My brother and I (right) spruced up for a photograph
The GWR library was one of my favourite haunts for inspiration about what to do, or, in today's parlance, "how to amuse oneself." It was situated on the side of the Mechanics' Institute immediately opposite to Bathampton Street and was a haven of peace and quiet. It was one of those libraries where, if anyone spoke persistently or above a certain pitch, the offender was warned with a severe, "Shhh!" from whoever was nearest.
The books were wonderfully bound with leather spines embossed with gold lettering stating, besides the title and author, the words, "GWR SWINDON" in a squashed circle with, "MI" in the centre. How do I remember all this detail? I don't because I have just looked at a copy I bought when the library closed and sold off all its stock. What a sad day that was.
In that library I could very soon find a book that would tell me how to do something or other. When ill with 'flu or tonsillitis, which was a frequent occurrence in Emlyn Square, it was vitally important to first stagger over to the library and take out a few books to cover the few days of "not going out."
As a child, my favourite book under these circumstances was, "The Golden Keys" by Hampden Gordon. It must have seen me through many bouts of illness so that, when the library started to sell off its stock, I was there like a shot and this is the book I still have now. I also bought lots of other GWR Library books but, with the exception of this one, they all seem to have disappeared over the years.
Dad, Maurice and I were interested in anything musical for as long as I can remember. Dad played the mouth-organ and so did we. Maurice tackled the clarinet and a violin, both second-hand, very old and well worn. My main interest was the piano or the organ but there seemed little hope of that so I had to make do with the mouth-organ and a tissue-paper-and-comb kazoo. Or so I thought. Funny thing about life, you never know what's going to turn up.
This remarkable event happened when I went with my brother Maurice to the auction rooms just to keep him company. This particular purchase gave the auctioneer and his audience much merriment and me a lot of embarrassment. I was normally only interested in the boxes of books which often went very cheaply after they had been there a few weeks with no bids made.
At this particular auction, all I had was two shillings, which I thought might possibly get me several boxes of books although I wasn't really interested in what was on offer. I happened to be sitting with Maurice on an old piano which was beautifully carved in walnut. I had always wanted to be able to play the piano and had even bought the piano music for an extract from Swan Lake from Duck, Son and Pinkers in Fleet Street some years before. At the time, I thought it was the complete music for Swan Lake, which I had heard on the radio, but it turned out to be just one tune. This miffed me a bit because it had cost me half-a-crown which could have been better spent on something else.
Before the auction started I had seen this piano and had wistfully wished it was mine, but this was totally impossible it seemed! Suddenly, a lot number was called out and, at the auctioneer's direction, all eyes turned towards the piano. Almost immediately, they turned away again and it was very obvious that the piano was not a desirable asset. To my intense astonishment, not a soul would bid. I couldn't believe it! My heart pounded as the unlikely prospect of owning a piano presented itself. I gulped hard and nervously squawked out, "Two shillins!" which, of course, was all that I had. The auctioneer looked startled at first but then he grinned. People turned their heads, stared at me and laughed as I went bright red and felt unbearably hot.
The auctioneer recovered his composure, grinned again and said, "Well, that's a start anyway. Now seriously, what am I bid for this piano?" Silence, absolute silence and me on tenterhooks. "Come on," prompted the auctioneer, "this piano must be sold today. What am I bid?" He looked hopefully around but not a soul moved. "Very well," he said, as it became evident that no-one except me was interested, "it's going for the ridiculous sum of two shillings. Going, going, gone! There," he continued with a laugh, "I've never sold a piano quite like that before!" People were still turning around and staring and laughing as well. I was more embarrassed than ever and couldn't understand what was so funny. Anyway, I moved to the desk and paid the two shillings before anyone changed their minds. Then the realisation hit me that I now actually owned a piano!
I was over the moon but not for long. "How are you going to get it home?" whispered my brother. My heart sank. To cut a long story short, I had to borrow ten shillings from Mum and got the removal people to deliver it. It had the woodworm quite badly in its exquisitely carved legs but Maurice sealed up all the holes with candle wax and we eventually managed to get it tuned. It stayed in the front room of Emlyn Square until Mother moved to Exeter Street after Dad died and it was a very useful and beautiful piece of furniture.
