We had evaporated milk on our pie. It was nice, it gave flavour, sweetness and softened the pastry. Only one tin was opened, for that was all there was. Then people did not stock up, no monthly shop, no big weekly shop, there were no deep freezers, no refrigerators, no space and no money. The vap would run out and we refused to eat more pie with out it. Dad would say,

"Put ordinary milk on, it is the same, you will not know the difference!"

Give us a break!

"No, no more pie, thank you."

"Eat more, it will go off, it won't keep."

"No thank you."

"Ok, there is more vap in the kitchen, give me your dishes."

"Why not just bring the vap in here?"

"Give me your dishes."

Dad would return the dishes. Hard pie crust stained with a few drops of ordinary milk. A waste of pie, milk, credibility and trust.

Note 2

My mother was raised in Arley, a small village in the midlands. We would visit, either by train to Birmingham and change twice more, or by coach to Cheltenham and change twice more, the last change being a bus to the village. I preferred the train because it had toilets. The coaches were the Red and White and the Black and White. Cheltenham coach station I associate with the smell of boiled eggs, the filling of the sandwiches we took and ate there while waiting.

It was a change to go there, I knew a few of the local children, it was an exciting holiday. The Arley kids were technologically more advanced than us peasants from the province. It was there that I learned how to make a throwing arrow using a long, thin, light tree branch, discarded cigarette packet, a length of smooth string and a pocket knife. A well made one could, with practice and a tail wind, be thrown a long way, far enough to have to chase after. They made their own kites. In Newport we would wait until Woolworth had kites and then ask our parents to buy us one. Our parents liked the idea of kites, they were happy to buy us one, help us put it together and watch us fly it. In Arley the few corner shops did not sell kites, the big shops were in the big towns, much too, too far away. They made their own. Bamboo stolen from gardens and allotments, newspaper, flour, water and string. They worked, that was all that could be said of them, they worked, just. Making them was fun and messy. The bamboo would be tied to make a cross, roughly sawn to shape with gran's bread knife when she was not looking. The newspaper was ripped to shape, or folded over to shape,

"Gran, can I borrow your scissors?"

"What for?"

"Cut paper for my kite."

"Fold it and tear it!"

To make the glue it was alright to use a cup,

"One from under the sink."

Flour was freely given. Then ask for a knife to mix the flour with the water and spread it on the newspaper, it was like asking for a mortgage. Those kites were robust. They were also very heavy, it needed a strong wind to launch them. Once the wind dropped, so did the kite, pray it was not over anything breakable.

In Arley there was a youth by the name of Dexter. A strapping boy, much older than me. He offered to take me fishing. Mother and grandmother were cagey, for Dexter was much older than I and from a rough part of the village. Dexter called by and collected me after lunch. He had string, bent pins and cut up worms in a snuff box. He was well kitted out and organised I was impressed. On a hot, sunny afternoon we walked out of the village, through the wood, across fields, past the reservoir into scrub land. Here, among the brambles he led me to a stream, maybe two foot wide, nine inches deep, across which was a fallen tree, rotting and moss covered. In the shady cool he laid on the fallen tree, baited his hook and fished out minnows and sticklebacks. I met Dexter in the morning, went fishing with him in the afternoon and never saw him again.

The best thing was the ice cream, 'Dee Di' would do the rounds twice a day. It was wonderful ice cream and he would serve it in a cup, glass or jug if you took them along to him. I would go to the van with a pint beer mug, jostle with the others until I was noticed, usually I was the last to be serve, and buy my six penny worth. He would spoon it in. Back at the house I
would hide myself away and savour it, best when slightly melted. It was known to be a tasty ice cream, so much so that even grown ups would eat it and they would let me have it twice a day. Other ice cream man would tour the streets, children would rush out, see they had been fooled and go back inside to wait. Our day hinged on Dee Di, we would hurry back from the fields, or wood and ask.

"Has Dee Di come yet?"

