Countdown 2 and 1...Yippee!!

At last! The car is bulging and waiting for us to come on board. We won't be coming home from work tomorrow but will head straight for Portsmouth. Excited or what!!??? I wasn't earlier but now I am. I really am!

Thanks for sticking with me over the last week or so as I shared thoughts on my first ten years of life.  It has really made me think seriously about getting my personal history sorted. It has been an unfulfilled goal for years now. Perhaps this will spur me on. Anyway, thanks for your comments. I've appreciated them and I'll miss you all over the next few weeks.

So here we are at the very beginning...22nd February 1952

As I could never recall a warm and sunny February in the North-East, I assume that my arrival coincided with a bleak, dreary and heartless day…the kind that forces you indoors to protect you from the lashing, cutting, wild and freezing rain.

Against such a harsh and hopeless backdrop, I like to think my arrival raised at least one smile.

Elizabeth was the last to be born two years previously and, discounting numerous miscarriages, I was number four of an eventual seven. All attention was on Elizabeth…not my sister, but the princess who was making preparations for her coronation. My arrival at 81 St Patrick’s Garth in the notorious east-end dockland area of Sunderland was in her slipstream and wasn’t subject to fanfare, jubilation or euphoria.

The real good news, other than the impending coronation, was that the war was over even if rationing wasn’t, and I was blissfully unaware that battles in the field would soon be replaced with battles in the home.

Had I known what was to come, I would surely have opted to cut my losses and return to wherever I came from.

From the moment I was able to think, I never felt my presence to be a blessing to anyone. My Mother however must have loved me dearly because she often took the lions share of pain to protect me from her drunken, out of control brute of a husband; intent on making his mark on my tender defenseless skin with his army issue leather belt which I found out some fifty years later was named ‘Suzie’.

I marvel that I could have such thoughts before coherent speech but my earliest wishes for him centered mainly on his swift exit from this world, although such wishes only ever followed a thrashing my Mother was unable to prevent.

What provoked such heartless, prolonged and brutal attacks on his apparent favorite son was a mystery to me. It would be another twenty years before I found out the truth and a further twenty before my earliest wishes regarding him were granted…his parting for my part being laced with guilt, regret and sadness rather than bitterness, and the last thing I wanted at the time.

Anyway, I digress. I had arrived, I was part of an unbroken expanding family with a roof over our heads and all my bits were intact. I was now in that awful state of knowing nothing but wanting everything. My journey had begun.

Looking back from 2010 it has been an incredible journey laced with opportunity, disappointment, pain and sheer joy. I've experience a full life and enjoyed the fruits of both wise and not so wise choices.

A prison warden once said of me that I would be back and that he would have the last laugh. Since then I have never looked back and have never been back. For the last 38 years I have been the master of my destiny in the  direction I needed to go and the type of person I needed to be. The other person is under control now and is doing okay. We are still friends and wouldn't be without each other. He's been through a lot and deserves a good friend. We shed a tear from time to time but we are both enjoying life now. We really are.

Countdown 4 and 3...the old Gaumont Cinema

Call me selfish, but being the recipient of a clean, dry nappy and long, warm bottles of milk was what it was all about. My earliest memories were of torturous long waits for those well-appreciated bottles which, once they arrived, were gulped with fervor in long, sweaty bursts, punctuated by short intervals essential for the intake of air.

I instantly recognized my provider as mum…never dad. I cried long and hard for attention and often woke the next day knowing I’d been unsuccessful.

I recall gazing at the maze pattern frill around the hood of my perambulatory prison and soon recognized the various smells as I lay defenseless and devoid of stimulation had it not been for the buzzing bluebottles orbiting the hanging, sticky fly-catching strips that twirled and twisted from the yellowing ceiling.

I progressed from my pram to the heavily covered bed that accommodated us like sardines in a tin. The air was often stale and breathing easily seemed to be a problem for me as I often found relief by pushing my tiny wet finger as far up my nostril as possible. It never occurred to me simply to open my mouth.

My bedroom was also my prison where I waited many long hours before being allowed into the friendlier, livelier and more stimulating living room. Sunday was a particularly long wait while the only real meal of the week was prepared. Our ‘mam’ could certainly cook when funds made it possible.

I don’t recall being outdoors in the pram, although I do remember it being bumped as it progressed down the 30 or so spiralling concrete steps enclosed within a tower at each end of the building, before entering the brightness of the inner Garth area.

I hated the smell of the concrete steps which, with pride born of duty, were kept scrupulously clean by shawl cladded, metal pail carrying women; twisting and wringing grey ‘floor clouts’ in their lobster coloured and weathered hands as they knelt or bent to the task at hand.

