Bobby Goes South.

            The big old steam train growled out of Paddington Station, gathering speed on it way south west to Devon and Cornwall.  It rattled along the track spewing smoke and cinders as it cleared the greater London area. Bobby settled back in his seat arranging his newspapers.  He was on the way to Devon, and a new life away from home finally.  He was free, and master of his destiny.  Outside the window, London was slipping away as the train entered the Home Counties.  Lowering the window, he leaned out and looked towards the engine.  Smoke billowed and bits of cinder nicked his cheeks as the countryside slid by.  The wind streaming through his hair felt exhilarating, his great adventure had begun. 

            The clickety click of wheels on the rails was like a Chris Barber rhythm section beneath his feet.  This is the life, he thought. A tunnel came rushing towards him, and he ducked back inside again.

            Now and again, a small station would flash by and a village appeared on the horizon.  He passed fields with grazing cows, sheep, and newborn lambs prancing about just as they did in the pictures. Nothing was better than spring in England, with new flowers and blossoms on the trees.  He was leaving the city behind him, with its buildings, busses, taxis and shoulder to shoulder people.  Ahead lay a spacious green land populated with trees and rivers.  The prospect of living in Devon among the apple orchards, thatched cottages, and not far from the sea, filled him with enthusiasm for the Bedford Hotel.

            At Exeter, he changed trains. Sitting on a bench he read the paper while awaiting the connection that would take him on the last leg of his journey. An article compared  the British attack on Egypt with the Russian invasion of Hungary, condemning Anthony Eden.  On the pop chart front, Doris Day was doing well with ‘Whatever Will Be’, and Elvis’ “Hound Dog” was holding the Everly Brothers at bay.

            A small local train chugged into the station.  He found a seat, throwing his case up onto the rack above. There was only one other passenger in the small compartment, a fat, balding man in a raincoat.  With a slamming of the doors, a loud “All clear!’ and a fierce blast of a whistle, the train jerked forwards, rattling and clanking as it rolled out of the station.

            The raincoat man looked Bobby up and down with a grunt, and a slight smile played on his lips.  “Going to Plymouth are you, young fellow?” he said.  He had a high pitched girly voice. “Grand city that.  Bombed terrible during the war you know.”

            Bobby explained that he was only going as far as Tavistock, where he had a job at the Bedford Hotel as a cook.  The train weaved on through the Devonshire pastures, past orchards, alongside a river to Tavistock.

            The fat man leaned forwards, unbuttoning his raincoat to reveal his open fly and catching Bobby’s eye with a wink.   “Is it true what they say about men who cook?”  He leaned closer, his breath smelled of whisky.  “You know?” He gave a nod and a wink.  ”That they fancy other men?” He gave a gratuitous, whisky flavoured smile.  “How about yourself, do you fancy blokes to girls?”

            Bobby wriggled back in his seat shaking his head.  “Nah,” he said. “It’s just an old wives tale.  “There ain’t no poufs in any kitchen I’ve worked in.”  He clenched his fist and raised them to show the man. “They wouldn’t last five minutes.”

            “Hrm,” said the dirty old man buttoning up again and picking up the newspaper lying next to him. “I was only asking,” he whined. “It was what I was told.”  He buried himself in his paper, and Bobby went back to marvelling at the countryside, The green fields stretched as far as the eye could see, broken only by fences and the occasional grey stone house.  Now and then a small hamlet flashed by, all brick and stone houses.  Eventually the train slowed down and a station sign slid past the window – Tavistock.  Grinding to a halt, the train lurched one last time, followed by the sounds of slamming doors, and shouting guards.

            Bobby jumped down onto the platform with his suitcase, but he couldn’t resist giving the old man a thrill.  He leaned into the window.  “Well, some of us might be fairies, but by and large it’s an old wives story,” he said, smiling coyly.  Then he minced like a woman on high heels down the platform towards the exit, swaying his hips like the waiters at the Haymarket Coffee House and swinging his suitcase.  The train started up again with the raincoat man at the window.  Bobby grinned and gave him a wave and a wiggle.

            The Bedford Hotel was in the centre of the town, only a short walk from the station. It looked like an old abbey, with ivy covered stone towers framing the entrance.

            At the reception desk, he was given directions to his room, which was in one of the towers.  Sweating profusely he dragged his case up several flights of stairs.  In earlier times, his attic room might have served as servant’s quarters, or a place for monks to do penance. The room was small, cold, damp, and sparsely furnished. He flopped down on the bed; it was hard, and creaked, but was the price of freedom from Millie, and the restrictions of living at home.

            The portly Chef Appleford lived up to his name.  He was an outspoken man, with cheeks like rosy Devonshire apples, and a broad accent to match.  He would laugh long and loud at his own jokes, but soon made it clear that he thought Bobby was too young to be a Sous chef.  Appleford’s preference was for Albert, the other cook, a pale, skinny, diabetic, who was prone to having blackouts.  During the first week Chef Appleford made it very clear that he resented having head office thrust this young inexperienced boy onto him. Bobby quickly learned his duties as the morning cook, which were mainly breakfast and prep for lunch.  Albert worked a split shift, helping Bobby in the mornings, taking an afternoon break, and helping Appleford on the dinner shift. Bobby settled into a routine that left him free after three o’clock to spend the rest of the day exploring the local countryside.

            He took long walks on the vast tract of barren land that was Dartmoor,  imagining himself as Sherlock Holmes on the track of  The Hound of the Baskervilles.  The moor was home to  Britain’s most notorious prison, where they incarcerated murderers and he spent a few sleepless nights imagining them escaping and taking over the hotel. He wondered what it was like inside the forbidding stone walls of a prison that he had only seen on newsreels at the pictures with Beryl.

            “Have you ever been inside the prison?” he asked Appleford one day.

            The chef gave him a shocked look. “What do yer mean?  Of course I’ve never been to prison.  What sort of daft question is that to ask, boy?”  He always called Bobby ‘Boy’.

            “I … I …didn’t … mean it that way,” stammered Bobby, suddenly feeling stupid.  “I … I only meant if you had seen inside it … you know … as a visitor.”

            “Well lordy me,” Appleford shook his head.  “I would hope not.  Scum of the earth are inside there, that’s for sure.  Now my boy,” he grunted. “Let’s have no more stupidity out of you today.”  He began hacking at a side of beef like a mad axe-man.  “Here, hold onto the leg and do something useful.”

            On one of his scouting expeditions into the village, Bobby struck gold by discovering a shop that sold record players and records.  He was drawn to it by a bound limited edition of eight twelve inch long playing Glen Miller recordings that sat in the window. He had left his old record player at home, figuring that with his new found wealth, he would be able to buy a brand new one in Devon. He looked around the shop, asking the prices of the players, they were the latest modern machines with three speeds. Some had real diamond styluses, and light weight, balanced arms, and were all expensive.  He decided to wait until he went to Plymouth; the city was bound to have better prices and selection.

