Nameless Souls on Sepia

This was a piece I wrote a few years back. I was lucky enough to have its included in a lovely Anthology titled ‘More Voices on the Verandah’ which was the final in a series of works by Anglo-Indians and those of Anglo-Indian descent. The Anthology is available still and is edited by Lionel Lumb

They were just nameless souls on sepia, staring out seemingly into space:  a peer into a time long since past and now, not often remembered with any degree of regularity. With its jagged edges, it was evident that part of the photograph had been torn away, why is a mystery. Someone in the family, though I cannot recall who, had once mentioned that there had been a rift within the family back in the days when they used to gather at the beautiful hill station of Mussoorie, when escaping the harrowing heat of the city. That was as much as was known. There was no accompanying documentation and nothing written down to suggest who the people in the picture may have been. That they were ancestors seemed a little more than likely. The photograph depicted a wedding scene. Three people remained in the frame. Two seated and one standing or rather two standing but as one had been unceremoniously decapitated he could not be counted. He could have been anyone. The bride wore a lavish wedding gown of lace with what appeared to be a full layered veil laid lightly and carefully, so as not to interfere with her elegant upswept hair which was so fashionable in the early 1900s. Seated beside her was an older man with a head of thick snow white wavy hair, and sporting a long white beard: a little like Santa Claus in a suit. Beneath the hairy façade was a man not unlike my father. In fact, but for the beard it could have been my father sitting beside the bride.  It was the eyes that gave it away. They were the same eyes that had watched over me all my life. Only my father’s eyes had seen different things to those of the apparently stoic figure of the man pictured here. Their worlds were far apart but their narrative of origin was one and the same.

Aunty Paddy had been a gifted and animated storyteller who had a penchant for making colourless characters come to life. She would captivate us with stories of heroes, heroines and travellers tales. “Children….are you listening carefully?” would be our queue to gather round to hear how our ancestors had sailed across oceans in search of fame and fortune. The story told so eloquently and consistently by Aunty Paddy, revealed that long ago when great vessels with billowing sails ruled the waves, travelling the trade routes carrying spices, silks and other luxury commodities, and when George III was King; two or possibly three brothers had set sail from bonny Scotland for the far off and exotic land of India. One of them or maybe all of them had been seduced by what the East had to offer, fallen madly in love with and married an Indian princess, and lived out his days happily ever after in India. This was perhaps a rather romanticised account but this was how the story had been told and retold. One brother had perhaps been a doctor, one a sea captain and the third, if indeed there was a third could have been anything Paddy decided him to be. Such is the power of the narrator. The stories were most likely a mixture of myth and reality but to us as children they were fact rather than fiction, impressing upon our imagination that we were indelibly connected to this mysterious and mystical other world, where gods were more than one, and princes were one and many; a world that had captured the hearts and souls of our forefathers and that was forever in our blood.

Shared experiences, cultures, customs and habits all go some way to forging our identities. What we are told as children often stays with us as adults. However, there are other commonalities that can engender an inherent sense of identity and belonging, such as the idea of shared stories and myths. There is no hard definition of myth. Myth is sometimes seen as being synonymous with fantasy and fairy stories, and little to do with fact. The notion of myth often conjures up images of superheroes and superhuman beings that create an idealised view of where we come from, therefore adding to our sense of worth. To us, these pioneers were real life superheroes; they represented the true to life fodder of fairy tales and fiction, that filled our minds with the machinations of an ‘Other’ world. 

Linking myth to the narrative form is relevant, especially when considering Anglo-Indian narratives of origin because their change in circumstances, and the transitions they underwent in adapting to a colonial and a post colonial era both in Indian and in British society is shrouded with princesses both real and imagined. Of particular interest is what has become known as the princess myth which seems to circulate in many Anglo-Indian families. The myth suggests the presence of a noble ancestral connection and more specifically an Indian princess. What is of importance is why this myth has been created and the reason why some families lay claim to a princess in their midst.