I remember with pride the first day I was able to climb these stairs more than one at a time and no longer having both feet on one step before moving onto the next; but still the combined smell of disinfectant and ashes bound for the ‘shute’ was a smell most unpleasant to me.

As I grew older, they became a source of embarrassment as the practice of cleaning them had long been abandoned and I contemplated bringing ‘outside’ friends home. I would invariably run up them as fast as I could and can remember the echo of my footsteps bouncing off the walls in the dank and dusty atmosphere before bursting into the fresh air of the main veranda that served about fifteen homes.

I later imagined what I could do to beautify them if money was no object...say £100, but never came to an idea that would improve their appeal. At least we were on the first veranda and not the top. There was always someone worse off than us.

Anyway, I’m moving on too quickly. No such thoughts accompanied me as I bumped down those concrete steps with my Mam and pram.

I remember well the layout of 81 St Patrick’s Garth.

The living room was situated immediately to the right as I left the bedroom. On entering there was a pantry to the left with the scullery next to it. Straight ahead was the open fire with an integral oven to the right which had a diamond two-tone green shaped tiled door with a swivel lock handle. The left hand side of the fire had a hot plate. The fire itself was the heart of the home. It was easily lit and once the shovel had been placed in position with a two-fold sheet of newspaper covering it, it was soon roaring. Two armchairs flanked the fire. I can’t recall what was in the alcove to the right other than a photograph of Elizabeth hanging from the picture rail, but the alcove to the left housed a beaureau which in turn housed ‘Suzie’. The dropdown of the beaureau served as a temporary bed for me when I had measles or scarlet fever or something of that nature. Adjacent to the alcove and opposite the pantry and scullery were the windows encased in metal along with the glass paneled doors leading to the independent veranda. I loved the sun streaming through these doors to fill the room with light.

To the right of the glass door was the redifusion box with its ½ dozen selections for radio. The wall adjacent and opposite the fireplace accomodated the plaster plaques of flying geese and the square dining table rested against it. We were one floor up and the view from that rarely used veranda was of Joshua Wilson’s factory with the Sweet factory to the right. To the left was the slaughter house, the Black Cat pub and the quayside…soon to become my preferred playground.

The slaughter house was a magical place to be…especially when a bull was being delivered for slaughter. The big lorries would have these gigantic wooden ramps that would unhinge from the back with long metal ring-pull rods. The bulls always sensed they were going to be slaughtered as they slid awkwardly and wide eyed down the ramp. We would cower behind the flimsy barrier and often ran for our lives down the narrow steep cobbled alleyway once we saw the nostrils flare, eye contact made and hooves clattering wildly and slip on the hard cobbles at the foot of the ramp.

Sheep weren’t that scary, but it was fascinating to watch from the open doorway as they were dragged onto the grid to have their throats slit. We were so frightened of the slaughter man. I later found out that he lived in the same block of flats as Celia Agnew and Iwas terrified passing his door in case he opened it and dragged me in for slaughter.

I once scaled the brick holding pen of the slaughter house and dropped inside the empty arena. I was stunned with fear having realized I couldn’t get out again. Fortunately I found some wood to give me something to use as a lift, but during this time the hair on the back of my neck was on end thinking a bull or the slaughter man would enter and kill me.

A bull did escape once. I pelted down that alleyway almost tripping and took refuge in ‘Snowballs’, a little grocers at the bottom to the right which I burst into with legs quivering. The shopkeeper had a hunch back and wore a brown overall, and he let me stay a while (the shop is still there). When I thought it was clear, I ventured out but was still terrified and unsure which direction to go. I eventually found my way to the Church yard and dropped down from the surrounding wall only to have the bull suddenly appear behind me. A man struck the head of the bull as it closed in on me and it changed direction, but it was unimaginably horrible to have the snort of the bull so close to me. We later learned that it found refuge under a cart or wagon and was shot with a dart to sedate it before eventually being destroyed.

There was a bombed out area near Celia Agnews place and when it filled with water we floated sheets of corrugated iron and timber and jumped on to paddle across while waiting for Dad.  We were never allowed to go in with him. We had to play outside rain or shine for a few hours. Draw your own conclusions.

A very fond and private memory was of sliding down two huge angled concrete slabs and through a slit into the part-demolished massive interior of the Gaumont Cinema. I stood alone facing the stage and screen area and looked around at the empty dusty seats. I felt like I'd discovered a magical place hidden for centuries. On the way home I found a sailor's hat.

The stone triangle area near the quay where we begged passing foreign sailors for money still stands.

I can't believe how I'm rambling on. The memories are just flooding out.

2010...the car is two-thirds packed and ready to go. Watching 'Flash Forward' now.

Spencer Lee Devine

Here he is at last...

With Great Grandma Needham

With Grandma Bev

And Mum...showing expectant Aunt Sarah in the background

Martin has taken some real good photos and will send them soon.

