Memories.
Memories are wonderful things and I often find myself thinking and hoping, that as I get older my "memory storehouse" will not become full and as I learn new things and take on board further revelations, some of the more precious earlier memories will not fade and disappear altogether.
Then for no apparent reason, maybe a line in a book, a tune or a picture I find myself thinking about some long past indeed I thought long forgotten episode in my life. Sometimes just an atmosphere may be enough and whilst sitting huddled against a cold August North wind, with the tent billowing around me and my wife dressed for a polar expedition rather than our summer holidays, I found myself perhaps not surprisingly, thinking about a far off warm, cosy place way back in my past.
In an instant involuntarily I had gone back nearly twenty years to what almost seems another life. I was in the upper sixth of a medium-sided grammar school with a small boarding department. I was one of these boarders and as such was part of an educational establishment of very old roots and which even then still had many Victorian elements within it's ethos. Boys of eighteen in the prime of their lives were only just beginning to be allowed evenings out, a generous four per term with a curfew so early as to be an insult to a fourteen year old today. However there was light at the end of the tunnel, and one progressive member of staff, responsible for a boarding house of some forty boys in which I had the dubious honour of being a prefect, did request that if I was late returning from an unofficial night out, could I please not use the fire escape above his bedroom! All my laborious efforts to tread quietly were in vain, defeated by an old creaky wooden floor and his sleep was thus interrupted.
About this time a group of friends and myself found what in hindsight must have been a welcome "legal" escape from the confines of school! A new young vicar had moved into the town and was also responsible for ministering to the spiritual needs of the one hundred and twenty odd resident boys. Due to this pastoral role, respectability and being a useful P.R. role between school and town, he set up a weekly discussion group in his converted garage, to which some of the older boys were allowed to go and mix with real people. Despite the garage becoming unbearably cold during the winter months, the sense of freedom and good company kept us going. This meeting provoked many discussions and branched out into poetry/prose readings and songs in the folk-style, someone being able to strum a few notes on the guitar that lay in the corner and went horribly out of tune in the cold weather. Well from little acorns...., before long talk came round to planning an event on a larger scale. The vicar had been involved with the running of a folk club whilst resident in London, before coming out into the sticks, and it was decided to hold a folk concert as part of a week long festival due to take place shortly in the town. Local amateur talent as well as a few professional singers/musicians known to the vicar were to make up the bill.
That was the start and preparations continued apace, and before long the event was planned and I started to make acquaintances outside my own circle of school friends, and begin to feel part of the local community recognising "real" townsfolk as they went about their business. One such couple were an extremely talented pair of amateur musicians who performed at the folk concert, and were also very involved in the setting up of a weekly folk club in a redundant church in the town, a direct result of the most successful earlier concert.
The concert that formed part of the town’s festival was to take place in a small warehouse that had been converted into an extremely primitive theatre. The stage was such that performers with guitars had to be extremely careful, due to the swinging of the proverbial cat being quite impossible, let alone getting carried away and trying a turn in an up-tempo number! Looking back, the fine performance of Dylan Thomas’s Under Milkwood was an ambitious feat, the one saving grace being that the scenery designers, who did a brilliant job, didn’t have much backdrop to fill! The couple of real townsfolk mentioned above, not only sang and played a variety of instruments at the concert, but were also involved in the production of “Milkwood.” They were what I am sure the head of my school would have called “hippie-types” and to make matters worse lived together as husband and wife but weren’t married, how times change! Their only saving grace seemed to be that they both belonged to respected local families, and perhaps it was only a phase they were going through!
Their open friendliness and a seemingly deep understanding of the Victorian manner with which my school operated, drew me towards them, providing perhaps a shoulder to cry on! It was therefore quite a coincidence then to meet them again shortly afterwards when out at the pub with my brother (a school rebel who had only recently left, with I would imagine great sighs of relief from the staff, surprisingly having made it to the bitter end!) and his then partner. Being with big brother I had shunned the normal haunt and was visiting the pub over the road, a small place with the bar taken up by a number of large and heavy pine tables and the walls lined by old church pews. It was as we got our drinks and looked around for somewhere to sit that I noticed Jan and Tony on one end of an otherwise empty table. We joined them and they were quickly pulled into our conversation. There ensued an evening of laughter, friendship and anecdote that I can honestly say changed my life. Towards the end of the evening Jan and Tony said to me that if ever I wanted a bolt hole from school I could call round for a cup of coffee and a chat, and often being in such need it was an offer I just couldn’t resist.