            He checked out the Glen Miller album, and the moment that he turned the pages he knew it was meant for him. They were recordings of the wartime radio shows and all the biggest hits, all for only twenty pounds.       

            “Could you put it away for me?” he asked the shopkeeper fumbling for his purse. “I can put a deposit on it, is two pound enough?”  He agreed to pay the balance in six weeks.  By that time he would have saved enough to put a deposit on a record player in Plymouth too.  He walked out of the shop as pleased as punch.  What a great feeling it was to have your own money.  Since the job provided room and board, his wages were virtually spending money. 

            He recalled his Dads words when seeing him off in London.  “Try to put ten percent of what you earn each week in the bank. It’s only ten shillings, and you won’t miss it.”

            Bobby ran upstairs to his room. There would be plenty of time to save up, he had his whole life in front of him, but Glen Miller and a new record player couldn’t wait

            In July, one of the hotel porters came into the kitchen. “There’s someone to see you up at the desk, Bob” he said, picking up one of the left over breakfast sausages.  “Gotta bit of bread?”   While the porter made himself a snack, Bobby took a short cut through the restaurant to the desk.

            “Hello my old mate!”  Standing at the front desk was his Uncle, probably the last person Bobby expected to see out here in Tavistock. “How’s it going mate?” He led Bobby to the front door.  “I got the kids in the car; we’re having a bit of a holiday.” 

As he spoke, Bobby’s cousins spilled out of the car, waving and yelling.  After lunch they stopped by again before heading on to the coast.

“I promised Chick we’d look in and see you were all right, here’s some letters for you.”   He thrust a bundle of letters into Bobby’s hand. Later, Bobby stood outside the hotel watching them leave, and sorting through the bundle of letters.  One was his membership card from the James Dean Fan Club, containing a picture of the star. 

He opened a brown envelope bearing the crest of Her Majesty’s Service.  Oh boy, he thought, a letter from the Queen. Maybe Princess Margaret waited for me after all. He tore it open, eager to read the contents. 

            He was to present himself at a military barracks, presenting this letter to …’register for National Service under the 1940  Compulsory Conscription Act, failure to do so without just cause would be contrary to the said Act, and would lead to a prison sentence to be served at Her Majesty’s pleasure.’

            Blimey, thought Bobby, they caught up with me, I’ll end up in Dartmoor yet. He ran his fingers through his five shilling “James Dean” hair cut.  It looked like the government was going to be giving a short back and sides to his newly found freedom.

On his day off he took the train to Plymouth and stood on the cliffs where Sir Francis Drake had been playing bowls when he spied the Spanish Armada, then he set off to explore the town.  He saw a clarinet in the window of a pawnbroker shop and toyed with the idea of buying it like Benny Goodman did in the film. He even went inside and asked to hold it imagining playing it at Carnegie Hall, but settled instead for a record player at half the price of the one in Tavistock.

When walking through the town, he checked out the bombed Cathedral left as a monument to the war. His heart leaped when he turned a corner and spotted the queer fat man in the raincoat that he had encountered on the train, walking towards him. He slipped into a bookshop, pretending to look at a novel and sweating bullets as the man paused at the window, peered in, and stepped into the shop.  Bobby jumped out of sight behind a freestanding book shelf. When the old man was on the other side, he slipped out of the shop and beat a hasty retreat up the street.

Before returning to Tavistock, Bobby stopped in at the Plymouth Army Barracks, not knowing what would happen; perhaps they would grab him, shave his head, give him a gun and pack him off to Kenya to fight the Mau-Mau rebels, or to Rhodesia, where trouble was also brewing.  To his great relief, he was handed a sheaf of forms to fill in and instructed to send them away to register for National Service.

Within a month he had saved enough for the record set, and was playing it up in his room on his newly acquired player, until the kitchen porter who slept in the room next door banged on the wall.

 “Here, turn it down a bit mate, I gotta get up in the morning!”  It reminded him of Millie.

Outside, the summer sun was giving way to autumn rain.  The days were getting shorter and the business at the hotel had dropped to a trickle.  Nothing much was happening in the small country town, and Bobby felt bored.  He borrowed cookbooks from the local library, especially one by Jean Conil, all about classic French cooking.  He thought about Les at the United University Club, and Chef Bulot’s advice before he left.  He compared the fancy work that he had been doing there, decorating cold pieces in Peter’s larder, and creating fancy sauces with Bert, with the simple everyday cooking that he was doing at the Bedford Hotel. Although he was making more money, he wasn’t doing anything that would look good on his resume.

Where could he work that would look good on his resume?  There were some pretty fancy hotels in London, the Savoy on The Strand, the Dorchester  on Park Lane, and that one Jean Conil was always writing about, the one where that famous Chef Escoffier worked in the old days … where was it?   He looked up the cookbook again, Yes, the Ritz Hotel on Piccadilly, that was a real classy place. 

Rain drops pattered on his window as he looked out over Dartmoor stretching away into the mist.  His relationship with Chef Appleford had been degenerating over the summer, as the chef increasingly favoured Albert, giving him all the fancy jobs. Bobby felt like Cinderella, always doing the cleaning up after them.

He lay in his lumpy, creaky bed listening to a toned down Glen Miller playing ‘Little Brown Jug’, and worked out a plan.  He would give Appleford two weeks notice, and return home. He could tell his dad that it had only been a summer job, and that he was going to work in London, and make a name for himself at a big hotel. Besides, the army could call him up any day for two years service.  With a bit of luck Beryl would still be available for a bit of slap and tickle in the back of the cinema.  The thought of Beryl made him hard, as he rocked himself to sleep to the rhythm of ‘Pennsylvania 6-5000’.

During his last two weeks at the hotel, Appleford promoted Albert to Sous Chef, telling Bobby that he didn’t have to stay the two weeks notice, but he did anyway, spending his spare time exploring the town and taking walks on Dartmoor.  The last week it teemed with rain every day, and by the end of it, Bobby was happy to board the train that would take him back to London and the chance of working in a classy place.

Time For a Change – Again!

      In1957, the papers were full of Britain’s war with Egypt about the Suez Canal and Harold Macmillan taking over from Sir Anthony Eden as Prime minister.  The ruling upper classes were retaining their stranglehold on the working people of Britain.

      It was March and London was cold and damp. Bobby sat upstairs on the bus to work, smoking a cheap Woodbine cigarette and reading. He thought about getting the underground at Hammersmith and there would be time for a quick coffee at the Coffee House and to chat up the queer waiters.

      Elvis was top of the pops again with ‘Hound Dog’ competing with Buddy Holly. Mike Todd had a new picture and was marrying Elizabeth Taylor.  Lucky devil, thought Bobby.  He had his hat set on Princess Margaret, if she would wait for him to grow up a bit.  He checked out the other films. Charlton Heston in Ten Commandments’ was in its tenth London week, and ‘Bridge on the River Kwai’ would be showing at the local picture house.

