A Somerset Lad

It was a game played in the front playground at High Ham Primary School. Two children stood facing each other, their arms raised and outstretched and their hands clasped together to form an arch through which the rest of us passed.

It must have been before Easter of 1969, for once I was in the junior class, playtimes were spent in the back playground. Children being particular about the exact timing of activities, it was probably September-time, so it would have been the autumn of 1968, or even 1967.

Where the words came from, and what they meant, would have been questions that did not occur to the class of twenty or so children. The object of the song seemed to be that the children forming the arch would bring their arms down on the person passing through on the last day of September, whereupon the person trapped would become a member of the arch.

The big ship sails through the Alley Alley O,
Alley Alley O, Alley Alley O,
The big ship sails through the Alley Alley O,
On the last day of September.

The Captain said, ‘It will never, never do,
It will never, never do,
It will never, never do’,
The Captain said, ‘It will never, never do,
On the last day of September.

The big ship sank to the bottom of the sea,
The bottom of the sea, the bottom of the sea,
The big ship sank to the bottom of the sea,
On the last day of September.

We all dip our heads in the deep blue sea,
The deep blue sea, the deep blue sea,
We all dip our heads in the deep blue sea,
On the last day of September.

Looking back more than half a century later, the question that occurs is why the Alley-O was a source of fascination for small children in a tiny country school.

Did we become engaged simply to be engaged? Was the concern with taking part in an activity which involves everyone else? Whether it was the Alley-O, or some other concept that equally lacked any meaning for us, was there a desire to join together in the singing and the activity?

Perhaps the greater knowledge of the world and much greater cultural sophistication of younger children now have brought with them the loss of something simpler and unsophisticated. It is a long time since I saw the Alley-O being played, what now takes place to create participation and community?

Nearly forty years old, the horse transporter rolled down the motorway between Weston—super -Mare and Highbridge. Travelling between fifty and sixty miles per hour, it was probably at its maximum speed. “W” registered the first time around, it must have been registered between 1st August 1980 and 31st July 1981.

At such an age, it should have had a vintage feel about it, a suggestion that riding in the cab would carry passengers to a bygone age, instead it was square and boxy and ugly. Rust streaks ran along the paintwork. In a time when rust on a car has become a rare sight, it is odd to think back to times when it was the scourge of motor vehicle owners.

Perhaps the transporter was a more fitting reminder of the realities of the past than the sort of vehicles that appear at vintage shows. The times when it would have carried horses to gymkhanas or hunt meets or point-to-points or race meetings were not the times recalled in nostalgia.

1980 was not a prosperous time. Unemployment was rising rapidly, inflation was over 20% (train fares went up by 20% twice during the year). In the cities there was a growing sense of alienation and discontent. The Saint Paul’s area of Bristol exploded into rioting that year; violent unrest would be much more widespread the following year, bringing demands for urgent change in places like Brixton in London, Handsworth in Birmingham, and Toxteth in Liverpool.

There was not much about the times for which to feel nostalgic. It was the year of the Iranian hostage crisis, the assassination of John Lennon, the Moscow Olympic Games that were meaningless because of the American boycott.

It is hard to recall much that was positive about 1980, perhaps a rusty lorry is the best symbol for that year.

If someone should decide upon taking the horse transporter and restoring it, then it might be taken along to vintage fairs where people recall with fondness the times that are gone by.

Nostalgia is an industry that rewrites history, that pretends things were when they weren’t. Often those enthusiastic about recalling the past are those who lived through little of the realities of the times.

Perhaps those sitting in the cab of the horse transporter will look back in forty years’ time and recall with nostalgia their times travelling up and down the motorway. Perhaps they will recall 2019 in terms similar to how I felt about 1980.

The “Friday Free for All” on BBC Radio 6 is an hour long show in which Steve Lamacq plays listeners’ requests, no matter how unusual or diverse they may be. The eclectic nature of the show meant the playlist this evening included Petula Clark’s song. “Downtown.”

“Downtown” was a song with which I grew familiar via the medium of my aunt’s pale blue transistor radio, one of those that had a round tuning dial on its front.  It sat on the sideboard in the kitchen and seemed a channel of constant cheer; DJs were always upbeat and the music always happy.  Particular songs captured particular moments; family parties were accompanied by a Dansette record player, the records played were by the artists we had heard on the radio.

Petula Clark seemed always present.  “Downtown” captured a world of excitement beyond our imagination, it exuded positive feelings and optimism.  There is an abiding memory of stealing handfuls of raisins from one of the set of airtight tins, with sketches of London sights on the front, in which my grandmother kept her cookery supplies while the voice of Ms Clark filled the kitchen.

“Downtown” reappeared, years later. Living in Newtownards, Co Down for three years in the late 1980s, the local commercial radio station for Northern Ireland had its studios in the town.  In the summer of 1986, stations still closed for the night, and, arriving back in the town at one or two o’clock in the morning after driving from Rosslare on the way home from France, there were the closing moments of Downtown Radio’s late night broadcast.  The DJ closed the programme by playing the station’s signature tune and the melancholy mood of that August night was lightened by Petula Clark; for a moment, I was away from a Northern Ireland which was filled with an internecine conflict where the protagonists were political extremists and religious fundamentalists and I was back on the farm and the whole world was filled with excitement and without fear.

My aunt who still listens to her radio in the kitchen was eighty last month and according to the Internet, Petula Clark is eighty-six. Of course, they are both forever young, and Petula Clark is forever singing from my aunt’s transistor radio, forever filling my grandparents’ farmhouse with happiness.

Petula Clark will never be a day older than the young woman whose voice through the years captured some sense of indefinable hope, a voice that still does so.

The late summer sunshine and the mild nights have prompted growth in the garden, particularly growth among the weeds. Weeds between paving slabs are always the most challenging, difficult to hoe and not easily pulled. The temptation is to scuff them away, to knock the tops off, leaving the root and stem still in place, able to grow again as the weather permits.

Auntie Shirley would look disapprovingly at scuffing. Eighty last month, Auntie Shirley has always been methodical and thorough in all she does.

Auntie Shirley always cared for my grandmother’s garden, a small, neat enclosure at the front of Rose Cottage. A monkey puzzle tree stands at one corner, a path made from large stone slabs leads to the garden gate which opens out onto the road.

The rural location of the farm must have been the reason why the antique iron gate and railings were not taken during the Second World War, to be melted down for use in the munitions industry. (The war years were a time when Stanley Baldwin, the former prime minister, had faced criticism that the ornamental gates and railings of his home were judged to be of artistic merit and were not cut down and taken away. As it transpired, much of the metal gathered around the country proved to be inappropriate for the manufacture of tanks and aircraft).

Auntie Shirley would have regularly painted the ironwork, kept the flower beds in neat order, and weeded the garden path. The garden path demanded particular attention, kneeling down on the stones with an old table knife, Auntie Shirley would carefully have removed all traces of weeds.

The image of Auntie Shirley working a knife between the paving stones to dislodge even the tiniest of weeds is one that evokes a sense of absolute security. Perhaps it is because it is associated with childhood years and the irrational exuberance that would have filled the heart of a young boy. Perhaps it is because it was the path to the farmhouse which was a place of welcome and happiness, a place where uncles and aunts and cousins would gather in summertime and where there would be happy teas in the kitchen. Perhaps it is because there is a feeling of timelessness about Auntie Shirley being in the garden; Crossmans have been in the parish for at least four hundred years, new generations of them will carry the name forward for years to come.

Whatever the reason, the weeds between the paving stones seemed a thing of happiness.