Wishing for a happy ending

In the 2019 film Yesterday, Jack, the lead character, wakes up from a blackout to find the world is exactly as he remembered, except for one thing, The Beatles have disappeared from history. Jack is the only person familiar with their songs. He becomes internationally famous by writing down and performing the songs he remembers, but realizes that the credit should go to the original band members, who are alive and well, but not the famous people they became.

At one point, Jack meets the seventy-nine year old John Lennon, living a quiet and reclusive life beside a beach. While the plot was too thin to sustain a full length film, that single moment made it memorable.

There seemed something joyously happy in the thought that John Lennon had not been shot dead on a New York street, but was alive and well and living on a shoreline somewhere, passing his years contentedly.

Undoubtedly, there was something childish in such a thought, some throwback to times when there was a belief that a happy ending was always possible.

At High Ham school, before the Easter holidays each year, our teacher Miss Rabbage would read us the Bible story of Good Friday and Easter. The story was well-known, we could have recited each detail, but not an Easter passed when I did not hope that the story would end in a different way. I would hope that Pilate would stand up to the crowd, that he would shy away from killing an innocent man.

Of course, it was an absurd notion. Why would a two thousand year old story change because a primary school child wished that it might be different? Christians of conventional views would have suggested that my version of the story would have completely undermined the Christian faith, but I would not have minded, I just wanted a happy ending.

So it is with my research of my family tree. Clicking through pages on Ancestry, I encountered an Ellen Poulton who was alive and well in the 1950s. It seemed an attractive thought, that she had not died of pelvic cellulitis in 1912 at the age of twenty-three, but had lived out a full span of years. Had she lived past the age of eighty, I might have met her and remembered her fifty years later.

Of course, it was a fond, foolish thought. My great grandmother died when her four children were aged between five and two years old.

Happy endings are in short supply.

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Annoying ear worms

Help, help, here come the bears!

Why would I remember the theme music of the Hair Bear Bunch? And why, when it’s not the Hair Bear Bunch, is it Banana Splits?

Why would I go down the road singing to myself, “One banana, two banana, three banana, four?” And why was it Banana Splits, anyway? None of them were bananas.

I don’t know about the Hair Bear Bunch, but the only rational reason of which I can think for the persistence of the Banana Splits tune is that it was a programme broadcast during the school holidays.

Do you remember those days? The days when it was a special indulgence by the BBC to show programmes for a period each morning during the school holidays.

The anarchic antics of Banana Splits, which seemed generally to consist in them colliding with each other, were atypical of the schedules. Generally, would be cultured and they would be improving.

White Horses was screened one summer and Belle and Sebastian also got summer airings (unless the memory is unreliable). In the memory they were the height of sophistication, pictures of a world far more exciting than the depths of rural Somerset.

White Horses came with the sultry tones of the female singer who sang the unmistakable theme tune. In the memory, they were both French series – which shows how unreliable memory can be.

Youtube has the White Horses opening sequence – only an ignoramus would have thought the programme French.

“But the captions are in German and those are Lippizaners,” said the young voice when I tried to share it with younger members of my own family back in the Noughties, “how did you imagine they were French?”

“What’s a Lippizaner?” I had thought at the time.  Had someone told me it was a brand of German lager, I would have believed them.

Belle and Sebastian was French, even an ignoramus could be certain of that, it was Belle et Sébastien and the primary school teacher taught that “et” was French for “and”.

Belle and Sebastian had characters who were suave, who dressed like people from magazines. What had England to offer in response to French sophistication? The Double Deckers.

In retrospect, the programmes most suitable for someone like myself were the anarchic ones – The Monkees, Crackerjack, Banana Splits.

The subtlety of White Horses and Belle et Sébastien would probably have been more appreciated by those who knew what a Lippizaner was and who knew what words are not French.

 

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Why did he have a kippah?

The 1921 Census revealed the whereabouts of my late grandfather. He was living at 38 Holly Road, Chiswick in the house of Arundel Martha Rideout.  Mrs Rideout, twice widowed, had entered my grandfather’s name as “Sydney Poulton,” had put “deserted” against his name, and had described him as “Adopted son.”

The census enumerator must have questioned the term “deserted,” for he has put a green pencil line through it and written, “NK,” presumably “not known.”