      Russia had invaded Hungary and sent a dog into space.  “Journey into space”, murmured Bobby, thinking of his favourite radio show.  “One day they’ll put a man on the moon.”

      He enjoyed spring; the feeling of renewal fitted his mood perfectly. He was getting itchy feet in spite of changing jobs twice in the last two years, He felt himself getting into moving mode again. Also he needed more money to support his record collecting habit. Today, he had big plans for his afternoon in the city. 

      Things were not too good at home any more. His dad and Millie were constantly quarrelling, and a lot of it seemed to be about the kids, Millie protecting Sylvia, and his Dad standing up for him. The arguments and pregnant silences whenever he went into the room drove him mad. Did they think he was deaf or stupid?  The walls were so thin; Bobby figured the whole block of flats heard their fights. It just wasn’t turning out to be the happy family that they had anticipated, when they married in London, with the smelly incense and ringing bells. Whenever Millie came near him, she muttered things under her breath. He felt that she hated him, blaming him for her unhappiness.

      “Don’t worry yourself,” his dad explained when he mentioned it. “She’s feeling poorly.  She’s a good woman really, you won’t find better.” 

      He was paying seven shillings and six pence a week towards the housekeeping at home, which left him twelve and sixpence.  After fares to and from work, a night at the pictures with Beryl, and cigarettes – he was now up to ten a day – there was little left for records, and he had to buy his own clothes now too.  The extra ten bob on Sundays helped a bit, although he missed having Sunday dinner with the family. 

        Dad always thinks the best of everyone, thought Bobby, jumping down the stairs of the bus and heading for the underground station. Perhaps they will get on better if I clear off for a while.

      Les had told him about cruise ships, and the fantastic food they served.

“Since there’s no way to spend your money, you could save up loads in a job like that,” he said.  Les had sailed to foreign parts, and he enjoyed telling tales of his adventures. Bobby’s appetite for travel had been whetted.

      That afternoon, he went to the head offices of the P and O Lines in Leadenhall Street, it was a large stone building set deep in the heart of the old city.  A doorman in top hat and fancy uniform opened the door, and Bobby entered a massive lobby.  He felt intimidated, standing there with posh men and women milling around him.  There was a strong whiff of cigar smoke like in the club, and he was half a mind to forget the idea and beat a hasty retreat.  But he wanted a job on a fancy liner; he needed to get the latest swing records.  His courage didn’t fail him, but he wished that Les was there with him, he would know what to do. 

      He walked over the shiny tiled floor feeling quite small.  To the left were lifts that went to the upstairs offices.  On the right was a polished wood and stone reception desk, like the one at the club, but bigger.  And from behind the counter came the clatter of typewriters from three or four desks.

      He approached the counter, and a red headed woman wearing fancy framed glasses looked up from a desk.  She was about Mary’s age, Bobby guessed.

      “Can I help you young man?”  Her voice had an upper class accent.

      “I … I … er … c…c…,” stuttered Bobby. He was stuck on the C’s again, his old stutter had returned.  He felt the word ‘came’ snag on his tonsils, expanding until it filled his entire throat, blocking his air passage. He wanted to make a good impression as he was applying for a job, so he changed his words to ones that he could pronounce.

      “I would like a job application please.”  The words came tumbling out, falling over each other and landing on the counter between them.

      The red head gave a patronising smile. How Bobby hated it when people did that.  It was just a stutter, he wasn’t a cripple.  He was learning to overcome it, getting better every day.  Her perfume wafted to him as she leaned forward.  It was the same as Mary’s and he relaxed.

      “What type of work are you looking for?” she asked, adjusting her glasses.

      “Er, in the food production,” said Bobby, avoiding the ‘cooking’ word. “I’m seventeen, and have some experience in preparation,” he added, avoiding the ‘kitchen’ word.

      She took a form from a pile on the shelf next to her.

      “There is quite a waiting list for cooks I’m afraid.  You see, they sign on again for another trip as soon as they dock.  You would have to join the seaman’s union too.  There is rarely a galley vacancy.”  She smiled, this time it was warmer as if she had sized him up and liked him.  “You might have better luck as a bus boy; it’s the way a lot of young men begin with the line.”  

      She handed Bobby the form, indicating the address along the bottom.  It was some place in Southampton. “Fill it out, and send it with a resume to this address. It’ll probably take a while, as they get many applications.”  She smiled again.  “Good luck I hope you get hired.”

      She returned to her desk, giving him a last look over the top of her glasses. Ooh, thought Bobby, maybe she fancies me.  He gave his best smile and thanked her, folding the paper and pocketing it.  When the doorman opened the door he felt grand walking out onto Leadenhall Street again.  He fantasised about the red-headed receptionist, and by the time that he reached the underground station, he’d already had her in three different positions.  At the newsagent stall he bought a copy of the Hotel and Catering magazine, a weekly publication whose classified section was an unofficial labour exchange for catering staff.

      At the club, Bobby showed Les the form. There was a section on it for previous jobs.  He already had three jobs to put down in less than two years.

      “That’s dicey,” said Les. “They don’t like people who change their jobs often.  Just put the club down, with me as your supervisor.  If they ring me up, I’ll tell ‘em you’ve been here for two years.  I wouldn’t even mention Joe Lyons or that Conil bloke.”

      “I don’t know Les, a bus boy’s a bit of a dead end job?  I mean, I’ve worked with a top chef, and for one of the biggest catering companies in the country.  I want to be a chef one day. Being a waiter’s helper isn’t that great, is it?”

      “Well, please yourself, Bobby.”  Les scratched his bristly chin.  “I still think you’d be better off staying here.  I know the money ain’t so good yet, but it’ll get better in time.”

      At that moment Bert came into the kitchen from the still room, adjusting his apron.  He called Bobby over to the sauce section, and gave him a list of vegetables he wanted prepared.  Bobby noticed another red smear under Bert’s chin, and daydreamed about how it got there while he peeled the onions and carrots.

      On the train home, Bobby pored over the job listings in the magazine.  There were pages of them, from all over the country.  A few caught his fancy; one was for Trust Houses, a company that operated historic inns.  It was looking for a ‘Second Chef’ for The Bedford hotel in Tavistock, Devon.  The job included room and board, and paid five pounds a week.

      That night in his bedroom, he wrote out a letter applying for the job, and addressed it to their head office in London. He borrowed a stamp from his Dad’s desk the following morning and posted it outside Skinner’s Newsagents, where he bought a paper and ten cigarettes.  He didn’t think that he stood much chance, Les was probably right; they would want somebody with more experience than he had.

      Every morning Bobby was up when the postman arrived, checking the letters on the door mat to see if there was one for him. 

      Three weeks later, a letter from Devon, it was from the Bedford Hotel, a Trust Houses Company.  They had received notification from their head office, and were pleased to offer him a Second Chef position with a remuneration of five pounds per week, all found. His head swam with dreams of all the records that he could buy with such a princely sum.