On one of his regular weekly visits, the local Curate of St. Marks' Church casually mentioned that they were going to throw out an old harmonium because no-one seemed to want it. It was in need of repair and would it be of any use to us? Dad said "No," but Maurice and I said "Yes," and we were allowed to have it provided that we fetched it ourselves.
We examined it first and decided that it was far to heavy and bulky for us to move by simply carrying it. Nothing daunted, we borrowed a builders barrow from the GWR Works and managed to get it loaded onto that. The harmonium now resided in the middle room at 6 Emlyn Square but we had to strip it right down, repair the bits that didn't work, dry out the damp thoroughly and reassemble it.
This work took Maurice and I many weeks to complete. The webbing straps that worked the bellows from the foot pedals had long since rotted away and we had to fit new ones somehow. Buying the right items was out of the question so we had to improvise with the scrap GWR carriage materials which were available to us. The hardest part was getting the strips of webbing just the right length so that a smooth flow of air was produced. After much trial and error we managed it and the organ worked.
At this point, being only interested in the mechanism, Maurice lost interest in the project. I continued to attempt to play the thing but I had to learn what all the "stops" were for first or the sound could be abominable. After that I proceeded to try and teach myself to read music. We had some old hymn books with the music in them and by picking a hymn I knew, I would try to reproduce on the organ the first note by ear. Then I would look at the music and see where the note was on the lines. After correctly locating the first note by ear, it was relatively easy to repeat the procedure with all the others.
And so I learned to play, one finger on each hand, painfully slowly, the tunes I knew. It was then a short step to learning hymns I did not know but only if there were no sharps and flats involved. My plan was to work through all the variations so that I would be able to play anything. This took me so long that I only got to four sharps before getting married and having other things to do!
After the war, a variety of new and second-hand furniture shops sprang up in Swindon. One such was in Cromwell Street near McFisheries the Fishmongers. Was the name of the firm Courts? I can't remember for sure. A little alley ran off the street onto the premises and the alley/yard was full of second-hand furniture. Interesting things appeared in this alley/yard and I always kept an eye on the place when passing.
One day I was with a friend and Mum had sent me to get some fresh herrings for our tea. ("Make sure their eyes are red," she would always say, "or they are not fresh and we don't want 'em." The first time she told me this, I was confused because what she really meant was, "red around the eyes." I reported back home to say that there were no herrings with red eyes so I didn't get any. She then made clear exactly what she meant and then I had to do the trip all over again.)
So I peered up the alley as usual with my friend only to be stopped dead in my tracks by the sight of a wonderfully shiny piano. Not being able to resist such an object my friend and I went to examine it more closely. What a treat to discover that it was a Pianola sitting there with a roll of music fitted all ready to go.
I pulled up a chair and started to pedal the Pianola very gently because the music was some sort of classical tune and it was very beautiful. Having got the pedalling right, I then ran my fingers over the keys trying to keep up with them as they were automatically pressed and released by the mechanism. At this point I was getting really carried away and my body was swaying with the rhythm of the music as my hands moved over the keys and my friend looked on.
Then I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a man pass the end of the alley. Suddenly he came back and stood rivetted to the spot. As I pedalled away, he began to very slowly come closer, looking at me all the time with great awe and reverence. All at once he realised that it was not me playing but the machine itself. The awe and reverence disappeared from his face as he straightened up and snarled, "You little bugger! I thought that was you playing that music!" and he turned on his heel and stalked off before I could explain.
The GWR Theatre was a fascinating place to me. During and just after the war, many of the local children went there on a Sunday evening (I think) for a sing-song. The words were projected on a screen and we sang such things as "She'll be coming round the mountain when she comes," or "The stars at night were big and bright, deep in the heart of Texas." We were encouraged to mark time by clapping and stamping, which we did enthusiastically, so I can't imagine who was running the show. I suppose the idea must have been to keep our morale up or something like that. It was enjoyable anyway.
The theatre, which I attended on and off until I left the Railway Village, was never full. Sometimes it was just me and perhaps half-a-dozen other people. All sorts of things were put on such as murder mysteries, which I never understood. So what was the attraction?
The attractions to me were many and varied. It was warm, peaceful and quiet. Then there was that feeling of anticipation as the lights went down and the curtain went up to reveal a brightly lit colourful scene. The scene may only have been of an ordinary room but it shone in the darkness like some other world to me. I usually went by myself because none of my friends were willing to pay the modest entry fee.
