A sensible childI was a sensible child. I am a sensible adult. You couldn’t have had our mum and not been. I was never a brawler and avoided physical hurt; including cross-country runs at school. I had no trouble walking miles or running around playing football for hour after hour, but cross-country runs were purgatory.
A sensible child appreciated the abundance of nature around him. If I shot something it was done in a sportsman like way and the kill would be swift and effective.
With dad being a butcher and me being somewhat associated with farming, life and death were part and partial of country life. To see dad shoot a pig and help butcher it was what happened, nobody saw it as a pleasurable thing. You wrung the chicken’s neck so it could be eaten for dinner.
There was always a bit of fun to be had when a chicken, or pheasant, was in preparation. Mum would cut off the legs at the elbows, if you know what I mean. These would be left in the kitchen and when found made excellent girl scarer’s. The legs were actually part severed and then torn off and this would leave the sinews exposed. Holding the leg in one hand and pulling on the sinews would cause the leg to flex and come alive. Need I say any more?
Dad and mum never had a car, but dad did bring the butchers van home most weekends. It was a Ford Prefect and was black. Dad used the van to fetch and carry dogs and for our occasional Sunday visits to friend or relatives.
Once and only once we had a family holiday at Selsey Bill - in a caravan and that’s all I can remember about it. Playing on a Sunday was restricted. There weren’t many restrictions most of the time but Sundays was different. I had to do my paper round in the morning and that meant an early start up to Mrs Watts cottage (long gone) opposite the White Hart. Sundays meant thick heavy papers and collecting the paper money for the week.
On the politically correct track… I was under age – had a bag which was over weight – had to collect and carry money. Wouldn’t happen today. And what’s more I was exploited… I did it all for a thrup'ny piece (or was it more – memories tinged with sentiment).
Anyway I was back home mid morning and needed to sort Jack out and clean football boots etc, etc. Folks would arrive mid morning with their dogs for dad to trim. Some were relatives; some were dad’s friends. Some would stay and talk to him others would go and come back. It didn’t make any difference to the use of ‘ sit still y’bu*ger’.
About eleven it was Two Way Forces Favourites on the wireless and we listened to the hits of the day amid messages from army bases all over the world. Then it was the Billy Cotton band Show… ‘Waaaaaaakeeey Wakey’ 'Da diddy da da da…' We all laughed. There was Round the Horn with Kenneth Horn, which was a bit to grown up for me but older brother Eric snigger'd so I followed suite. Same with the Goon Show… I laughed more at the stupid voices than what was said. Sometime between Billy Cotton and Round the Horn I was despatched to fetch ‘y’dad’ from the White Hart.
The majority of Sundays passed off this way; then once in a while, probably once a month, dad would ask me to come with him to Olney and I knew what that meant.
I still had the paper round to do but that would be a doddle and nothing was an obstacle. No one answered… stuff the papers in the letterbox - they could pay next week. Mrs Watts always knew when I was off with dad; but most people paid… well enough to keep her happy.
I cant remember if dad was or wasn’t a good driver. I suppose he must have been if he drove Monty about.
We didn’t have far to go just up the hill past Uncle Dick’s field and orchard and then down towards Emberton. Prospect Place was a detached house built near a pair of cottages slap bang between Sherington and Emberton.
Dad pulled up and stopped the engine. I clambered through to the back of the van and waited. After a while there was a bang on the door and I opened it. Dad would have hold of a Nanny Goat, usually white and I guess quite young. ‘Grab er’ed boy’ said dad and I would oblige.
The goats got in without a fuss and were happy for me to hold them still. Dad would get us in motion as quick as possible and that in turn made the goat grateful for having me to hold and comfort it.
The journey to Olney meant going through Emberton and I was aware in the back of where we were due to the left and right bends in the village. Down the hill and brake, left bend followed by a straight bit that went past the pub (remember I’m in the back of a van with no windows) to the war memorial and a sharp right, on to a winding bit past the school and on out of the village.
The next bit of road allowed me to stoke and pet the goat that all seemed very good-natured and I always said to dad that this one would make a good pet. ‘Yuw got enuff pets or’redy boy’. ‘ just yuw old er still’.
Over the hump of the river Ouse bridge and one left bend before turning right and stopping in Mr Osborne’s yards.
The back door opened and dad took the compliant goat off into the buildings. ‘ go and see missus Osbun Alun and tell er we’ ere’.
Mr and Mrs Osborne were a nice couple and Mrs Osborne always said to come in and have some pop and a biscuit; here I needed no second invitation.
After telling her my news I was allowed to go and explore around the yard. After about 20 minutes dad would shout for me and see if I was behaving.
‘Can I ave THE ball to play with yet dad’
‘give us a fuw minites Alun’
I would wait near the door knowing not to go in; then after the few minutes the door would open and dad would toss out the ball.
Well not so much a ball as a smelly balloon. But it was fun to kick about. Up against the wall. High enough to head the rebound or chest it to my foot like John Charles. It kept going for around 30 minutes and I never grumbled, but eventually it would rupture and go flat. There was no fixing it. One last kick would wack it into some stingers along the yard.
It was biodegradable after all. It was the cuddly goats bladder and by now the best of her was jointed and being frozen. I usually went into the butchers shop in time to turn the mincing handle on the sausage machine where the rest of her was mixed with the other secret ingredients of dad’s special sausage recipe.
We drove home and never discussed the Goat, the meaning of life, what was expected of a boy when he became a man. We just drove home and chatted. After all it was just a mornings work. When we got home normal Sunday took over. The dinner would have been put on and would be smelling delicious. Dad went off to sell some more raffle tickets and I had some chores to catch up on, or dodge.