The return offers no further clues as to who his father may have been, nor any suggestion as to how he came to be living with a family who were entirely unconnected to him. Nor does it offer any explanation as to why he had a kippah, something my grandmother kept even after my grandfather’s death in 1972.

Being Jewish comes through the mother’s line, and her background as Church of England is clearly documented, but could his father have been Jewish?

After the death of their mother in March 1912, his three siblings, or perhaps they were half-siblings, were sent to a Poor Law School in Hampshire, that he was not with them suggests he was being cared for by a family somewhere.

His upbringing seems to have been affluent at times. He had postcards of himself and friends printed when he was eighteen. He is well-dressed in the various snaps of him on outings.

In the 1921 Census, he is shown, correctly as fourteen years and seven months old. His place of birth is shown as that which is shown on his birth certificate, “Isleworth Infirmary.” It was the infirmary for Brentford Workhouse.

Interestingly, Blanche, Martha Rideout’s youngest daughter, and my grandfather are both working for Lyons. It seems a matter of pride for Martha Rideout for she has put Messrs J.J Lyons. Blanche is a waitress in the Lyons Corner House on the Strand (a role that would later come to be described as a “nippy”). My grandfather is a van boy, working from the Lyons factory at Cadby Hall in Kensington.

Perhaps the Lyons connection offers some clue to the kippah? Only when I searched for Cadby Hall did I discover the company had been Jewish. Had his father been among the staff there?

The London Remembers website provides a history of the family and the factory:

The Gluckstein family arrived in London in 1843-7, bringing their trade of selling tobacco with them, and settled in the East End.

In partnership with Joseph Lyons they opened their first Lyons teashop at 213 Piccadilly in 1894. {This was part of the site 212-214 Piccadilly; 21a, 22 and 23 Jermyn Street; and 3-4 Eagle Place; developed c.2015 and now occupied by a building clad in, mainly, white ceramic}. More Lyons tea shops were opened and it became the first respectable chain of restaurants, selling consistent food at consistent prices, catering especially to women who had not previously been addressed. No alcohol was available, food was served by women in maids’ uniforms and there were women-only areas.

In 1894 Lyons acquired Cadby Hall, an old piano workshop, which they turned into their factory producing standardised, consistent products for their restaurants. There they had their bakery, offices, stores, and could manage the delivery to the shops, each run by a family member. Cadby Hall went on to be developed and was soon baking products for sale over the counter, and to restaurants run by others.

In 1896 they built the Trocadero at Piccadilly, a restaurant and bar complex.

Around 1900 the Glucksteins were said to be the largest retail tobacconists in the world and in 1902 they sold that side of their business to Imperial Tobacco. This enabled the members of the family (the Glucksteins and the Salmons) still living in Whitechapel to move out and they settled in West Hampstead, Kensington and Hammersmith.

The first Lyons Corner House was on the north-west corner of Coventry Street and Rupert Street and opened 1909. The second was in the Strand between Charing Cross Station and Trafalgar Square, now demolished. The Oxford Corner House was built 1926-7 to the design of F. J. Wills. It has 3 elevations: one on Hanway Street (of no interest) and two splendid frontages at 14-28 Oxford Street and 3, Tottenham Court Road. When they decided to move into hotels they built the Strand Palace Hotel (opened Sept 1909). In 1911 they opened a large factory in Greenford and also helped fund a new synagogue, the Liberal Jewish Synagogue, {in Hill Street W1 during WWI, it moved to St John’s Wood Road, into an old chapel, in 1925}.

At the end of WW1, to ensure they could continue to innovate with food products, they created a large, modern, food laboratory at Cadby Hall (where, between WW2 and her marriage, Margaret Thatcher worked as a chemist). This enabled them to develop a new product for them, ice cream, which was manufactured at Cadby Hall. Lyons were the sole caterer at the 1924 British Empire Exhibition, where they ran over 100 restaurants, bars, etc. 1924 Lyons registered ‘Nippy’ (the term used for their waitresses) as a trademark.

By the Depression of the thirties there were over 60 Lyons restaurants all over England. Lyons was the official baker to the royal family and catered for the Buckingham Palace garden parties. By the start of WW2 they were described as the largest restaurant business in the world.

In 1938 some senior female members of the family converted a building in Kentish Town which had been a Lyons tea shop into ‘The Haven’. This housed 23 children, members of the Kindertransport, which the women collected from Liverpool Street station.