If not we would wait. If we missed him our day was ruined.

There was a Dee Di café in Coventry, or it could have been Nuneaton. One wet afternoon we went there to see a Bob Hope film, a Western. We had ice cream in Dee Di's café before and after the picture, it was an afternoon long remembered.

I found the people of this central, English village, to be more, shall I say "backward", for want of a word, than us peasants from the provinces. I would be admonished to, "eat your crust", when leaving a piece of bread. I would never say "no", nor would I ask "why", but I may say I was full, or did not like it. Then it was always, "crust makes your hair curl" and they meant it, they seriously meant it. Likewise "carrots are good for your eyes". I may argue this, but was asked by some sage, "you ever see a rabbit with glasses"? Then it was ho ho ho and nodding heads all around, with glances of admiration at the sage. They meant it, they seriously meant it. I did not want bad eyes, but what did I want with curly hair? They were full of mottos "a stitch in time", "look before you leap", the whole shooting match. Annoyingly frustrating for one as young as I, best not to wind them up.

Note 3

In summer, with the vicar droning on from the little stage at one end, I looked down pretending to pray. Through the gaps between the floor boards I saw minnows, sticklebacks and elvers, what we called cocky elbows, in the reen, hiding from the kingfishers, a beautiful bird. I did not like Sunday School. School, was school, I went to ordinary school five days a week, why go to another school on a Sunday. It was always the same, I learned nothing. I went because our betters exerted social dominance on the land, peer pressure from our own made it such that my parents had no option, but to force me to Sunday school. They may have sent me for the sake of my soul, or believed they did. They may have sent me because they, too, went to Sunday school. I think they sent me to conform with the expectations of their peers. For me it was a wasted weekend. The glorious, joyous, light hearted feeling of a Friday after school, the pleasure of a Saturday morning marred by the thought of Sunday. Sunday, a nothing day. Sunday up mid morning, can go nowhere for I must be in Sunday school, at three o clock. Eat Sunday lunch, THE meal of the week, not enjoying it because I must go to Sunday school at three o clock. All my friend long gone, them up and out by nine o clock, on their bikes and long cycling through country lanes, sweating in the warmth and having a good time. Me, a prisoner of someone else's conscience. I wash, dress up and go to church. Every week the same old routine. Come four o clock, closing time some old fool is still rambling on. Out, I run home, where I know I must quickly change out of my Sunday clothes and put them away. I am then told to go out and play. Pointless, my friends can be anywhere. I am told to get on my bike and go and join them. Where, they can be north, south, east or west of me, they can be just around the corner or miles away. I wait, I wait listless and lonely in the avenue, mam telling all,

"He wanted to go and play, now he doesn't, children hey."

Around five o clock my friends come back, sweat stained, chattering, laughing, carrying trophies, retelling tales of what they did that day. I go to join them. I am not welcome, I was not with them, what shared joys and pleasures can I contribute, what experience of the day can I recount. They go in for their tea, arranging to meet in the avenue at six o clock. I am not invited. I stay in, hearing them laughing and playing outside. My parents saying,

"You must have upset them, they will not play with you."

Were they ever a child? What relationship did they have with their playmates, how did they interact? Do they not understand? Do they want to understand? Did they know but not admit it? Did they know they ruined my weekend to conform to the expectations of neighbours and family, would they not admit this? As soon as I could I ditched Sunday school. I never made my own children go to Sunday school, or church.

Note 4

Things were done for effect. A Saturday morning I may be told,

"Mrs. So and So wants such and such buying, I told her it is half the price in the market, can't go herself, I said you would go."

"Ok, I may go to town next Saturday, give me the details."

"You must do it this morning."

That I had plans was not worthy of consideration. That my studying, working out and dating was done to a tight schedule was not a factor. I must do it. Well, move quick, get it out of the way, salvage something of the day. Maybe I would jog into town, not the prettiest, or safest of routes, especially as I planned to pump iron with the lads before we all jogged a few miles in the country before a swim and Turkish bath.

