England

Next thing it was England. Alright, I obviously wouldn’t have realised that immediately, but in the fullness of time, began to get the drift. Also, even though the first birthday I recall was my fifth, logic tells me, that when I first saw that lady in a blue frock, looking dwarfed by a pair of black doors far side of a busy street, I must have been two and a half and also as my new nanna smiled, spreading her arms in welcome, instincts hinted she and I would be getting along famously.

Initially, it was all very confusing, but the way she bustled and fussed, cheered me up no end. Not as much as when first meeting cousin Jennifer mind you. She just had the edge on me age-wise, in fact was a full four months older and hadn’t wasted a single second of it, getting up to all sorts of tricks, leaving me quite breathless. Attempting to keep up with her was initially frustrating, but as I felt coordination improving, was able to assist in serious tasks, such as carrying glass bottles down to those huge black gates mentioned and we giggled together, listening to their cheery progress, rattling and clanking down the pavement outside. They were beer bottles, for I now lived at the Compasses Hotel, roughly halfway up the slope of Corve Street.

I don’t remember being told not to roll bottles down the street, it was more a matter of there not being sufficient room one day, to actually squeeze them under the gate. In fact, there was only just enough room for a one-eyed squint, for on certain mornings, if I lay on my side, I could just make out the quick-scissor flurry of hooves drumming across splatter, plus the odd skip at stick-thwack and guttural shout. The pub was located on the main road through town and the weekly auction was held in the large expanse of corrugated iron sheds and steel pens down near the train station. Sometimes, when the sheep were driven through it sounded like the sudden onset of heavy rain.

My mother told me, that I would often beg to be taken there to peer over the brick wall at the cattle packed in the pens, but to be honest, I have no recollection of it. Not the slightest glimmer. It seems you can’t choose memories any more than you can decide what to dream.

One day, the milkman gave Jennifer and myself a ride in his delivery cart. We were helped up onto the metal step, then through the small door that was clicked shut and we sat together, beyond the churns, on a neat little side seat. I remember the immensity of the horse, its not unpleasant odour and as we jerked forward, how its broad back with everything in motion, swayed from side to side and yet the cart whirled along in a perfectly straight line. The rhythmic clipping of hooves echoed in the lanes and we felt like the most important people alive. Not surprisingly, whenever catching sight of the nice Mr. Tilt, even though wagging fingers and serious reproaches warned us not to pester the man, we wanted to climb aboard at every opportunity.

On another day we were taken for a picnic at Wigmore Castle. I know that’s where it must have been, for I distinctly remember the grassed banking rising steeply above where cars were once allowed to park, at the lane end, opposite a muddy farm. I have no recollection of the ruins across the fields, but didn’t forget that grassed banking, for on it was some dried white poo to which cousin Jen laid claim, piping up brightly, “I just did that.”

Was there any end to this little minx’s abilities?

Alright, I’d been rather naïve, just like when a massive low-loader truck rolled past one day in Shrewsbury. I was living there at the time, but won’t go into that just now, other than say the odd-job man who lived in the same residence, told me the vehicle was for scribing red lines down the margins of writing paper. It seemed an awful lot of rumbling equipment for such a small task, but I trusted Old Bill and so it wasn’t until sometime later I thought, ‘What a load of old dog poo! That truck was a tank transporter!’

Swiftly moving back to those early Ludlow memories; on market days the pub used to be heaving. It was fascinating and I’d watch all the activity as it unfolded below my secret vantage point, a tiny glass paned window at the turn in the stairs. Hanging above all, was a light haze of tobacco smoke and men in light brown coats stood in huddles or leant on the bar, as a never-ending supply of glasses full of brown liquid, went from the cranking pumps to awaiting hands.

Above the general hubbub of conversation, the odd voice would ring out, followed by guttural laughter and amongst all my mother would fearlessly wend her way, emptying ashtrays, collecting empty glasses and wiping tables. My grandfather, known to us as Uncle Stan, (I’ll explain later) seemed to be the main pump-puller, with sweat gleaming on ruddy brow, but also my mother would occasionally lend a hand at one of the mechanisms that kept the liquid flowing.

I remember one day a cheer ringing out, as my grandmother, with a white cloth of action draped over a shoulder, sailed amongst all to deliver an urgent demand. I was later told, she had given Uncle Stan strict orders to clear the men from the gents’ toilets