contacting with the small and terrified boy’s chest. As he shuffled inexorably backward toward the brink of the chasm below him, Gerry wanted to pee himself, unable as he was to resist the insistent force of the violence directed to pushing him inevitably over the cliff’s edge. Helpless and entirely hopeless the boy found his senses sharpening as the contorted face of his oppressor shoved him, inch-by-inch to the very brink of the abyss.

Gerry’s family were public atheists and he’d thought little of religion until this moment but as he prepared to fall to his certain death he experienced his first miracle. Over the bully’s shoulder Gerry suddenly saw his elder brother rushing toward them, clutching a tree branch of about three feet in length and two inches in diameter. As Philip prepared himself to follow through with his murderous intent Glenn struck at the back of his legs, immediately behind his knees, bringing the boy, twice his size, to his knees and temporarily disarming him. Seizing his terrified and teetering little brother by the wrist, Glenn and Gerry made good their escape as quickly as possible and never returned to the quarry again.

No word of this was ever spoken for fear of the consequences for having trespassed there in the first place. Philip only ever once attempted a reprisal, by bowling a cricket ball at Gerry’s head during an organised game on the big field, but Glenn was once again equal to this assault and standing, as he was, next to the bowler’s crease, he brought his bat down upon the assailant’s head rendering him completely unconscious with one stroke.

Gerry never forgot his brother’s heroism which would continue throughout his life. Nor did they forget the cruelty and evil of the older boy from whom they escaped when their father moved the family to their new home, several years later. What became of Philip is not known but every time a murder was reported in their city they looked expectantly to see his name.

But it was not these incidents that signalled the end of Gerry’s childhood but a rather more unexpected arrival in the Hood household. Gerry recalled his father waking him and his brother in the early hours of one December morning.

“Come and meet your little sister!” was all he calmly announced.

“Sister, what sister?” thought Gerry, blissfully unaware that his life had just changed, forever. He had no notion of the imminent arrival of his sister. He had failed to notice, and never been told of any plans for a sister, and now here she was, taking his place in his mother’s affections and dominating the household in a way that for four years had been exclusively his province. It would be many years before he could forgive this deposing intrusion, many years of resentment and conflict which might have been averted by a simple explanation of a basic fact. He was king no more, usurped by his sister with the apparent connivance of his mother and father. The real trouble started here and the extent that thereafter he went to in acting-out his feelings of rage, were just beginning.

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