It was so good to have the family together. Life just can't get better than this. You would have loved being with us Juli. We are looking forward to seeing you in France next week.

I won't post anything about my childhood today, but will continue tomorrow.

Countdown 5...broken bones?

The year is 1957 and It's my first day at Hudson Road school. I recall my Mother leaving me with all these strangers and I was very upset. That's all I remember about the place other than we sang 'All things bright and beautiful' at assembly and had free milk in the classroom. Every day since and up to leaving abruptly is a complete blank. I do remember though being made to feel as poor as I actually was.

I walked to school with Tucker Ellis, often in sock-less wellies and no underpants. We would play marbles and walk with arms around shoulders and did the same on the way back. We were happy out of the house and school.

One memory was of being wrapped in a towel after a bath and dried in front of a roaring fire.  I was having a nit comb scrape across my scalp while watching 'The laughing policeman' on a TV which sat on the table directly opposite. As I don't recall ever having a bath other than this one, I've concluded that it must have been in preparation for my first day at school.

Soon after my first day, I remember coming home at lunch-time and watching the weather forecast on TV. I refused to go back after this.

Isn't it strange that those who can least afford a TV often have one. It's a good job too. I would have hated missing out on 'The Lone Ranger and Tonto', 'The Flying Doctor' and other favourites.

On Saturdays we walked to my older brother's school where they laid on free meals for the likes of our family. We had to show our ticket before being allowed in. I can still picture it as we queued for the herringbone wooden green doors to open.

After school, Tucker and me often played in derelict houses. On one occasion I was on the first floor fearlessly walking the floor joists as a dare when I stepped off balance into space. I actually remember seeing where I fell from as I was falling. I apparently landed on my back amongst the broken bricks that littered the place and Tucker dashed home to tell my mother. I don't know how I got to the hospital but my mother tells me that she was told to come in soon afterwards as I had taken a turn for the worse and wasn't expected to live. She told me that she sat with me through the night before things improved. I still can smell the hospital and the very long waits for the doctors to come round.

My favourite playground was down at the quay under the old timber supports pulling rocks in search of crabs. Quite often I was caught by the tide and struggled to make it back to safety and would have to wade through freezing water. The place echoed as gulls accidentally flew in and couldn't get out. Rats were plentiful and scurried over the bands of seaweed and along beams.

Other times I would jump from rowing boat to rowing boat and loved to board empty fishing vessels. In the same area I remember climbing latticed advertising boarding and peering through the window of an old building at men making coffins. I did this a lot. It was fascinating to watch.

I ran away from home a lot as anything was better than the threat of violence. Late one evening I made my way to the area where the pigeons nested high in the rocks and entered a rusty metal cabin. I felt that I could make this my home and was convinced that it would work out. After an hour I became very cold and hungry and made my way home to face the music.

Another time I walked over the bridge and all the way to Seaburn Beach to crawl under an overturned boat. This was going to be my bed for the night. In the early hours of the morning I started to make my way home and arrived in daylight.

I once ran away from home and got completely lost. An old man pointed me in the right direction and bought me a huge round flat multi-coloured lolly to suck on the way back.

A lot of the kids would jump on the back of the old milk lorry as it left the garth and one time I was bounced off and ended up under the back wheels. I was in hospital again and, like the last time, my mother was asked to come in as I had deteriorated and wasn't expected to survive the night. I was in hospital a long while and I had nightmares remembering the underside of that lorry.

It seems the incident caused quite a stir. The whole garth was in uproar and the driver was sacked. I felt sorry for him as it wasn't really his fault. He had no idea we were hitching a ride every time he drove off.
We never quite managed to fool the new driver and soon gave up trying.

It may be hard to believe but out of all my accidents I never suffered a broken bone.

Almost forgot...today was absolutely glorious. By 7:00am Bev was in her sun-splattered garden and I was getting more things together for France and painting in the studio. The FA cup final was a treat and we ended the evening with a fire in the garden...a perfect conclusion to the day.

Countdown 6...games

I started writing these insights into my first 10 years of life in reverse because I was excited- just like a kid- at the prospect of a visit to France on Wednesday, and used them as a countdown from 10.

You may think that I would find it hard to recollect anything aged six. You'd be wrong.

Games...
St Patrick's Garth had a common concrete block of a play area surrounded by verandered flats where milk lorries, rag and bone men with their horse and carts, coal lorries and mobile grocery vans parked just long enough to do their business before moving on to leave us to play.

Our favourite was the wedding cars. It was tradition for the bride or groom to throw a handful (sometimes two) of 'coppers' out of the car as they drove off for us kids to scramble unashamedly for as many as possible. It was on one such occasion that I wondered if I would ever have £100. I thought a £100 would last me forever.