At Christmas time there were pantomimes and plays for children but I think I mostly avoided those. One of my schoolfriends at Westcott Place School lived in Birch Street, almost opposite the school, poor kid. I remember that his name was "Breakspear" and that I nicknamed him "Shatter-shaft." He never had anything to swop except a Robinson Crusoe book and his Father seemed to be quietly strict. I never saw his Mother at all and I was afraid to ask questions.
It eventually turned out that his Father was an actor at the GWR Theatre. One day he asked me to read something to him which I did. A few days later I was asked if I would like to play the part of "Jim lad" in the forthcoming play "Treasure Island" which he was acting in. This utterly terrified me and I didn't go there again. I did, though, quietly turn up to watch it when it was on for real just to see what I would have let myself in for. And there was my friend acting the part I would have had to do. He was very good and I wished that I had the courage and ability to do what he did.
At the top end of Emlyn Square on the corner of London Street next to what was the newspaper shop (and prior to that, a pie shop), lived a friend of mine and his Father. They kept themselves very much to themselves and the Father, who was, I think, something of a hunchback, had the reputation among us kids of being highly dangerous. We kept well clear of his place when playing, "Knock-door-runaway," because he would suddenly appear like a whirlwind and be after us almost before we had time to turn and run. Even then, he was an exceedingly swift runner, much to our terror.
Well, his son was something of a loner and he had one leg in a steel brace of some sort. Somehow we found out that we had a mutual interest in theatres and he told me that his Father actually made toy theatres and that he had one, which he would show me. He invited me round to see his toy theatre but I was very wary of accepting his invitation because his Father might recognise me. I couldn't tell my friend that, of course.
As time went on, curiosity got the better of me and he eventually accompanied me to his house to see his toy theatre. Imagine my horror when he paused before opening the front door and warned me not to speak to his Father or take notice of him in any way. My friends' instructions were to follow him in, then he would produce the toy theatre which we would play with without raising our voices.
I agreed and in we went. There was his Father, sitting near the fire in an armchair, in the corner of a very sparsely furnished and very dark room, reading a book by the firelight. He looked up at us as we entered but he never said a word and neither did I. My friend mumbled something about playing with the stage and received a brief nod in reply.
I was just beginning to heartily wish that I hadn't come, when my friend quietly produced his stage from a corner and showed it to me. I was smitten at once. Could it be possible that the old man sitting in that chair in the corner had made this wonderful miniature masterpiece?
The stage was perfect in every way to my young eyes. It had curtains with authentic folds which could be raised when the show was to start, beautifully painted backdrops for the scenery, painted floorboards, painted bits of scenery for the wings, and a whole host of painted characters for acting out different plays. Best of all, it had footlights and stage lighting with switches which really worked. It even had a trap door which actually worked so that a character could suddenly appear in the middle of the stage.
What could I do after seeing and playing with such a gem but attempt to make my own? I now had the knowledge of what materials were required and what the completed article could, and should, look like. I was hooked. Many weeks later I had completed several but not one of them was as good as the one my friend had shown me. A convincing trap door proved to be impossible for me to make and the lighting, made from old torch bulbs and holders, was impracticable because I could only rarely afford any batteries.
Eventually I modified one of them to make a toy cinema with a fire-curtain covered with tiny hand-painted advertisements of what films were coming next. This took me many happy hours of exacting work. Having fitted a screen at the rear, I was able to give film shows with the old 9.5mm projector. I have forgotten what became of all my efforts.
Ice skating in the Railway Village? Strictly speaking, yes, and this is how it came about. Prior to Bonfire Night on November the 5th, we would trail around the streets knocking on doors collecting anything that would do for making a "Guy." The guy, when constructed, was parked at a busy spot on a street and passers-by were asked, "Please can you spare a penny for the Guy?" which got abbreviated to, "Penny for the guy?" The guy was eventually burned on the bonfire after getting us a little money for fireworks. There's gratitude for you!
The collection of materials for the guy threw up lots of strange and interesting objects, especially from ladies who were recently widowed. Silk top-hats, gloves, walking canes, old clothing and footwear were common. One year a widow, still in black mourning attire, gave us some things which we gladly accepted. She then doubtfully produced quite a few pairs of Victorian ice-skates, saying that she would be glad to get rid of them. I don't think we ever refused anything so we thanked her and took them. But what to do with them?