      With his heart in his mouth, Bobby handed Chef Bulot a weeks notice.

      “You really should spend some time learning your craft,” said Henri, laying his note on his desk.  “I know that you don’t earn good money right now, but you’re still building your skills and knowledge.”  He stroked his pencil thin moustache. “You’re young enough to afford the time to learn.  Before long, some girl will come along, you’ll put her in the pudding club … and that’s when you’ll need big money. Right now you need to learn your craft Bobby; the big money will come, believe me.  Don’t be in such a hurry to get rich, think about it some more, and let me know tomorrow what you decide.”

      Bobby thought about the five pounds a week. That would be a long player each week if he wanted and some new clothes.  Les had awakened his adventurous spirit, with all the talk about ships and foreign ports.  Now he wanted to travel, even if he only explored England.

      Most of all, he just wanted some peace. Away from the arguing and the “Turn the music down Bobby”, “Hands on the dinner table, no elbows, sit up straight.”  “When are you going to learn to make tea?”  “Finish your ice cream; we’re late for church.” It swirled around in his head like a tornado. He had to get away for a while. 

      A week later he took the District Line to London for the last time.  He was free, and he felt exhilarated.  Ahead of him lay a future in Devon, a place that he had only read about.  Tavistock wasn’t by the sea; it was on the edge of Dartmoor, a mysterious stretch of barren land that housed the infamous prison, where they sent the worst criminals.  One afternoon, he visited the library and looked up the history of Tavistock.

      In 961 AD, the Earl of Devon built a Benedictine Abbey in what was now the centre of town.  It was looted, destroyed and rebuilt and eventually prospered under Henry 1, and Tavistock became a market town. By 1525, the abbey established one of the first printing presses, and in 1539, Henry V111 gave it to the Bedford family. The Bedford Hotel still incorporated some of the ancient stonework in its construction.

      It sounds like a great place thought Bobby, and only 15 miles from Plymouth and the seaside.  It had everything, and he couldn’t wait to pack his bags.

      That weekend he took Beryl to see Bridge on the River Kwai. Walking her from the bus stop to her home, they crossed a field, stopping as usual in the alley, for a good moist necking session to finish off the evening. It had become a ritual.  He slipped his hand under her sweater, and mentioned Tavistock and the job offer to her.

      “Oh Bob,” she gasped as he fondled and fumbled. “You’re not going there, are you?” 

      He pressed against her, and reaching behind, to gently loosen her bra. “It’s only an offer,” he said “I just need to get away from home for a bit.” He pushed away her blond hair, and kissed her neck. “Besides, it would look good on my resume.  Just think, a second chef, and I’m only 18.”  He eased away in case she felt his bulge, it always gave her ideas.  She had acne but wasn’t bad looking, especially in the back seat of a darkened cinema.  All of his old school mates had good looking  trophy girls hanging on their arms.

      “When are you going?’ she asked. “Can we do it before you go?” she pleaded.  You know, a sort of bonding” She placed her arms around his waist and hugged him.

      He was sorely tempted whenever she talked about doing it.  Thoughts of Billy Graham would pop up in his head and dampen his ardour.  He had not yet done it, although most of his friends had tried it out.  Some said it was great, but others didn’t think that it was all it was cracked up to be.  Others preferred fooling around and fantasizing about the girls in ‘Photo Play’ magazine.

        His friend Melvin told him about he and another boy, practising sex  by taking turns to leap out each other from the bushes  in the recreation ground like crazed sex maniacs, and dry humping each other.  Everything was fine until until big, red faced Old Ben the groundsman who could tell you the time by looking at the sun,  threatened to set the police on them.  “Git ahta here you young buggers.” he shouted.  “We’ll ave nunothat ere!”  Growing up a virgin was tough.

      “So when Bob?” she insisted.  “We can we do it, in the tall grass on the river bank, or when my mum goes away on visits; we could do it at home.”

      “I don’t think that we should do it unless we are married,” he said.  He had stomach cramps from being hard for so long.  “Let’s wait a bit longer, I mean, some blokes don’t rate it that much…” He remembered the lurid posters in the public toilets, warning about the dangers of venereal diseases.  “Besides, what if you got pregnant?  It’s pretty dangerous, and besides, you are such a great cuddle.”  If I don’t stop now, he thought, I am going to have an accident right here in the alleyway.  He gave her a final hug before pulling her bra back down over her breasts.  They tucked in their clothes, and walked down the rest of the way to her house.

      On the bus, Bobby thought about his move to Devon.  He was excited about it, but he had lacked the moral courage to tell her that he was leaving on Monday.  I don’t want to hurt her feelings, he thought, mentally lying to himself as the bus pulled in at the Station Hotel.  His trousers were damp after their hot and heavy cuddle, so he got off and walked the rest of the way home.

Bobby Joins the Club

            Jean Conil divided a lot of his time between advertising engagements for Bovril, writing cookbooks and the Academy of Chef de Cuisine, an organisation that he founded to promote the work and reputations of professional chefs.  Bobby felt proud when Jean proposed and seconded his membership, presenting him with a diploma which he framed and hung in his bedroom. 

            When I am famous, he thought, I’ll hang it in my own restaurant.

            The Academy meetings were held in a member’s restaurant just off of Piccadilly Circus.  Bobby practised writing by publishing a duplicated Academy magazine.  It was his first writing and publishing venture, an ambition that dogged him all of his life.

            He wrote the articles, typed them onto wax backed Gestetner stencils and ran off copies on an ancient duplicating machine; the forerunner to today’s photocopiers.  Stapling the pages together, he created a magazine which he distributed to the members.

            The Karma in life often hints at possible futures.  Bobby’s head was full of grandiose plans to become a famous chef, otherwise he might have concentrated on writing and publishing and the path of his life would have changed.

            “If I want to write about food and cooking, I first need to know how to cook,” he reminded himself, setting his priorities.

            One day, Conil took him to one side. “Bobby,” he said fixing him with the look that had launched a thousand jars of Bovril. “You need to move on to a higher place than my little restaurant, you need to get experience in truly fine food.”

            He explained that he had arranged with his friend, Chef Henri Bulot, for Bobby to work at the United University Club, situated a stone’s throw from Trafalgar Square and Nelson’s column.  In this well established gentleman’s club in the heart of London’s theatre land, Bobby would learn about fine cuisine, and gourmet cooking.

            “In this profession you constantly reach plateau’s from which you must move on,” he counselled.  “Seek always to widen your experience.” Thus Bobby’s life changed once again.  

             Henri Bulot was a short dapper Frenchman, with a pencil line moustache. He looked Bobby up and down, as they sat in his office.

            “So,” he said, his rich resonant voice had hardly a trace of an accent. “You want to be a chef, eh?”  He leaned back in his chair.  “You realise that this business isn’t child’s play, eh?  It is hard work with long hours and no social life.”  He rubbed his chin with the palm of his hand, using swift, nervous strokes.  “Do you think that you have what it takes to be a chef, eh?  Jean tells me good things about you, so, as a favour to him, we will give it a try.” 