Aunty Paddy’s version of events is echoed in a letter dated 19th December 2004 written by Marjorie Williams to her niece;

     …thank you so much for sending me a copy of the family tree…It’s very interesting that so many Howatsons lived in India. Where does the Scottish side come in? I suppose Thomas Howatson who was originally married to (an Indian Princess)? So I heard. My story was that two brothers, Thomas and George set sail from Scotland – one a doctor and the other a sailor or captain of a ship. I can’t tell you where I got this story from – maybe Paddy…

The letter demonstrates firstly, that we find our narratives of origin appealing at any age. Marjorie Williams was 81 when she wrote the letter. She is unable to remember where she got the story from, ‘…maybe Paddy’ she asserts. Paddy was her elder sister who had died some years earlier and who it is purported knew more about the history of the family than anyone else. When Paddy past away, so too did much of the family narrative.

In addition the letter typifies the element of the ‘Indian princess’ myth that circulates in many Anglo-Indian families. Marjorie Williams is Anglo-Indian. Her father was Hugh William Howatson born in Calcutta, India, in 1886, habitually resident in India until about 1900 when he was sent to Britain to finish his education and later to follow a successful career in medicine. It was in Scotland that he met, fell in love with and married his own princess. His princess was Annie. It was close to one hundred years earlier, when Hugh William’s great grandfather Thomas Howatson had set sail for India. What Thomas would have thought of the Britain that his great grandson Hugh returned to can only be guessed at. It is known that following an irregular marriage in Glasgow, Hugh and Annie journeyed to India and travelled about with their young family for a few years, only to return permanently to Britain later. The reasons for their movements between these two great lands, is unknown. The Diaspora to other lands following partition and independence is well documented but what of those who returned to the fatherland beforehand. What are their stories? Our sense of ‘self’ is governed by what is going on the world and is in a constant state of flux. 

It is only by telling our stories and passing them on to our children that we can preserve the memories and myths of past lives. Many stories are passed down between one generation and another, while other stories remain untold and are lost forever. So next time, when you are gathered cosily around the dining table after a sumptuous Sunday lunch as is quite common among families, laughing at the crazy antics of dad’s schooldays,  finding out about grandma’s culinary gifts or hearing of an aunt’s penchant for telling tales, take note and listen very carefully to the snippets and anecdotes of your elders for these are your stories, your narratives of origin: savour every word and share!

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Hugh’s Story

It is five years today since our beautiful Daddy passed away from this World to the next. I originally wrote this piece in 2014 when I set up a charity page in his memory. It was about raising much needed funds for research, the message remains relative and of course to raise awareness. The page is no longer running but the message remains as important today as back then I am posting this article here in his memory and in memory of all those who have suffered from Alzheimer’s/Dementia and of course for all their loved ones…

Hugh Montgomery Howatson 11/04/1923 – 29/12/2013 ‘ A man who inspired…’

Hugh was a truly amazing Man, and a beautiful human being! He was good, he was kind, he was patient, he was intelligent, and he always offered encouragement even when the odds were stacked against you! He epitomised Strength and Gentility! At the beginning of World War II he played his part by becoming an ARP Warden (Air Raid Patrol). Then as soon as he reached 18 he enlisted and joined the RAF, and was attached to 294 Squadron as a WAG (Wireless Operator Air Gunner) in Air Sea Rescue. He was just a boy at the start of the War but had strong values and believed in doing his duty by his country and his family, and fought for the continued freedom of his fellow countrymen and women. Joining the War Effort was just par for the course. While serving King and Country Hugh demonstrated a skill for languages, and during the war years mastered fluent French, German and Arabic. He was a very talented man. He attained a Degree in Chemistry with the University of London as an external student, and later became a Research Chemist by Profession, a job which he stayed in until he retired. He was a devoted family man being a wonderful Husband, brilliant Dad, loving Brother, Uncle, Grandfather, Great Grandfather and friend! He worked hard all his life and always paid his dues. He had always been a healthy man, and always looked much younger than his years. He never ever complained about anything, least of all his health, and just got on with Life. He believed that if a job was worth doing it was worth doing well and to the best of your ability. He had many hobbies and interests. He was a brilliant Photographer, an avid reader, an exceptional craftsman with wood, making his own beautiful items and restoring antiques. He used to enjoy making his own wine. He would always tell us to follow our heart and our dreams!  He passed on his love of learning and his many gifts to all of us. We are all better human beings for having had the honour and privilege of being a part of him. Getting mixed dementia was not on the agenda. You always think things like Dementia and Alzheimers happen to other people, and other families! When it comes, it can be a gradual process, and even go unnoticed for a long time. But when it takes a grip it does n’t let go! Each day bit by bit the person you love is taken from you until they no longer know who you are or even who they are. There are drugs that are currently used but in all honesty they fall far short of doing anything that really helps. Resources are limited to say the least! Much more Research is needed to explore this soul destroying illness in its many guises. 