No one owned a car in the garth. Some had airs and graces and others kept a scrupulously clean house with lots of pictures and ornaments but we were essentially all poor together.

We played for hours in the garth and always had to be called in. Some mothers called their kids in really early and others called in at critical times when a game was in full swing. I was rarely called in early unless I had to do an errand.

I remember well the games with the girls. Moira Long had a mother who would have graced any screen. She oozed class and their house smelled lovely and was immaculate. We would play doctors and nurses but I was always the patient being operated on or bandaged up. Another game was shopkeeping. Moira had scales, jars of sweets and a till and we would take turns in being the customer or the shop owner. We had to be different types of customer and it was really good fun. Moira was always called early leaving us with nothing good or different to play with.

I vividly remember playing cops and robbers and running up and down those concrete steps trying to catch the bad guys and shouting "You're under arrest". Everybody wanted to be the American arresting officer. We didn't have guns but our pointed fingers worked well. There was always a sheriff's badge available.

Sometimes, everyone came out onto the veranda to watch a full scale football match where coats or jumpers defined the goal posts. Cricket was another popular game, especially if a ball ended up bouncing off somebody's window and better still if the window broke. More often than not the ball was caught by the women who stood guard to protect their property. If there weren't spectators, a broken window usually signified the end of the game as we'd all scatter.

The longest game was 'Kick the Tin'. The tin would be kicked and while it was being retrieved everyone would hide. The object was to get back to the tin without being noticed.

Hopscotch, skipping , chuck-stones, throwing balls, handstands, wooden spinning tops, playing with toy soldiers and marbles were other games played on the block.

Another very popular game but not with the parents was knocking on doors and running to hide as it was answered. Other times we'd walk along the high wall or climb the drainpipe of the top veranda onto the flat roof to play with the TV aerials.

Outside of the garth I had lots of playgrounds most of which were dangerous. I'll include these tomorrow along with the accidents I had.

Back to 2010...a good day of painting. Bev was really tired after work so was very glad to put her feet up while I made tea.

Just three working days to go! We'll be leaving straight after work on Wednesday. We can't stop thinking about it now.

Countdown 7...time to follow suit

They say it was falling between two ships that brought on epilepsy, but his wife nonetheless stuck with him through thick and thin...or should that be thin and thinner?

He certainly lost his head on that fateful day and did his best to ensure his wife followed suit. His weapon of choice was a rusty hand-saw. My Mother quite literally just managed  to keep her head and was extremely lucky to survive.

I'm not sure if it was this episode (which I was virtually unaware of) or the fact that the police had singled me out as the culprit who had climbed the drainpipe of a 'Spangles' factory and relieved it of stock, that settled the question of whether I should be put into care; but into care I went at the tender age of 7. I was out of control and the 'Spangles' saga was just one of many cries for help.

I was indeed the guilty party. It was a high building and my legs were like jelly long before reaching the flat roof. Had the drainpipes been modern plastic ones, the crime would not have got off the ground. On leaving the factory I had written my name and address of sorts on the ink blotting paper with a pen I rather liked the look of. They probably followed the trail of wrappers just to make absolutely sure it was me.

Even at that early age I recognised the need to get away from an unpredictable and often violent Father. My brothers Tom and John had already gone into care. It was time to follow.

I still haven't really pieced together all that happened between the ages of five and seven but writing about what I can remember is helping me to confront and explore the things I was unaware of at the time.

It may seem strange to say this, but I believe my Mother loved me dearly and is every bit a victim as some of her children.

Things did improve considerably and my three sisters and remaining brother enjoyed a normal upbringing without our Father who had been hospitalised for an indeterminable period of time. My Mother wore a collar for a long time.

It would be another eleven years before I returned home.

Countdown 8...clean warm and happy

At last a baby boy weighing 8lb 6oz. No name yet but all is well. Well done Serene and we look forward to seeing you all very soon.

Speaking of arrivals...here I am 8 years of age in 1960 and arriving at number 8 Godfrey Road for my first stint of care. My brother John is already here and I'm following him upstairs and taking advice on not being too cheeky, using slang or swearing at the staff. He's basically telling me to keep my nose clean. We'd just washed the pots together for the first time in our lives and he was now showing me the bedroom we were to share. We had a bed each with clean sheets and pyjamas and the room was warm and clean. We just weren't used to this level of comfort.

On the bedside cabinet was a Bible. I can't remember how I learned to read, but I remember reading a few verses after washing and falling asleep happy, clean, safe and warm.

I woke up the next morning feeling truly happy that it wasn't all a dream. It was like waking up on Christmas morning with lots of presents. There was hot water and soap, clean towels and a breakfast waiting for us. Surely I must be in Heaven. Surely I couldn't be happier. Surely I didn't deserve this.