            He took the spoon that dangled from his neck on a silver chain, and polished it with a cloth.  His sudden quick movements put Bobby in mind of a short spunky, Jack Russell terrier.  Henri suddenly sprang from the chair, and threw open the door.  “Come on,” he barked. “I’ll introduce you to the rest of the brigade.” He turned, striding down the hallway to the kitchen. Bobby had to jog to keep up.  In a whirlwind introduction, Bulot introduced him to each of the cooks.

            He waved to man in his mid forties dressed in a long apron under which protruded a generous beer belly. He stood stirring a pot of soup.

            “Bert, is the saucier, and Sous chef.” Bulot dipped his spoon into the pot, and sucked on it noisily, his head thrown back as if sampling nectar of the Gods.  “No, don’t tell me Bert …” He smacked his lips.  “Oxtail … is that right?   Just a soupcon more French mustard and it will be perfect!”

            Bobby followed him to the other side of the kitchen, where a squat man with lank black hair  and jowls dark with five-o’clock-shadow, was beating a stream of melted butter into egg yolks in a copper bowl set over a double boiler.    Sweat gathered above his dark, bushy eyebrows, and ran down his nose. 

            “Les,” said Chef Bulot, “Our fish cook. Steady as she goes Les; keep the butter going slowly as she thickens, then, at the pissalogical moment, in goes the reduction eh?”  He gestured grandiosely to a bubbling pan of vinegar and herbs, and turned to Bobby.  “Hollandaise sauce,” he said by way of explanation.

            In the cold larder section, Bulot introduced him to Peter, a robust man in his early thirties, with slicked back fair hair, and large muscular hands.  “Our Gardemanger, he prepares the cold buffets, and butchers the meats.”  He waved towards a tall spindly woman with her hair tied back into a scarf. “Phyllis here attends to the salads. You will start off in here until you get your feet wet, then you can try your luck in the main kitchen. Eh?  Bring your whites. I’ll show you the dressing room.”

            On the way he introduced Alf, an older, balding man with permanent bristles on his chin and fat in all the wrong places.  He peered at Bobby through coke bottle lens glasses, and was obviously in a foul mood. Chef Bulot wasted little time.  “Alf is the vegetable cook,” he said, adding “A tad temperamental.” He stepped quickly aside as Alf threw a saucepan clattering into the sink, cursing that he had narrowly missed them.

            Bobby spent a week in the larder, and then transferred to the main kitchen, to work alongside Bert. He worked a split shift, and sometimes during the afternoon he went to Soho, but it was not as much fun without Mary.  He tramped the streets, dodging between the barrows and ogling the prostitutes standing in the doorways, hoping to get a glimpse of Mary or Suzie, but he never saw them again.

            Often he hung around in the kitchen during the afternoon.  Les would tell him stories of the old days, and explain how to cook fish. Les loved to gossip about Bert and the still room maid.  One day, when Bert disappeared into the still room with an order for afternoon tea and pastries, they heard Betty, the attractive maid shriek with laughter.  Later Bert returned with lipstick around his mouth and adjusting his apron.  Les gave Bobby a nod and a wink

            Along the hall leading to and from the staff entrance, was the silver room. A couple of men worked in there with a large revolving contraption, keeping the club’s silver polished. The face of the younger one was permanently flushed from sipping on the mentholated spirits they used for cleaning.  He explained to Bobby how the barrel,  filled with steel ball bearings revolved, polishing the silverware inside. He gave an alcoholic burp. 

            “So that’s how it’s done, eh General.”  He nodded towards the other man who was polishing a platter, and smoking a cigar stub.  “He used to be a general in the Polish army,” he confided.  “A real big shot, now look at him, picking up the cigar buts from those rich  bastards upstairs, and knocking back all my meths.  Don’t know what the world’s come to since the war.”  The stink of spirits exuded from every pore in the man’s skin.  As Bobby was leaving, Chef Bulot, came bustling through the staff entrance.

            “Stay away from the mentholated spirits Geordie, It’ll kill you for sure,” he barked.  “Come to my office Bobby, if you want to make some extra money.”

            Bobby had been bucking for a raise for some time now.  After seeing The Benny Goodman Story, at the Gaumont Cinema, he came away with his head vibrating to the syncopated beat of Gene Krupa’s drums, Lionel Hampton’s vibraphone, and Teddy Wilson’s piano.  He really wanted to buy the long playing soundtrack record but it cost over a pound; a weeks wages.  It would take forever to save for it.  He needed that raise.

            “I might be able to squeeze another half a crown a week from the board of governors,” Chef Bulot explained.  Bobby sighed inwardly.  Even if Millie didn’t increase his share of the housekeeping and let him save his entire raise, it would take at least two months to get the record.

            “But if you’re interested, there’s a little Sunday job coming up.” Chef Bulot went on to explain that the club needed somebody to man the desk on Sundays when the club was closed.  It involved the simple task of going on a security check with the key clock.  “If you’re interested, it would pay ten shillings each Sunday.  A bit of extra cash for you,” he concluded.

            Bobby jumped at the idea.  With visions of an LP every two weeks running through his mind, he made his way to Piccadilly station to get the train home.  Walking up the Haymarket, he stopped off at The Coffee House, hoping to see a celebrity in there from the nearby Haymarket theatre.  The coffee shop featured a coloured plate glass fountain in the centre, over which water dribbled and sprayed.  In the corner, a man played the piano, but the biggest attractions for Bobby were the queer waiters.  Half of them, wearing make-up and looking better than most of the women standing in shop doorways in Soho. 

            His favourite was Myrna, who wore immaculate make-up, had painted finger nails and long blonde curly hair. He/she walked with a really sexy wiggle. 

            “Bunch of powder puffs, Bobby,” said his grandfather, when he told him about them.  “You just stay away from ‘em, and if you drop a sixpenny bit, don’t go bendin’ down to pick it up.”  Bobby was not quite sure what he meant by that.  After all, sixpence would buy him a couple of rolls of Spangles fruit drops or a bar of chocolate.

            He sat sipping his coffee and looking around for celebrities.  Les had told him that some of the waiters were actors in between jobs.  Some were female impersonators, like Danny LaRue, and the dames in pantomimes.  Grandpa always had a good laugh when LaRue was on Sunday Night at the London Palladium, which was his favourite TV show since they got the telly.  He could see how they could be mistaken for women, especially the ones with falsies up front.  But who would want to take a bloke to the pictures, when they could get a real girl with real knockers in the back seat, for a bit of slap and tickle?

            The following Sunday, Bobby began his security job at the club.  Bill the waiter was there to show him the ropes.