"Ok, I will go now, what exactly does she want?"

"She won't be back for an hour or so, ask her then."

"But what will I do until then?" A pathetic, rhetorical wail.

"Study."

Study! I was too angry to read and remember the four word headline in the newspaper. When I got to the market with Mrs. So and So's ten shilling, the desired item was, in fact, twelve shilling and had always been so. I made up the difference and paid four pence for a bus back home. Here I reported in for a debriefing.

"It was twelve shilling, not ten."

"You sure, ten when I was there?"

"He said it was always twelve!"

"Well I told Mrs. So and So it was ten. Don't say anything, I will give you the extra two and not tell her."

"And four pence for the bus fare?" Half question, half hope.

"Ok."

"And three shilling an hour for my time, being one an a half hours waiting for her to come back and the same going to town and back. Three hours times three, plus two shillings, plus four pence. That's eleven and four pence."

I got two and four pence. I was told to stop whining and go and catch up with my friends. My day shot, ragging from the lads the next day and my routine knocked to hell, costing me days and extra effort to catch up. I was too angry to concentrate for days, it cost me marks at college. Still, in those days children did as they were told, as their parents had and their parents before them. It was discipline, it taught one to conform, it taught one respect for self and others, it made one a useful member of society. We grew up better for it, we did things for others as they did for us, we knew how to handle disappoint, we knew nothing was fixed and that adaptability was necessary to live with ourselves and with others.

Sod me if Mrs. So and So did not come back next week with a pound and ask me to get her two more. The first had cost mam two and four pence. She fobbed Mrs. So and So off with a weak excuse. Anything that cost money was to be avoided. People did not have much in the way of disposable income. Their few, spare pennies they banked at the best interest rate they were offered, they did not negotiate, nor query, for they did not have enough to negotiate or query. On their meagre interest they paid tax, all dutifully record down to the last half penny, they would not dream of fiddling,

"Can't do that, catch you they will, jail and the key thrown away."

They were scared of "them", they believed "them" to be omnipotent, all seeing, all knowing. Led by the nose, poor people, they knew little and accepted everything. Their few pennies slowly became a few pound. They took out a penny a week pension and another penny a week for their funeral. After years of this they thought they were alright. Then came inflation. The inflation of the seventies particularly severe. They did not know how to duck, dodge and hedge financially. Their hopes for a future and a proper funeral went.

From my birth my grandparents saved a penny a week for me, insurance, whatever. My parents took over this payment. I was told,

"It will do you well when you grow up, something for you."

It matured when I was in my thirties. I was summoned to go, in person, to the office in Newport town to collect it. That ill afforded penny a month yielded five pound. Five measly pound, enough for two pints of beer and a bag of chips. It did me well, it was something for me, it was a lesson.

Note 5

As I grew older things changed. I became more educated, worldly wise, I gained experience, I knew things. I saw that the "them" who led us were not omnipotent, all seeing, all knowing. They were fallible human beings, in many cases corrupt and silly human beings. I lost my awe and respect for them. I could predict events far better than "them". I told all that the London Wheel would not be raised first lift, for a cable was sure to break. My wife and her family were quick to chip in, they told me that I know nothing, "they" know better than you. I told all that the Millennium Bridge did not look right. My wife and her family were quick to chip in, they told me that I know nothing, "they" know better than you. I told all that the Millennium Dome was but a wild man's dream. My wife and her family were quick to chip in, they told me that I know nothing, "they" know better than you.

I have, of recent years, told people a lot of things and have, in the majority of cases, been proven right. Two weeks ago I mentioned to people at work, that the blitzkrieg advance to Baghdad would peter out and the war become a slogging, sniping match. The coalition will take casualties. For this act the world has lost respect for us. Did I inherit gran's gift of 'the sight', or is it just worldly wise experience?

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