Based on their tremendous organisation skills Lyons were asked to manufacture bombs for the war effort, and in response they built and ran a factory at Elstow which, by the end of the war had supplied one seventh of the bombs dropped on Germany.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Coping with the dreaded lurgy

Waking with a persistent cough, I sat up in bed. The congestion didn’t clear, so I got up and walked around. Being upright shifted the irritation.

In childhood days, I would not have so easily drifted into such breathlessness. My mother propped me up with so many pillows that there were times when I seemed almost to be sitting in the bed. The elevated position meant that sleep was not easy, but it also meant that I tended less often to wake gasping for air.

Breathing was a serious business at school, it was the chief reason most of us had been sent to the remote cluster of buildings deep within the National Park and three miles from the nearest village, which had not so much as a shop for anyone inclined to walk there.

Problems with breathing were potentially fatal. Two of the eighty boys at the school died in the summer holidays of 1974. Many of the boys would go on to live lives that were severely shortened by respiratory illnesses, many more would find themselves restricted in the lives they could lead.

Whatever the negative points about a Christian fundamentalist school in a fold in the Dartmoor hills, and there were many, they did their best to teach us how to stay alive.  The regime was Spartan, the rules arbitrary, and the religion oppressive, but the concern for respiratory welfare was unmatched.

There was a full-time nurse on the staff responsible for the daily administration of medications, but the available range of drugs in the 1970s was limited and the main response to breathing problems was physical rather than medicinal.

There was a preventative approach: the daily exercise regime, supplemented by the cross-country runs on alternate Saturday mornings, and a constant encouragement to engage in physical activity, whether it be playing in the games of football at every break and lunchtime, or taking moorland walks on Sunday afternoon.

There was also a reactive approach. This being Wednesday, it would have been the day for the weekly visit by the physiotherapist. A stern woman with short dark hair, thick-framed black glasses and a white coat, an encounter with the physiotherapist was a cause for both anxiety and relief. Struggling to clear congestion would have meant lying face down over a triangular wooden frame and having your back pummeled. It was not a pleasant experience, but it was effective, and must have been hard work for the physiotherapist who must at times have wondered if there were not an easier way to make a living.

Coping with the dreaded lurgy was something we had to learn to do. We knew too well what might happen if we did not do so.

 

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Mr Light and Omicron

It feels like falling at the final hurdle.

Waking on Saturday morning, I felt as if I were suffering an allergic reaction, my eyes were stinging and my throat was irritated. I was convinced it was no more than an allergy because it had disappeared by the afternoon when I drove to Belfast to watch Ulster play.

However, yesterday afternoon, the feeling returned. “I must be developing a cold,” I thought.

Yesterday evening, a nagging cough began to annoy me. I took an antigen test, just another in the dozens and dozens I have taken in the past year. I was confident of a negative result. Almost immediately, both lines on the test strip turned red.

I have spent the day preparing lessons in a desultory way, the persistent cough creating a sensation of bruising in my right ribs. However, the Omicron variant of SARS-CoV-2 is as nothing compared with the severe asthma I once suffered.

I can hear Mr Light’s voice saying, “Deep breathing, Ian, deep breathing.” Mr Light was a teacher who taught us deep breathing exercises.

In the days at the Dartmoor special school to which I was sent, the available medications for respiratory illnesses were not as plentiful as now and they were administered sparingly.

Each morning we gathered on the tennis court, or in the gym, standing in lines as Mr Light called out the instructions for the inhalation and exhalation of air and the swinging of arms and flexing of the body. His philosophy was that the first response to everything should be deep breathing.

In addition to the daily exercises, Mr Light supervised the cross country runs over Hameldown on Dartmoor, watching boys in white tee shirts and blue shorts crossing the hillside from the comfort of his Datsun car. (One Saturday morning, a group of soldiers in combat fatigues passed us on the open moor; we thought that men who were allowed to run in full army kit had an easy time compared to us in light cotton tops and shorts).

Perhaps the clinical efficacy of deep breathing was not as great as he would have maintained, perhaps it would have been ineffective against severe respiratory problems, but perhaps its psychological power was significant. The worst reaction to a shortness of breath is a feeling of panic which only exacerbates the breathlessness. Instead, the slow, calm, steady deep breathing exercises created a sense of being in control, a sense that one had mastery of one’s body.

Stuck in a room in an apartment block all day, I should loved to have been out in the chill air of a Dartmoor winter.

 

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