            “Dead cushy little number, Bob,” Bill said, showing him the reception desk next to the front door.  “First you need this.”  He handed Bobby a heavy round leather bag, about the size of an alarm clock.  There was a padlock on the front, so that whatever was inside couldn’t be removed.  “This is a recording clock.  Here, follow me around, I’ll show you how it works.”  He led Bobby down a passage, stopping at a box on the wall. He flipped it open and took out a key on a chain.  “See this key hole on the front of the bag?  You just inserts the key and you turns it, like opening a door.  That records the time on a paper slip inside.” He replaced the key to the box and closed it.  “Simple! There’s a dozen of these keys around the place, and your job is to use them every couple of hours. Proves you’ve done your rounds. See?  The rest of the time you can grab forty winks if you like.  Money for old rope! Bring a book with you, did you?”

            Bill led him around the club, letting him use the keys at all the boxes.

            “Easy bit of cash,” he said when they returned to the reception desk.  “The only other thing you have to do is answer the phone if it rings, and let any members in.  Sometimes the members stay overnight at weekends.”  He winked, “you know, a night away from the old lady.”  He opened the front door.  “Well, I’m off, make sure the door is locked behind me.” 

            Bobby settled behind the reception, glad that he had bought a couple of papers at the station.  The Sunday Times had a new colour magazine section and featured a cooking article by Robert Carrier.  One day I’ll write food articles like Carrier and Conil, thought Bobby, leafing through it.  The News of the World had some juicy real life stories of forbidden sex.  Some were a bit far fetched, incest, queer sex, and wife swapping, but it was all  a good read.  There were also sexy pictures of women, with bare chests.  This week’s pin-up was Sabrina in a tight sweater. It reminded him of the girl in the pastry department at the Corner House.  She had a pointy pair of ‘Bristol Cities’, as Bert called womens chests, and they really stuck out.  She always stole the show in the Arthur Askey show on telly when she walked on.

            The Sunday Times was more serious.  Russian Nikita Khrushchev and Prime Minister Bulganin were visiting Britain.  Khrushchev seemed jolly, always smiling and talking about how good things were in Russia since Stalin was gone.   In the ‘News’ there was a story about Buster Crabb, a British spy who had been knocked off by the Russians.   There was a picture of a government minister, denying any knowledge of Buster and blaming the media for stirring things up.  Also there was a story about that trouble that might be brewing over the Suez Canal, with Egypt’s President Nasser.

            Bobby checked the top twenty records. Elvis’s ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ was still number one. He had heard it a few times on the juke box in the local coffee bar, but would never buy the record.  Rock and roll’s okay, he thought, but it’ll never replace jazz.  ‘The Glen Miller Story’ was on at the Odeon next week, definitely not to be missed.  He got up and did his rounds with the punch clock again.  The place seemed pretty deserted on Sundays.

            He had a good snoop around to see how the upper class lived.  It was all lush carpets, mahogany panelling, and rich, heavy drapes.  He peered into the library, its walls were lined with books from ceiling to floor.  Upstairs were the sleeping rooms.  Down the hallway was the restaurant, with its built-in buffet.  The tables were laid with shining glasses and silver.  He thought about ‘Geordie’ downstairs in the bowels of the club, polishing all that silver and his mate the Polish General, smoking all the rich man’s cigar ‘dog-ends’. 

            The halls were hung with oil paintings of past members, and race horses.    In the lounge, high-backed leather armchairs clustered around two fireplaces, a couple of balding members sat dozing behind their newspapers.  This was an old man’s place.  No flowers, no female touches, even the servants were men.  It smelled of old cigar smoke, and brandy, the accoutrements of the privileged upper class.

            He returned to the reception cubicle, and scanned the paper again.  The picture of Sabrina made his loins stir.  Then the front door creaked open, and two men entered.  One of them had a member’s key, which he removed and pocketed.  It was the same bloke whose picture he had seen in the Buster Crabb story, a government minister.  But the other man caught Bobby’s attention.  It was Myrna, the waiter from the Coffee House, looking like Sabrina, without ‘Bristols’.   They walked swiftly past the desk, and along the hallway.  Bobby watched them ascend the staircase to the member’s sleeping rooms.

            Wow, thought Bobby, going back to the News of the World, this stuff is not so far fetched after all.  He wondered what old Anthony Eden would make of a queer minister.

A Five Pack of Trouble

The spring of 1956 was a wet one.  The rain always depressed Bobby, and it seemed to him that it had rained every day for a month.  He had been working at the Strand Corner House for only six months, and already he felt in a rut.  He had begun attending one day a week at Westminster College, which at least broke the monotony of work. The other bright spot in his week was the day he worked with Mary up in the salad department. Otherwise, his days merged into one long round of rolling croquette potatoes, turning roast potatoes, and operating the giant, clanking, potato cutting machine, that spewed out diced potatoes by the ton for potato salad.

It was Saturday, and while waiting for a bus, Bobby slipped across the road to old man Skinner’s newsagent shop.  He looked inside to see who was behind the counter, and sighed with relief when he saw that it was Alice, she was okay.  Skinner was in the back sorting out magazines on the far counter.  On the shelves behind the counter were packets of cigarettes, and boxes of packaged sweets.  He would have liked a roll of Spangles, but that was not what he was here for today. This was the day after pay day, and he felt rich

 He slid a shilling across the counter towards her. “Packet of five Woodbines and a Daily Sketch please, Alice,” he said in as deep a voice as he could muster.  He picked the paper up from the pile on the counter.

She smiled.  “I suppose that you would like matches too, dai?” she said in her funny sing song Welsh dialect.

He nodded, and stuffed the cigarettes and box of matches into his pocket as she took the money.  She gave him a penny change which he pocketed, and sauntered out of the shop with his best Robert Mitchum swagger, the rolled up paper under his arm slung low, like a rifle.

This was his first cigarette. Smoking was a grown up thing, and at sixteen he was anxious to learn how to do it without embarrassing himself by coughing up his lungs or passing out from the buzz it was supposed to give you.  He chose the staff changing rooms at the Corner House to conduct his first experiments in adulthood.  So it was that deep in the bowels of the building, Bobby experienced his first cigarette, and started an addiction that would grip him for forty years or more of his life, and nearly kill him into the bargain.              

He had seen people doing it in the cinema, while watching Humphrey Bogart on the big screen with one hanging from the corner of his mouth and being surrounded by beautiful women. There was something sexy and forbidden about smoking, smokers always seemed to get the bad girls, and they were more fun.

 He sat on the cold wooden toilet seat, in the isolation of the stall, his trousers and underpants around his ankles.  He imagined himself being surrounded by beautiful women like Mary or that girl in the pastry department with what his American buddy called,  the big cream puffs. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out the packet of Woodbines.  Licking his lips with anticipation, he took one from the packet, and held it under his nose.  It smelt sweet, like Mary’s perfume.  For a minute or so, he sat revelling in the fragrance. 