So almost too quickly after the offer, I found myself turning into their road and approaching their home. As I had been forewarned I wasn’t surprised to see it looked just like a shop front full of many nick-nacks and artefacts. The tiny house was squashed into the corner just passed a pub and surrounded by industrial / business units, many of which were deserted. Imagine then my disappointment when having knocked at the door there was no reply. However, undaunted I tried again shortly afterwards and had more success. Initially I was a little worried that the offer in the pub, made at the end of a pleasant evening may have simply been a pleasantry, but I needn’t have worried as I was on this occasion and any other made warmly welcome and made to feel special.
I was then shown through the small front room that had previously been a shop and still contained some of the original fitments, as well as a homely clutter that gave the place a well and truly lived-in feel. We then entered what I later realised was the hub of the house, a tiny room with one wall full to overflowing with a fire place, books, records and the hi-fi. The rest of the room was equally full with an old tatty 2 seater settee along one wall with crammed bookcases above, and on the opposite wall were a pair of matching armchairs with barely room between for the sitter’s feet, and yes you’ve guessed it more shelves of books and assorted nick-nacks. The final wall contained three doors with the access from the front of the house to the kitchen in front of them. The middle door was to the stairs, the one on the left to a minute bathroom and the other to a thin cupboard. The whole room although completely full, then had the trappings of family life, there also being two small children (Louise and Ben) in the house, with pictures, discarded toys, half-read books, empty coffee cups and a plethora of musical instruments filling in any gaps! From the back of this room there was the kitchen, stretching long and narrow between cupboards and shelves stacked high with tins and jars of every size and shape, reminiscent of an untidy apothecary shop. Then at the end of the kitchen was a laden kitchen table, which it was surprising that it could ever be used and the back door on which was hung a variety of aprons, coats, bags and anything else needing a home! This door finally opened onto the equally long and thin back garden, beyond the small cluttered kitchen table and low back window. The garden had a small irregularly shaped lawn surrounded by a profusion of large shrubs and old cottage plants.
It is surprising how as I write this some 25 years later(!) the details all come flooding back so vividly. But on the other hand, I have so many fond memories of this time that perhaps this helps them to linger on in the mind. I was to spend many a happy evening in that tiny middle room, which although only really able to seat 4, would often be filled by considerably more. Live song and music would often fill the air for many an hour interspersed with “real” conversation, that made leaving the room very difficult and explained why I had to creep, not always too effectively, back up the fire escape, long after I should have been tucked up safely in my bed. Eventually, I found out that Jan and Tony were known by the housemaster, who also seemed to know where I was and was therefore able to turn a blind eye. Words hardly do justice to the warmth of the friendship I felt at this time and many happy incidents keep springing to mind. Like the afternoon when together with the children I received lessons in water divining in the small back garden and located the hidden well, or the times spent at the folk club once it had got off the ground.
I said that that chance meeting changed my life and if nothing else it started a lifetime interest in folk music, which led on to some solo performing of unaccompanied largely traditional songs. Indeed it is new year time as I write this, and these reminiscences make me even more determined to fulfil this year’s resolution, to feel once more the buzz of the audience!
I have dwelt for some time about the warmth of the friendship felt at this time and for many years afterwards. After I had moved away we kept up an erratic correspondence, and I would occasionally visit. These visits were not always prearranged and I would often arrive unannounced and always receive a warm welcome, the like of which I have always tried to pass on to friends visiting me ever since.
Imagine then my horror on arriving on one occasion, not having been in touch recently, to find the shop window empty and the house having that unmistakable look of being deserted. In vain I knocked and searched for some message of where they had gone all to no avail as my fears were confirmed and my loud knocking simply echoed around the empty house. In desperation and with a bit of quick thinking I remembered that Jan’s mother used to run a shop just around the corner. Great then was my relief when I found the shop open and Jan’s mother still behind the counter, and I was quickly directed to their new house just a short walk away. I found the new house which was low fronted but certainly much bigger than the other house, and knocked firmly on the door. Quickly Jan’s head popped out of the window, said “Hello Roger,” as though we had last seen each other earlier in the day and said “Hang on I’ll be down.”
In the space of time it took Jan to get downstairs, she had rearranged the sleeping arrangements to put me up, invited me to stay until the end of the week (today being Monday) as they had been invited to a party on Friday night and it would be great if I could go! All this before she even knew if I wanted to stay or not, but suffice to say it was a great party!
True friendship and very many fond, happy memories.