This story is Hugh’s story but it could be anybody’s story. Alzheimers/Dementia does not discriminate. It can happen to anyone, male or female and not always when elderly. It’s a cruel, unforgiving and soul destroying illness which lays claim to an individual bit by bit chipping away relentlessly until a person is just a shadow of their former and vital self. Families are heartbroken as they watch their loved ones die, and then when physical death occurs they lose their loved one all over again. When Hugh was in hospital he shared his part of the ward with Bertie, Terence and Tony. All had Alzheimers/Dementia in one form or another. This illness is on the increase! A former Global Summit said we need to do something! So let’s do something  and raise awareness to find a way forward.  No one knows what the future holds until it happens. Let’s make it a future free from Alzheimers/Dementia!

© Liola Lee 2014

Memoirs ~ Addicted

It has been 29 years since I gave up smoking. Or it will be on New Years Eve. It is many years since I fancied a cigarette. Addiction is addiction! Whether it is sugar, cigarettes, alcohol, gambling, spending, cocaine or even the gym. That said, recognising that we are addicted to something, whatever that may be is the first step in stopping!

It’s coming up to 10.30pm on a Thursday night-

The date is 8th August 1991; a date that will be remembered in British history as that on which John McCarthy, a British Journalist, who for the past five years has been held captive in the Lebanon, has at last arrived home having been released by his captors.

Here I am sitting in my sitting room, listening to Trevor MacDonald reading the latest news on the situation at RAF Lynham which is where Mr McCarthy has been taken to for a check up. Here is an important historical event taking place and here I am, too worried to go to the toilet because of some small insect buzzing about on the ceiling, just inside the bathroom door. I feel so pathetic and paranoid, when I think what that man and all those other hostages have had to endure, and still I cannot bring myself to go to the toilet. Well, I’ll have to take some action soon, that or I shall simply wet myself where I am, as I said totally, one hundred per cent pathetic. 

It’s funny the things we think about at the strangest of times. 

One of the most difficult goals I ever set myself was giving up smoking. I had embarked on the tobacco road at the tender age of sixteen, by no means the youngest nor indeed the oldest. It was still respectably young enough to be considered rebellious, although that’s not the reason I took up the nasty smelly habit. I was not immediately hooked. Getting hooked on cigarettes took a lot of practice, a lot of cigarettes and a lot of money. Almost all my school friends smoked at the time, it was the ‘in thing’ at the time. We all wanted to appear very laid back and grown up. The first cigarettes I smoked were Consulate menthol Cigarettes which really were quite disgusting, a bit like smoking a tune as in the cough sweet rather than the melody. You kid yourself that because they are menthol and pretty mild that you’re in control and are unaware of the nicotine addiction taking hold.

I would smoke at every opportunity. It made me feel very glamorous, grown up and superior to my non smoking peers, who I thought were just too afraid to be caught instead of thinking that they actually had a deal more common sense than I did in not taking up a habit that would prove hard to kick, and would be indicative of my addictive personality. I would even smoke in front of the mirror when my parents were out in order to practice the perfect pout on exhaling, which at the time I thought made me look incredibly sexy. How wrong was I? Only totally and undeniably so. And, how sad! That perfect pout I was after, could have so easily turned into a cat’s bum mouth or worse still a pig’s arse if I had n’t stopped when I did.