Then he took a match, and struck it down the side of the box.  Little bits of sulphur flew off, burning his bare legs as the match flared into life.  Putting the cigarette between his lips, he lit it, taking little puffs and blowing them out, until he was sure it was alight.  The cigarette was dry from being in his hot pocket, and it flared up between his fingers before settling to a red glow. The taste was nothing like the fragrance, it was harsh and dry.  He tried letting the cigarette hang from the corner of his mouth, like the hooded eyed Robert Mitchum did in the pictures, but the smoke curled up and into his eyes, causing them to sting and water.  Some of the smoke got into his nostrils, and snot began dripping from his nose. He attempted to take the cigarette from his mouth between his fingers, but the paper stuck to his lip, and his fingers slid along the cylinder of tobacco, catching the smouldering end between them.

“Agh,” he gasped shaking his burned fingers free of the burning tobacco. It dropped onto his bare thigh making him jump up. “Bloody hell!” he muttered as he brushed it onto the floor.  It lodged in his underpants. This was definitely not a Robert Mitchum moment.   He pulled out the cigarette and with it came a bit of skin from his lips.  “Bugger,” he exclaimed, licking his damaged lip, glad that he was doing this in private. 

Licking his sore lip, he made it wet, sucking and licking the end of the cigarette as he had seen his grandfather do, before putting it back into his mouth. Now it was a soggy mass and he was unable to draw air through it.  For a while, he let it hang from his lips, practising the Mitchum look.  Then he broke off the soggy end and attempted to relight it. The smoke curled into his mouth as he held it between his lips and breathed, it was acrid and bitter, causing him to cough. 

This is not how it is supposed to happen, he thought, sitting with the burning cigarette between his fingers, his backside wedged into the toilet seat and inhaling the smoke as it curled around him.  When he did his business, he was splashed by cold water. In his mind, he imagined sitting on the sofa with his arm around the girl from the pastry department.  Smoking was something that grown-ups did to get the sexy girls, he thought, putting the cigarette between his lips, and filled his mouth with smoke. He let it out almost at once, coughing and choking as the smoke dried his throat, and went up his nose. This was not sexy at all, but with all the energy of a young buck aching to grow up fast, he was determined to learn to smoke and keep his lungs intact.  Oh, the innocence of youth. 

He tried again and again, this time inhaling the smoke a little at a time. He felt the bite in his throat and warmth in his chest as it flowed into his lungs.  Again he was seized with a fit of coughing; again he sucked in the smoke, holding the cigarette as he had seen a hundred times at the pictures.

He began to feel light headed as the nicotine circulated into his blood stream.  Once more he was back on the sofa with his girl, arm around her shoulders and sucking on his cigarette.  He imagined the warmth of her body.  He imagined her sweet perfume, and the swell of her bust against him.  Down below, Bobby felt a stirring in his loins. Yes, it was sexy to smoke.  He saw the adoration he sought and imagined kissing her lips.

 He felt his aroused member pressed against the rim of the toilet seat, seeking release. With one hand holding the burning cigarette, he lifted his firmness clear of the seat with his free hand. For a while he sat there smoking and fantasising.  Ashes fell upon his bare legs as he lived out an entire seduction scenario in his mind.

 Then he became aware of two sensations, a sticky wetness in one hand, and the burning between the fingers of the other.  They dragged him back into reality.  He felt nauseous, and his stomach was churning.  He felt sick. Standing, with his trousers and underpants around his ankles, he dropped the remains of the cigarette into the toilet bowl.  Suddenly, smoking seemed dirty.  He felt guilty for the imagined seduction, which was contrary to the teachings of Bible Billy. He wiped his sticky fingers on a piece of toilet paper.  He felt giddy as his stomach did a somersault, and his arousal shrivelled to a shadow of its former self. He retched into the toilet bowl. 

Pulling up his trousers, he felt the cigarette packet in the pocket. Four cigarettes left, enough for a week.  He was on his way to becoming a smoker and a hero. He wondered if it was worth all the trouble, it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, but foolishly he resolved to continue.

Bimbo and Mary

In 1955, Bobby turned 16.  Abandoning his scholastic efforts he entered the working world. His first job was with J. Lyons, one of the country’s largest catering companies, at their Strand Corner House in London, his first step in a career that spanned his working life.  Corner Houses were multi-restaurant showplaces featuring a variety of dining experiences in one building.   

Fridays and Saturdays, he worked in the salad department, situated on the top floor of the building.   He liked working up here, away from the giant roasting ovens, steam heated soup vats and clanking equipment of the main kitchen.  The view from the rooftop was breathtaking and looking down on the streets turned the cars into ants.   It was on the same level as the pastry department, directed by Mr. Finch, the small rotund pastry chef.  Most of Finch’s employees were girls. Now and then he would peer into the pastry department to watch them rolling pasty on big rolling machines, and decorating cakes and pastries for the tea shops in the area.

Some of the girls were real crackers.  There was one in particular who struck his fancy.  She was no film star, but the wrap-around white uniform hugged her body, accentuating a buxom bosom.  It really stuck out, and ever since discovering Sabrina on the telly, large bosoms had fascinated Bobby.  Sometimes, he would hang around the lift hoping to catch a glimpse of her when her shift finished.

He would have liked chat her up, but she was older, and he didn’t know really what to talk about. If he went up to her and said, “Cor, you got a smashing bust.  What’s your name?”  She would have probably clouted him around the ears and told him to bugger off. 

Albert was the jolly Italian chef who ran the salad department, he always had something to laugh or sing about.

“Bimbo, Bimbo, what you goin’ to do-eo,” he crooned, mimicking Suzy Miller’s number one hit song.  The nickname ‘Bimbo’ stuck to Bobby through all of his time at the Corner House. 

In contrast to Albert, Len the cold cut carving wizard was a tall thin Englishman with dark, lank hair and a sad expression.  He amazed Bobby with his slicing skills using knives that he kept razor sharp in a mahogany box.  A stroke had left Len’s head permanently lopsided, which made him look like a demented Jack the Ripper.  God knows, thought Bobby, how he can to carve so thin without killing himself.

 The other employee in the department was Mary.  She was twenty, and Bobby’s dream girl friend.  Her laughing, outgoing personality bowled him over, and her smile melted his heart.  The pastry girl may have a sexy bust, but Mary was beautiful. When she flashed her eyes at Albert, who was always pinching her bum, she was vivacious and totally desirable.  If only she was more my age, thought Bobby, I could really love her. 

Mary took Bobby under her wing. He was her ‘Bimbo’, and she sang the song often, taunting him with the lyrics.

“Bimbo, Bimbo, what you gonna do..ee..oh? Bimbo, Bimbo, where you gonna go.. ee..oh?  Bimbo, Bimbo, does your mother know?  Bimbo’s got a pretty little girl..ee..oh!”

One sunny day they climbed out of the window, onto the hot flat roof of the department to sit soaking up the sun and chatting.  From this vantage point, they looked down on Trafalgar Square, and the Mall.  People, cars and red busses scurried like ants below, down The Strand, around the square, past Admiralty Arch, and up Pall Mall.  Staring at them across the square was Lord Nelson on his column. 

