20th of February 1975 to the 19th February 1976
As my year progressed,..
…days became warmer, and with summer on its way, things reverted back to what seemed to be a steady rhythm.
Apart from my Dad, there were other men who I would get to know. All of them friendly, and happy. There was Grandad who used to pop round occasionally on his old bike. Another old man (well they all seemed old to a 3-year-old like me) called Reg, who Mum and I used to see walking along our road when we were going out to the shops. His eyes used to bulge out quite a bit, he had a walking stick and a flat cap.
There was Doug, the baker who used to deliver down our road in his white bread van, he always used to stop and chat with my Mum. I used to help carry the bread in the house, still fresh and warm. By the time Mum had followed me in, she found someone had nibbled the corners of the loaf. Funny, it always seemed to be the one I’d carried in.
There was this new Ice Cream van who began turning up each early evening, with a young Italian guy called Pablo behind the wheel. Now and again, usually on a Sunday, and if Mum and Dad felt generous, we’d be allowed to get an ice lolly or ice cream from him.
Hersham Village itself,..
…was basically just like Camberwick Green to me. You had the greengrocers, the garage with its two fuel pumps, the doctors surgery near the school, the launderette, the post office and sweet shop, there was probably a butchers there too but I can’t picture it, the bank, the building society, the electric shop which sold the white goods and the bicycle shop next door, both called Clews. There was the small market shop, called Frewins I think, which sold all the tins and other things. You had the car garage shop, the hardware shop called Wally’s on the other side of the road.
Milk came from the milkman each morning, bread from Doug. It was all very simple and sunny to me. That’s how I remember it anyway. However, changes were starting to creep in.
I remember going past these shops…
…while riding on the back of my Mum’s bike in the little seat. By now, I’d started to sing all the songs I knew on the back of that bike, usually at the top of my voice.
It got to the extreme where friends and neighbours would remark that, Mum didn’t need a bell, as they could hear me from half a mile away.
My Dad also had a bike, not his company vehicle, but another which also had its own special seat for us children. His though, was situated on the cross-bar, like a mini-saddle, where I would sit and hold onto the handle bars, with his big arms either side of me. This set-up almost took us both out into Road Traffic Accident territory one fateful day.
It didn’t matter which journey I was on,..
…I was always singing, usually anything that was in the charts or on the radio. Unfortunately for Dad, I just so happened to choose a Gary Glitter number.
Now, for this, you’ve got to put yourself back into that time, and think of the act everyone was witnessing whenever he appeared. Not just the songs, but the moves that went with them. The stomps, the reaching out to the camera, and the countless fist pumps into the air. Well, it was while cycling home from wherever (I get the feeling it was coming back from the Half-Way down the Hersham Road, that I was in full flow with “I’m The Leader Of The Gang (I Am)” and my Dad narrowly swerved an uppercut to the chin during my energetic performance singing “Come On, Come On!” whilst fist-pumping the air.
This happy racket, with me warbling countless other artists and their hits, was also happening back at home too, though thankfully not inside, but outside on the swing my Dad had put up in what was now a perfectly sized nook behind the bathroom in the patio area.
This metal framed vision in green, with thin iron legs secured into the newly concreted area, the swing itself not chains like the ones in the Rec, but two thin solid metal rods from the top to hold onto, finishing in a wooden seat to sit on. It was perfect.
Many an hour I would be swinging happily on this near the apple tree, and seeing if I could get as high as Mr and Mrs Gibson’s expansive pear tree next door; all the while singing happily to myself.
It’s one of my Dad’s most cherished memories. Me on that swing, singing “Bye Bye Baby” over and over again. He’d always bring it up when I was older. I can clearly remember it too. Perfect late spring and early summer days, and all the way through into the Autumn, just being by myself zooming skywards.
Back home,..
…and out the back gate, the Rec was now undergoing a drastic change.
Whereas the play area and land used to stretch off until it got to the factory in the far distance, now it was being sliced in two, as the council were installing what would become the Hersham Bypass. A way to keep the heavier traffic off the more residential roads, as traffic demand began to increase to and from Esher and beyond.
I remember my dad taking me over to see the work being carried out, all in the name of progress. Huge gas guzzling machines cutting up the ground and laying down new tarmac. The whole place stunk and the noise was excruciating.
I also became my Dad’s apprentice…
…of sorts, and in the loosest sense of the word possible, when he would be outside in the garden sawing another piece of wood up for another part of his shed project.
Of all the things he worked on around the house, that shed would be the most consuming throughout the years; and in the end would become his sanctuary away from the world.
When he was working on it, with his Black and Decker Workmate on an overcast weekend afternoon, I’d be there sometimes alongside him.
And what was my role in this? OK, well I’d be given a handful of nails, yes proper hard metal pointy nails, a proper real hammer. Not one of those plastic things, and I’d happily hammer nails into the ground. No concern about whacking my own hands or impaling myself. Just simply being handed a load of sharp and very real metal objects and left alone to hammer them into the earth. To be honest, it was a rather satisfying little pastime; and again, I’m still here to tell the tale.
Whether my Dad went round pulling the nails out afterwards I have no idea. Maybe he left them in there. If he did, I hope they didn’t knacker the blades on his mower when it came to cutting the grass.
I’m guessing…
…it must also have been around this time, that my parents really tried to get me toilet trained in the way only us boys know. That is standing up, aiming, and hoping for the best.
For this, they’d decided the best way to do this was to pass this knowledge down from father to son. So one early afternoon, I went into the bathroom with my dad and we’d work on this together. The plan was I’d watch him, then stand on my special wooden stool, which he’d built so I could reach the sink, but this time relocating it to the toilet to make sure I got good clearance. That was the plan.
First off, it was my Dad’s turn to show me.
Now at this point…
…I didn’t have the stool there, so I’d be witnessing this process standing next to him with his waist at eye-level.
Now I’d never seen my Dad’s tackle. All I’d had to go on was my own little nubbin for reference. So when this thing appeared, I just couldn’t quite comprehend it. What the hell was THAT! This thing seemed to be almost the size of my forearm! Jeez!
Looking back, maybe this was one of his redeeming features for my mother, who knows. It’s not something you bring up across the dinner table is it.
For my Dad, he was just trying to teach me what to do. He probably didn’t even notice I was even staring in shock. Was that thing even real?! I think I reached out to make sure, and got a slap back on the hand before I got there, and also to save him from making a mess everywhere.
Once he’d finished off, then it was my turn.
I stepped on the stool, looked down into the freshly flushed bowl and down at my little pecker, and…nothing. Whatever, my mind had just witnessed, my body’s functions decided this little process can wait. Nothing, not even a drop, came out.
In the end, my Dad walked back to my Mum who was in the Kitchen and basically told her he’d tried, failed, and never again.
Eventually of course, I did get the hang of it, and got my aim spot on too.
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