Simple pleasures.Sherington was my playground; 14 Park Road was my home. Our house may have lacked the basics of today but for a young boy it was a special place.
In the garden were sheds that Grandpa Wright and his brother had built. I never knew either of them. Well… Grandpa Wright lived with us when I was a youngster but he was confined to his bedroom which smelled of pee and always wanting me to fetch him dark stripped mints from the shop. Anyway he had long abandoned the sheds. The sheds seemed to be extensive to a small boy and to contain nooks and crannies too scary to go in. They ran across the complete width of the bottom of the garden, a long uninterrupted run of sheds. Timber framed, corrugated tin walls, tin roof and in the main dirt floors.
Just a small sidetrack as I’ve introduced the subject of the roof. The tin roof had a series of holes along its length. These were in fact bullet holes shot from by a German fighter in WWII. It had strafed the sheds mistaking them for an ammo dump. Anyone who thinks that it’s not possible, due to the range of the fighters, can just think again, dad told me and that’s good enough. Dad was a bit of a stickler about the war. Like a lot of ex-fighters he never said much about the war, but he did tell me that he was Monty’s driver in the desert, so he must have been very brave and important. One of the things I most admire him for was his charitable work; most nights he went off to the White Hart to sell raffle tickets for battleships. Not bad when you remember he was a soldier not a sailor.
Back to the sheds. Starting from the left there was a square area about 8 foot x 8 foot, all roofs were about 8 foot high. This shed was open fronted and full of old garden tools. The next part was about 14 foot wide x 8 foot deep, enclosed all but for a 3 foot opening on the right. This is were we kept our bikes a sawing horse and small store of reclaimed timber. The adjoining part, to the right, was the workshop it measured about 10 foot wide by 6 foot deep and had a window, a door and a wooden floor. So you can work out that the workshop was not as deep as the other parts. In fact the frontage was all in line, as was the back. This left a 2 foot deep by 10 foot long dead end passage that was accessible from the side of the sawing horse and went behind the workshop. I was about 12 before I dared go back there – it was pitch black even in the summer – clearly inhabited by huge rats, snakes and bogeymen. Continuing along in the same row to the right of the workshop was another open area, a lean-to, about 8 foot by 8 foot containing a water butt. This leaned-to and joined the tin sheds to the stone built coal shed. The coal shed was set in the right corner of the garden. I shall be coming back to this area so please remember it.
What can I say about the coal shed? It had no windows; not quite true but the tiny one it had was glazed with glass engrained with 60 years of coal dust sufficient to hold back the rays of the desert sun at noon. A small door was at the back of the lean-to and let in very little light. The coal shed was of course situated next to the privy and the privy was situated as far away from the house as possible for obvious reasons. Every time you went to the privy you were supposed to fill up the coal scuttle. I was so scared of going into the coal shed that I never went to the privy when anyone was there to remind me – otherwise it meant entering The Black Hole. There was no electric in the coal shed. When you edged in you had to know where the coal was, take a step in that direction, bend down, scoop, retreat and if in the daylight you could see the scuttle was not full it meant repeating the feat.
The coal shed had a loft over half its area and what ever lived up there will remain a mystery to me. I suspected Uncle Percy’s eye was there. When the coal was first delivered it almost came to the doorway. Collecting coal at this time wasn’t too bad, but towards the end of the load you needed to be very brave and I always made sure that I’d been to the privy before the coal shed otherwise there would have been many accidents.
As I got a bit older and braver, about the time I adopted the area behind the workshop as my secret place, I would go into the coal shed and break up the bigger lumps ready for the scuttle run but I never tackled that loft.
Anyway to finish off the shed layout we need to add the brick and stone privy to the coal shed. The privy adjoined the coal shed on the right side of the garden in the corner. A stonewall ran along the right side of the garden bordering with Mrs Watts and this formed the right wall of the privy.
The privy was a special place for obvious reasons, but ours was not only special but also somewhat colourful. Dad was the main influence on its décor, no that’s the wrong word, on its ambience. In the warmer months we had cigarette smoke blended with what would today be termed the off gas from an irritable bowel. In the colder months paraffin oil was added to the blend. Aromas that will live with me forever. It was a manly smell and one that I aspired to, but sadly never achieved.