Both my parents smoked, so I could n’t see why I should n’t. I remember wanting to tell my mum that I smoked but was not brave enough to come straight out and say it.  I devised a plan that would let her in on my secret. What I did was to leave my packet of cigarettes on my bed when I went to school. The plan was that when mum came into our bedroom to brush her hair (she always used the mirror in our room), then she would see the cigarettes on my bed and arrive at the obvious conclusion, then she would raise the issue with me and I could confess. Unfortunately, I had not envisaged my younger sister being present, and when my mum commented on the packet which had been planted so carefully so as to be seen, my sister, always loyal, informed her not to worry as they belonged to one of my friends, and that if they had been mine does she really think that I would have left them there to be seen? I did eventually, and not long after that tell my mum that I had started smoking, and she was alright about it saying that she would rather I didn’t smoke but that she would n’t preach as she smoked herself.

Cigarettes became a very important part of my life, a very sad but very true fact! I took them everywhere with me. They became my crutch. When I went for interviews, I would ensure I had enough time beforehand to smoke at least one. Smoking made me feel confident. When I was on the telephone I would need to smoke; when I had a cup of coffee out came the fags or when I went out or saw friends. The cigarette almost became a physical extension to my hand; never was I out without them. As time passed I became more and more dependent upon cigarettes. I was a tobacco baron’s dream catch lured as surely as a trout to a fly. I had a cigarette for every mood. When I left school at the age of eighteen I had been smoking for two years and had now progressed from the low tar variety to the middle tar and stronger brands. 

Some months later the strangest thing happened; my cigarettes made me feel sick, not just the taste of them but the smell of them. I was soon to discover that I was pregnant. The chemical changes that were taking place within my body had resulted in a strong aversion to cigarettes. Throughout my pregnancy I did n’t smoke, not because I was being good but because they made me feel so sick. This state of affairs was not to last as after I had my baby, and finding I could n’t breast feed I took up smoking again. Now I was smoking as if it was soon to go out of fashion.

During this time I never once gave any thought to what smoking was doing to my health, and it certainly never occurred to me to try and stop. I was aware of the public health warnings that appeared on packets of cigarettes advising of the risks of lung cancer and heart disease; I could read but it really did n’t bother me. I told myself that I enjoyed smoking, and was convinced that I could give up whenever I wanted to but I did n’t want to at that time. 

At aged twenty three I had my second baby. As before being pregnant had turned me off smoking. Yet again I was unable to breast feed for very long due to a severe case of mastitis. My husband had refrained from smoking while I was pregnant for which I was grateful, and we decided that we should both now continue to abstain. This was easier said than done. My husband had by way of tradition smoked cigars after the birth of our second son. He concluded that this was not the same as smoking cigarettes because he maintained that one didn’t inhale the smoke.  Not having ever smoked cigars I had no notion of whether one could smoke anything, and call it smoking unless one inhaled the smoke. Anyway he made it all sound so plausible. The problem was that he was soon smoking a packet of cigars each day so his theory was wrong, that was the first thing. The second thing was that I was desperate for a cigarette, and one day while my husband was at work I went to the shops and bought a packet of ten cigarettes. I did n’t buy my usual brand as if by doing that I was somehow not really cheating and smoking again.

On reaching home I took that first longed for cigarette and hurriedly smoked it as quickly as I could for fear I might somehow be deprived if I did n’t smoke it immediately. When I’d finished, I had another and then another. I giggled to myself finding it hilariously funny that me, a grown woman should be sitting and smoking in secret. When I was ready, I opened all the windows and sprayed the room with air freshener in an attempt to conceal the smell of tobacco which has a tendency to hang in the air. When my husband arrived home I behaved naturally or so I believed but the guilt was already eating away at me. I did n’t say anything because I did n’t want him to think that I had weakened.

We sat chatting at the table as was our evening ritual; my husband filling me in on the events of his day. I noticed he was looking at the table, a little too closely for my liking.  

“What’s that?” he said.

“What?” I replied trying to look bewildered and hoping I looked innocent.

“That there”. He pointed. “It looks like cigarette ash” 

Still acting innocent, I replied rather foolishly now I think back on it, “It can’t be” knowing full well that it could be, and that of course it was. I could contain myself no longer and started to laugh. The truth came out. I justified myself by informing him that it was no worse than him smoking cigars. He reluctantly agreed. He too returned to cigarettes not long after that, in fact immediately as they were cheaper than cigars.

