Part 1 (1956-1966) - Moving On - 1962

MOVING ON

From Tiny Child to Slightly Older

And so all that material belonging and wealth was lost. This disaster I would not fully comprehend until later in my life – it meant little, if anything, to me then - I was 6 years old.

There are flickering memories with no links; no continuity that would make sense of my parents lived experience. These are a young child’s memories. 

Then there was a Chalet. This is as best that I may describe. A large Beach Chalet, a bedroom, a small kitchen area in a main room, a single un-shaded electric light. There was my mother, my sister – there is no image of my father. My Sister complains bitterly that we have to share a mattress in the main room area, my mother sleeping on a tiny bed in the tiny ‘bedroom’.

That image flickers away; I recall no more of it.

Next – a house, traditional detached 1930s style house on the sea front, one in a line of similar houses.  A place, Elsoner Flat. Elmer Road, Middleton on Sea. How do I know this - I have found it in old documents.  An upstairs flat. A small bedroom room shared by Sue and I. A slightly bigger parent bedroom. A Living Room, a Kitchen, a Bathroom. A set of stairs from the door to the outside (much like a fire escape – ornate and iron in construction) leading down to a green well kept back garden that backed seamlessly to the stony beach with its large wooden ‘breakwaters’ that reached out in straight lines into the breaking surf of the English Channel.  

Of this place I have my first crystal clear childhood memories.  A small black and white Television, a small grainy screen.  

Going to bed and hearing the music to Coronation Street. My Sister getting cross with me and “telling on me” to my mother – “Mum – Butch is telling lies”. BUTCH????

Butch??? An old family friend, Uncle Les.  Not actually an Uncle – a Canadian Friend – an old business acquaintance from Nigeria.  As a baby he nicknamed me “Butch” in the colloquial American parlance of the time for a ‘boys boy’, a man. It stuck – and to my family I would always be “Butch” . By young adulthood, and with its later alternative connotation of the fashions of the Gay revolution, they restricted its use to family conversations only.

A image of a Christmas Tree burns in my memory – my 1^st Christmas Tree. I remember it glittering next to the little Black & White TV – and it captivated my attention, the shimmering decorations that moved seductively in the least draft.  I remember looking at it, distracted from the TV and the frightening Daleks of Doctor Who. It glittered and shimmered I was mesmerised by its beauty.

There was a moment- my Mother sitting anxiously by an old fashioned radio, focused, listening with unusual attention – I didn’t understand. And then a sigh – the moment had passed – the Cuban Crisis! And a while later she wept at the side of the same old radio – when a president was assassinated. 

My father - he was there, sometimes, intermittent – new enterprises and employment opportunities consumed and failed him.  I believe I went to School, I MUST have gone to school – but the memories are patchy and the timing uncertain. School memories emerge more clearly shortly.

Then there was a morning. Before School - I went out to the windy grey garden and crossed to the Stony Beach.  I sat on the wooden Break Water – dangerously close to the towering crashing surf. The wind was high, it howled, and the grey foamy waves crashed relentlessly and dangerously on the stony beach with ferocity, and the salt spray stung my young face. The stones were sucked noisily back as the waves reluctantly retreated from their assault. I was at once fascinated and fearful – the draw of the sea  deep in my psyche, a primal instinct.  

An in the face of that raw natural energy I was moved, for the first time in my life, to reflect on the meaning and complexity of life. My mother appeared – “What are you doing – come back up here” she asked and demanded anxiously... I looked at her – “Mother, why are waves so big”....