We had great fun cleaning them up and oiling them, then finding out how the screws worked which attached them to our shoes. This done they were put away to await events because the Winter was almost upon us and in those days we could be sure that it would snow sometime.
Well, the snow eventually came. The Corporation buses which carried the workers to and from the factory all came around Emlyn Square and the snow became a vast, solid stretch of polished ice. No salt or grit was used in our area at that time. We thought that this would make a brilliant surface for ice-skating and we were right.
So, on with the skates and didn't they hurt the feet. They were, of course, to big for us, but that was a minor detail and off we went. After a lot of falling over, ankle-twisting and trial-and-error learning, we got quite good at it. The best stretch was the wide road between 6 Emlyn Square and the Mechanics' Institute. We could eventually zoom back and forth in that space expertly. Many passers-by said that they didn't know what the world was coming to - ice-skating on the roads, what next?
Even stranger than ice-skating was the episode when a friend and I sailed his rubber dinghy around Emlyn Square. My friend lived in Reading Street right next to the Gluepot Pub and he owned an ex-War-department rubber dinghy. One day it bucketed with rain and Emlyn Square became isolated in a great lake. I suppose the drains must have overflowed or something. The rain stopped but the water carried on rising for a while and I went out to paddle in it.
As I got outside there was a shout and there was my friend in his front garden furiously inflating his dinghy and waving to me to help him. There was nothing quick about pumping up that dinghy with the small hand-pump supplied, so I sloshed over to help him and we took it in turns to pump, resting alternately.
When it was inflated just enough to bear our weight, we launched out into the deep and paddled over by my hopuse and then on over to the Mechanics' Institute. By this time it was becoming obvious that the water was going down and that our time afloat was going to be limited. We made the most of it, but within three-quarters of an hour it was all over.
This amusement was an annual event which occupied a lot of time and effort in the preceeding weeks. We always made a "guy" and humped it around the streets collecting "a penny for the guy" which we intended to spend on fireworks. In spite of this, we never seemed to have enough money for more than half a dozen or so and we certainly could not afford rockets.
I therefore consulted my books and the libraries to find out if it was possible for us to make our own. And it was! In fact it was quite simple and all the ingredients were readily available except for Saltpetre. This I had to save up for and buy from the chemist in Faringdon Road.
Charcoal was easily made by repeatedly scorching pieces of firewood and carefully scraping the black deposit off. Sulphur was already in our house because Mum used it to "purify" our blood. Iron filings for the "sparkling showers" took a lot more time because it entailed filing a piece of soft iron for hours on end to get enough.
In addition, I was in the habit of collecting used firework cases because of the intriguing titles and because there was sometimes a residue of unburnt gunpowder which I could dry out and use again. In this way, there was no real shortage of materials to hand except for the iron filings. For this reason, I decided to start with making a "banger."
The trouble was, I was unsure of the exact ratio of the ingredients to each other. After a rather abortive, but nevertheless spectacular, "flashing bang" in our back kitchen, Mum told me to pack it in and keep all that stuff outside in the back yard.
My younger brother became deeply interested as I attempted to construct what should have been a "pretty" firework. As it was a bright sunny day when all was ready, we decided to set it off in the outside toilet, which was very roomy and which had a thick wooden door which would block out most of the light. It would also keep Mum from seeing what we were up to.
I lit it as we crouched on the floor,leaving plenty of room between us and it for safety. It didn't burn very well because I then realised that I had far too much sulphur in the mix. This became more evident as the toilet quickly began to fill with thick, blue smoke. It was drifting away from me but I didn't notice that it was all around my asthmatic brother until he started gasping and collapsed on the floor.
As I opened the door to let some air in, Mum, having heard the great, wheezing gasps my brother was making, dragged him out into the back yard and let fly at me. "You've nearly killed him," she shouted. His face was literally green and he could not breathe, so off to the GWR Hospital we went again. I don't think I made any more after that. Instead, I dropped ready-made bangers at the last minute into water-filled butts. This lifted them from the ground in an amazing and spectacular way.
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Page updated 27 July 2008