We smoked more and more. By now I had developed a cough in the mornings. As time went by the cough became more severe and I started to wheeze and found difficulty in breathing. It was at its worse last thing at night and first thing in the morning. One morning it was so bad and worried my husband so much that he called the Doctor out. The doctor arrived and listened to my chest and lungs. His diagnosis was not long in coming. I had developed asthma, and was informed that it was directly related to my smoking. He advised that I should stop and said that eventually the asthma would subside. I stopped smoking immediately, and managed to go without for three weeks, mainly because I was unable to breathe properly when I tried. After three weeks the cough disappeared and I felt much better, and started smoking again. As always that one cigarette led to another and another and before long I was back on a packet a day. 

Sometimes we take a long time to learn the lesson.

Sometime later but not that much later, I changed my job. In my new job I was on the phone pretty much all day, and developed a chain smoking habit; me and everyone else on my desk. At that time employees could still smoke in the work place while they were working. Over a period of three months my daily intake had increased to almost fourty  a day. Steve too had increased his consumption. Again I developed a cough and it was during this time that I seriously began to consider the implications that smoking really was damaging my health. Initially, I stopped for a day here and a day there but I was unable to keep the momentum going for much longer than this. I tried alternatives such as sweets and chewing gum. Temporarily, they had the desired effect. I managed to stop for a month but then found myself arguing with myself about why I should or should n’t smoke. This pattern continued for three years. I even put myself through the torture of getting people to sponsor me for stopping for a month in order that it may help me quit. That month was possibly one of the worst of my life. I was desperate for a smoke but was under a promise not to. I succeeded in not smoking for the entire month and raised £100 for St Christopher’s Hospice.  I received a lovely letter from the Hospice thanking me and congratulating me on my success. Again I did n’t stay virtuous for long.  As soon as the sponsored ‘no smoking’ came to an end I went and bought some cigarettes. That same year, our youngest son was diagnosed as asthmatic. I was now desperate to give up but every attempt to stop ended in failure.

We never smoked when the children were about but knew that it was in the atmosphere. The guilt was unbearable. New Year was coming and as in previous years we resolved to quit smoking once again and hopefully for good this time. From the moment the New Year came in, I stopped smoking altogether and although Steve no longer smoked cigarettes, he smoked cigars for a further two weeks. After that, he too gave up. At first it was terrible. We were short tempered and the temptation to smoke just for the sake of peace was ever present, but somehow we got through. It was n’t easy but somehow we managed to persevere and to this day we are still not smoking That was almost eighteen years ago now. Over the years there has been the odd occasion when I have fancied that I fancy a cigarette but the moment passes and I don’t smoke knowing that I will always be one cigarette away from being a smoker. I still get asthma if I am near smoke but as of 1st July 2007 that will be less of a thing to worry about since Parliament passed that there is to be no smoking in public places, “HOORAY!!!” 

Today is the day ~ 1970s…

Today is the day’ …was a collection of musings I wrote during the Peri menopause years. It’s spoken in the first person, and was based largely on my journal entries written around that time. Journalling is a wonderful way to express this, that and whatever else needs to be said whether aloud or silently…