Our privy had whitewashed walls and a red quarry tiled floor, a traditional white (well originally white and considering its age a credit to our mum and bleach) ceramic pan with high-level black cistern and a long chain with puller. The door could be locked, but if it was you were suspected of being ‘unnecessary’. It had a window, which did let in the light. A paper dispenser and a shelf. Did I say paper dispenser… don’t get carried away, all it dispensed was shiny utility post war toilet paper. It was as soft and absorbent as newspaper. In itself this utility paper was a luxury for when unavailable we did indeed used cut up newspaper. Being down the bottom of the garden, you didn’t want to have done your business and find that there was no paper.
Mum MUM MUUUUUM.
Many a time Mrs Watts, from next door, would say through the wall ‘y’run out of numba tu paper yung Alun’ ‘s’no good y’showtin. I’ll tell y’mum’
The privy had a shelf on which my brother Eric kept white rats in a cage.
What a colourful picture I’ve painted ? I’ll bet you all wish you were there right now… itching to go out on a cold dark night for a pee with the coal scuttle. Well I haven’t told you this bit yet because I thought it might spoil the thought of the trip down the garden, trip being the operative word. Not a greatly undulating garden but still one with three distinct levels and surfaces. First the slippery tiled area outside the kitchen, followed by the step up to the concrete path. Half way down to the privy, level with the Garden Well, the path rose up again, this time about half a brick onto the final level that went all the way to the coal shed (turn right just before the coal shed for the privy. If you were the frightened sort and made a dash up, or back, it would end in tears, or a skinned knee, or both. Mum would always be sympathetic to a wound, but as I had probably nipped out on the quiet without taking the scuttle, she could cut you to the quick with her look of disappointment. Dad waited patiently until you settled down by the fire and then starting talking quietly… ‘y’al’rite boy’ and then just that bit firmer… ‘cause y’ve left the bl**dy light on in the privy and it ent gunna turn itself off’. And off I have to go.
Oy come’ere, hav’nt y’furgot summut’ pointing to the coal scuttle.
So far we’ve had rats, snakes and Uncle Percy’s eye so I’d better tell you where the Jackdaw comes in.
In fact he comes in when I was about 11 or 12. Nesting was as much a part of my childhood as going to TOYS'R'US would be today. As the result of one foray up to the Pines I came across a Jackdaws nest with a baby just about fledged. This was a prize pet amongst the boys in the village, well those who would be allowed to keep one.
I took it home and introduced it to mum as a lost orphan I’d found in the hedgerow. First there was that disappointed look but she knew I would look after it so she suggested it went into an old rabbit hutch behind the water butt in the lean-to next to the coal shed (remember). He was to be called Jack as he could already say his name over and over. Jack grew up on a mixture of bread soaked in milk. He was at one with me and was as tame as could be. He would sit on my shoulder and come everywhere with me. Eventually I clipped his wing and he would be content to fly around but always come back at night. He knew where my bedroom window was and would sit on the ledge and call to me. Jack Jack he said.
Folk were happy to see me walking around with him and I became a celebrity. Well alright not a celebrity but in Sherington in the late 50’s not much happened (I did have a distant cousin who’s mother was my uncles sister and my uncle was her dad if you get my drift). I’d had Jack for a couple of years and he was happy living in the lean-to despite a few close encounters with rats. Mum always warned me that he might get blown away in a storm and I was ready for that. However, I wasn’t ready for the little monkey’s exploits that followed.
Jack would come to my bedroom window ledge as I’ve said. Sometimes he would be playing with stones and this always fascinated me. These stone became increasingly more colourful but he never used to let me get a close look at them.
One day when I arrived home from school mum had that look – you know.
Mrs Somebody, I can’t remember whom, from the bungalows in School Lane, had been up to ask mum if we could get her jewellery back! Mrs Somebody lived in the new bungalows along school lane and she and some neighbours have lost items of jewellery and knick-knacks. They had seen Jack going in through an open window and taking bits. He then made a beeline for my window, which could be clearly seen from their gardens.
Mum took me down to the rabbit hutch. How long since you cleaned him out? Ages mum why? Look in here! Aladdin’s cave. Mum made me put all the stuff in a bag and go round and ask the folk who’s was whose. They did not see the funny side and demanded that the bird was stopped.
All my mates thought it was great and wanted to buy him. Andrew Donnelly had always wanted him, he had lost his own Jackdaw and I knew he would look after him. Andrew lived in the Up End far enough away from Mrs Somebody. Sadly I agreed but before we could move him a storm took him away.
He lived a good life though because I can hear his offspring even now… Jack Jack Jack they call in Dingley Wood.