Today is the day where I am thinking back to the 1970s. The 1970s were crazy and colourful! Chopper bikes, curly perms and clackers were all the rage. For those of you who were not around in the 1970s, clackers were a toy that was on trend, basically two small balls on the end of strings which made a sort of clacking noise. We certainly had some strange toys! Hem lengths were confused with the mini, the midi and the maxi all vying for top position. The hippies of Woodstock back in 1969 left us confused and unsure as to which way now, not that I went to Woodstock as I was only 7, although I bet it would have been fun! In 1969 I was just 7 years old, a little kid just starting out on the journey of life, no real life experience as yet, just the enthusiasm and innocence of childhood. Glam Rock, Punk, Rock ‘n’ Roll, pop…all taking the stage. The 60s may have been swinging but the 70s were electrifying! My idol was David Cassidy, brown eyes, husky voice and a smile to die for. Here just thinking about him makes me sigh like a teenager. It did n’t even matter that he was in the Partridge Family who to be honest were a bit square, and not in the least bit funky but David sang to my soul with Could it be forever and How can I be sure?  This guy, who was 12 years older than me, somehow knew how I felt, knew who I was, and somehow spoke to me in a way that no one else could. My relationship with David was deep and meaningful. Then years later Robbie Williams came along who incidentally is 12 years younger. I wonder, if like me they are Tigers in Chinese astrology which moves in 12 year cycles. Umm that’s an interesting thought. I’ll have to check that out. Robbie took me through my adulteens and dare I say it my adulthood. Oh yes, Robbie went through everything with me, through his music of course. I am probably dwelling on the 70s just now as this was the timeframe in which I was 16 and in all honesty my daughter is now 16 and I am feeling at a crossroads. It really does not seem that long ago that I was the same age and going through the same experiences that she is just now. I am sure that she would be horrified at the very thought that I may have been as she is now. I am sure to her it does not seem descent that a woman of my 48 years should have ever experienced the first flush of youth. To my daughter, all I can say is just you wait until you have a daughter or son of your own.

Memoirs ~ Class 9, 2 Davids, Isle of Wight & a smack

Class nine, two Davids, Isle of Wight and a smack

In numerology nine is the number of completion and so it was I completed my primary school years in class nine. There were three classes at the top end of the school; classes nine, ten and eleven. I was in class nine taught by Mrs Shelbrook formerly Miss Marcham, my favourite teacher. Class ten was taught by Mr Orford who I think was a hippy or new ageist in the making or something that came close to either. He used to play guitar and sing, had longer hair than the other male teachers and a long shaggy beard, both brown. In my book that made him a hippy or at least it did in my eleven year old eyes. In reality he was probably just a man who enjoyed sporting a beard. As a child, I was always thinking about the whys and wherefores of things, and coming to my own conclusions as do we all but children see things in a different light to adults. The funny thing about Mr Orford was that his own children attended the free school further down the road in Kirkdale, towards Cobbs Corner. The free school looked like it might have been fun, at least that is how I perceived it. Every time you went past, there were children looking scruffy, carefree and happy, I mean really happy! You always heard laughter coming from the free school. Perhaps Mr Orford taught at Kelvin Grove to pay the bills. Finally, there was class eleven which was Mr Phenong’s class. Mr Phenong was scary, I mean really scary!. He was Chinese or appeared to be from that part of the world. He was tall and he took no nonsense. His was the quietest class in the school. You never heard any commotion from his class. I was glad I was not in his class. His class was at the top of the cast iron steps in the old Victorian building. I was always so happy that I never had to ascend those steps  into Mr Phenongs domain. Class nine and class ten were based in the new pre-fabricated huts that were built a little distance away from the main school building. When I think of the huts in my minds eye, I see the colour yellow. They were light and airy, a far cry from the old Victorian classes that I had been accustomed to. When I see those classrooms I see the colours red and brown, lots of glass, really high ceilings and dark corridors. 

Class nine probably made more of an impression on me than any other class at Kelvin Grove. I was growing up and everything was preparing us for secondary school. I had pretty much stuck with the same group through school. The group consisted of Ruth, Angela, Debbie, Ken who joined the school later than the rest of us but fitted in with us all, as if he had always been one of us, and then of course there was David. We all sat on one desk. The others in the group were Perry, Tina, Dawn, and Lillian who sat on other desks but were equally part of the group. 

At playtime the boys would chase the girls, the girls would squeal as young girls have a tendency to do if they were caught, and then they would run away again only to be chased and caught again. That’s just how the game went. It seemed the girls had the most fun, or maybe we were typically stereotypical for  that period of time with the boys being the hunters and the girls being chased. We were all in the first flush of youth approaching puberty but not quite there yet, and so were still enjoying the freedom associated with childhood. A couple of the girls had paired off with a couple of the boys, Ruth and David and Tina and Perry. The funny thing is that all the girls in the class had a crush on David . Whether he knew it or not is a mystery. I kept my feelings on that score to myself. It was a secret crush that had he have known I would have died of embarrassment. I remember wearing a David Cassidy t-shirt one day for PE and David  telling me that it really suited me. I am sure I blushed brilliantly but was thrilled, as him commenting meant that he had noticed me. I wasn’t invisible after all. That was as far as my relationship with David went. It was innocently sweet. 

These children were such an integral part of my junior school years,  and yet secondary school saw us all separated and going off in different directions on our next phase of life. All us girls went on to Sydenham County School for girls, and the boys went to Dacres Road, which was actually Forest Hill Boys School. Even though us girls were in the same school we were split into other groups, our new groups. That’s how life often goes with us going from one group to another as we travel through life on our journey with destination unknown. I only ever saw David (not Cassidy) once more in my life, and that was years later when I was working in the local record shop Treble Clef. Working at Treble Clef was my Saturday and holiday job. It was poorly paid at just £5 for the entire day but I loved it. I got to listen to music all day, and for the most part I got to choose the music. It did not seem like work at all. I never went home with any money as I spent it all on records. Anyway, it was here I last saw David. He was with who I presume was his girlfriend. Strangely she reminded me of me with her dark curly hair and bright eyes. David had not really changed much but I no longer had butterflies in my tummy when I saw him.  I never knew what became of him after that.

Class nine was a good class to be in apart from when we had Mr Hog (what a name! Is n’t hog another name for pig?). Mr Hog was a supply teacher who covered for Mrs Shelbrook when she was away. He had a red face and had straight oiled hair with a side parting that was slicked back and stuck flat to his head. I have a feeling he was Welsh but could be mistaken. His mouth was crooked as were his teeth that were stained dark yellow bordering on green.  It’s strange how we can see people so clearly, and in so much detail even though it was such a long time ago. If I were to annotate any colours to him it would be red because of his ruddiness, and green because of the various greens of his clothes which seemed to be muted together in a mass of coarse fabrics that sat awkwardly on his sturdy frame..  He wore thick glasses and had spiteful eyes. He was quite stocky, not fat but solid. He took a dislike to our class who were by this time quite well behaved as we had the greatest amount of respect for Mrs Shelbrook. One afternoon he was teaching, and said something that the class found funny. There were sniggers all around but the person who was more obvious, and louder than the others was David. He was just ten or eleven and had n’t done anything terrible but the teacher had other ideas, clearly felt belittled and wanted someone to pay. Mr Hog went up behind David and I am sure  if my memory serves me right, thumped him hard in his back. It must have hurt terribly, as well as feeling humiliated. David’s face reddened to a deep crimson. I am sure he reacted by running from the classroom as a way of escaping such a traumatic situation, although I am not altogether certain. We remember things to suit our own perception of events and situations. 

David  was n’t the only David in my life and he was n’t to be my last.  I secretly admired David, he was decent boy with a head of fabulous brown curls. I was also a fan of David Cassidy who had a string of chart hits in the 1970s including Could it be forever; How can I be sure and Breaking up is hard to do. Maureen, my older sister knew that I liked David Cassidy and that he was my favourite pop star but that did n’t stop her from going to his concert. Maureen was four years older than me and was allowed to go to concerts with her friends. While she was at the concert she even bought a David Cassidy pillow case and pendant. I ended up with a t-shirt, although I am sure she wore it a few times before letting me have it. Maureen was so lucky to be allowed to go to concerts. I was just too young at the time. 

Now that we were in our final year at Primary School it meant that we could go on the annual school journey to the Isle of Wight. The school journey was to be both educational and fun, and like the other children I couldn’t wait to go. We were only to be away from home and school for a week, which before we went did n’t seem that long a time but when we were actually there it seemed an eternity and I was horribly home sick.. The teachers that were to accompany us on school journey were Mrs Tuppenden and Mrs Shelbrook who were both teachers, and Mrs Atkins who was actually a lunchtime supervisor who kept an eye on us at dinnertime, and made sure that we ate our school dinner. If there were any other teachers on the trip I don’t recall. I remember much of that journey, not the actual travelling which was by coach and ferry but the actual trip itself. We stayed in chalets in San-down, four to a chalet on bunk beds I think, although I don’t remember if I took the top bunk or the bottom bunk. At night time on that first day we were to bathe and clean ourselves. I soon realised that mummy and daddy had forgotten to pack a flannel. I told the teacher and was given a J-cloth as a substitute. An adult would simply see that as improvisation. That would have been fine but a couple of girls in class eleven had overheard my dilemma, and for the rest of the holiday repeatedly sang the song from the J-cloth advert. I tried to laugh it off but it seriously got on my nerves in the end. They just didn’t know when enough was enough. So that was the first thing on the trip that got me down. 

Being homesick I wished that I was back at home but there was nothing I could do. I would just have to hope that the days went by quickly. Being on the Isle of Wight we made various trips to the beach. Allum Bay was one place where we went because of the variety of coloured sand. As children we were encouraged to play and run around to work off our excess energy. I remember Mrs Tuppenden and Mrs Atkins lifting me by my hands and feet and mockingly acting as though they would hurl me into the sea. I struggled, screamed and cried, and got quite aggressive, threatening that I would tell my dad and that they’d be sorry. They were just playing but I didn’t like that game, and felt scared. I did tell my dad when I got home but he could see that no harm was intended, and said that I was far too sensitive and should n’t take everything to heart. 

On the trip we would all eat our breakfast together. My favourite breakfast was Kellogg’s cornflakes with a rather large sprinkling of sugar. After breakfast we were told what we would be doing and where we would be visiting that day. One particular excursion that I remember only too well was a daytrip to Carisbrook Castle. Now, either on the estate or maybe on route to the estate we went to visit a windmill. Before entering we were told not to touch anything as it was very old. I obviously either did n’t hear that point or maybe switched off and chose to ignore it. It does n’t matter as the result would have been the same. I touched when I should n’t have touched. What it was I touched I could n’t even now say, some sort of cog I think. What I remember is how much my leg stung as Mrs Shelbrook’s hand came hard across the back of my leg. There was no warning, it just happened spontaneously. Suddenly, my favourite teacher was no longer my favourite teacher, and I was no longer the good girl I had always strived to be. Not only did the smack sting but my pride was in pieces. I never saw Mrs Shelbrook in the same light after that, and I never touched anything that said don’t touch again. With that in mind, it’s true how they say history repeats itself, and that each person can only learn from their own mistakes. Two years later on the same school trip, while on the same excursion my younger sister got smacked by the same teacher for doing the same thing, in exactly the same spot. 

One of my friends on the trip was Linda. Linda was only in my life briefly, and for a short time we were good friends. Linda was an only child, and lived on the Hillcrest Estate, known to us also as the flats at the back because they were situated down beyond the Orange Moon at the rear of our houses in Hillcrest Road. Linda had dark brown hair and sky blue eyes, and was confident and self-assured. I wanted to be like Linda. Linda lived with her mum and her dad when he came home on leave. Linda’s dad was a soldier. Linda’s   mum drove a bight red convertible MG Spitfire. Linda’s mum wore her shoulder length blond hair in a flick. Linda’s mum was young and fashionable and did n’t look like a mum at all at least not in my eyes. 

Once during that brief time that Linda was a part of my life, I was invited to stay over at Linda’s for the night. I had never slept away from home before, and I am sure my parents had reservations as sleepovers were not the done thing back then but I managed to persuade them that I would be fine, reminding them that I really was n’t going very far. I had to sleep with Linda in her bed. The only recollection I have of that sleepover was her mum asking what drink we’d like to have on the bedside in case we should become thirsty in the night. Linda chose orange juice and I chose milk; milk was a bad choice as it curdled over night. To this day I have never left milk out overnight. You learn all sorts of things from the people you meet in life; sometimes we learn simple things and at other times not so simple things. 

Linda went out of my life as quickly as she had come into it. Where she went I don’t know. I never saw her or heard from her again. Linda was just one of many people I befriended or who befriended me during my life, and who made a lasting impression on me. They say that people come into your life for all manner of reasons so that we can learn something from them or vice versa. Sometimes we see the lesson immediately, and sometimes we don’t see it at all. Perhaps it was Linda’s parents who were learning something from me being with Linda. Perhaps they went on to have another child so that Linda would have a playmate and companion. Of course this is just conjecture but it is a possibility.