Mary wore her overall loosely and always sat lower than Bobby, encouraging him to look down at her cleavage.  He tried to do it when he thought she wasn’t looking, but she always caught him, and smiled her secret smile.

“You have a girl friend, Bimbo?” she asked one day.  “I bet that you’ve got a string of them eh?’  She stood up, and ran her fingers through his curly blonde hair, and momentarily pressed his head against her thigh.  He felt his face flush, and his ears burn.  When she stood close to him, he sensed the warmth of her body, and breathed her perfume. He felt aroused and groaned inwardly.  If he stood up now, she would see the lump thrusting inside his apron.  That would be embarrassing.

As if reading his mind, she bent down and the overall flapped open revealing her breasts. She hooked her hands under his armpits, and pulled him to his feet. 

“Come on Bimbo” she said.  “We’d better go inside.  Albert’s got a load of stuff to do for the Brasserie.”  Brushing herself down, she straightened her overall and her eyes came to rest on his rising cook’s apron.  She smiled her secret smile again.

“Yeah, she’s a real prick teaser, that gal,” said Slick, when he told him about it in the staff canteen.  “One of these days she’s going to bite off more than she can chew.”   He forked a piece of trifle into his mouth.  “She can bite mine any time!”

When they worked a split shift, they had a couple of hours to spare in the afternoon, so Mary took him around Soho to kill time.   This square mile of London life was a revelation for Bobby.  Berwick Street market was a riot of colour and activity.  People rubbed shoulders and jostled down the centre of the street. The barrow boys reminded him of old Jim Parker, yelling their sing song patters to interest everyone in their wares.  Oranges, apples, bananas, all sorts of fruits and vegetables from were on display. Spivs in their sharp suits, and flashy ties, mingled with the prostitutes in doorways, selling watches, and the girls sold their bodies. For Bobby, it was an exotic, exciting new world.

Mary was very street wise, she even knew a few of the girls, stopping to chat with them. She introduced him to one with a big bust.

“Susie, this is my friend Bimbo,” she said, giving Bobby a hug, and wrinkling her nose in a smile.  “Sort of a boy friend he is.”

            “You want to have a good time dearie?” said Susie, running her fingers through his hair.  Bobby could never figure out what made people do that.  His aunts were always doing it too.  But it felt different when Mary or Susie did it.  He could smell their perfumes, and they affected his dick in ways that his aunts could never do.  Up close, he saw the thick make-up that Suzie wore.  Compared to her, Mary wore hardly any, and was twice as good looking.

            He shook his head.  “No thanks, Mary and me have to get back to work soon.”

            ”Won’t take long dearie, slip me hands down your trousers.  Be done before you know it.  Only cost you half a crown.”  She stepped back into the doorway as Bobby edged towards the street.

            Mary laughed, and slapped Susie’s hand.  “You’re a card Susie; you want to get done for cradle snatching?”  They both laughed and Mary gave Bobby a hug, leading him back down the street.  

     They passed a crowd gathered around an escapologist on the sidewalk and watched fascinated, as he wriggled and writhed, attempting to escape from a large canvass bag.   A finger appeared through the drawn and tied opening of the bag, then two, three, and finally a hand which wriggled around furiously seeking to untie the knot. Then another hand appeared. The two hands pulled open the top of the bag, to reveal a handcuff hanging from one wrist.  The crowd muttered as a red faced head appeared, and a man scrambled out of the bag covered in sweat.  The crowd applauded, and threw coins into a hat on the pavement.

     Another man stood selling jewellery from an open suitcase set upon on a stand.  Further down the street a head topped with a cloth cap popped up in the crowd.  It yelled to the bloke selling jewellery.  Quick as a wink, the suitcase snapped shut and the seller melted into the crowd.

     “There’s a copper coming Bim,” said Mary.  Sure enough a policeman strolled down the street on his beat.  “He was probably selling stolen stuff Bimbo; you really have to watch what you buy down here.”

     Bobby was attracted to the smell of strawberries, they were in season again for a few months.  He bought three containers for sixpence each.  Two were for Millie, to keep him in her good books for a while.  The other, he shared with Mary, as they wandered through the streets of  the square mile ‘Sin Capital’ of London.

The Grand French Chef

On a cold September day in 1955 Bobby got a bus pass and took number 37 bus to London, about an hour’s ride from Richmond, through Barnes Common, to Hammersmith Broadway.  There, he changed to a number 52 which took him to Kensington, past the Royal Albert Hall to Hyde Park and Piccadilly Circus.  From there, he could walk down Haymarket, and across Trafalgar Square, with Nelson looking down on him from his column.

            He picked up a copy of the Daily Sketch at Skinners and sat in the front seat of the upper deck, reading.  Every Wednesday the paper featured cooking articles with recipes. They were written by Phillip Harben, the TV Chef. Today, there was one by the French chef Jean Conil, who advertised for Bovril.

            Conil was writing about his new restaurant on Battersea Hill, a small intimate place, where discriminating diners could enjoy fine ‘Continental’ food. As he read, an idea formed in Bobby’s mind. The French were pretty well known for cooking with wines, and preparing fancy food, and Conil had a way with words that made Bobby’s mouth water.  He compared what he was reading to the mass production that he was doing at Strand Corner House. Suddenly he felt like a factory worker. For the first time since he had started work, he felt an urge to produce quality, instead of quantity.  This desire would haunt him all his working days.

            Later, in the staff canteen, he sat with his fellow trainees and showed them the article. As he ploughed his way through a lunch of greasy shepherd’s pie, soggy vegetables, and a cup of canteen jelly, his American buddy Slick tried convincing him about how much money he would earn as a food manager one day.

“Bimbo,” he said using Bobbie’s nickname. “I tell you, you can get stinking rich if you stay with industrial catering, it’s the way of the future, my man.”

            Conil is right, Bobby thought, poking the jelly around with his spoon, French food HAS to be better and I want to learn it.

            “What’s wrong with good old fashioned English food Bim?” asked Mary, when he told her about his idea. She moved along a sea of salad plates, placing a half of a hard boiled egg in the centre of a bed of lettuce leaves. “They do all that fancy French stuff downstairs in the Brasserie if that’s what you want.  Give me good fish and chips any day.”

            Bobby followed behind her with a trolley, spooning mayonnaise over the egg.  “I know,’ he said. “But Chef says that I have to stay in the main kitchen until I finish college.  I’ll be 18 by then, and my dad says that when I’m eighteen, I’ve got to go in the army for national conscription.”

            “Bim, you missed one,” said Mary.  Bobby backtracked and redid the plate.

            “I want to learn French cooking now, they don’t even teach it in college ‘til the second year.” Mary sprinkled paprika over the coated eggs. 

            That evening at home, Bobby composed a letter to Jean Conil.  He told him how he was just starting out in cooking, working for J. Lyons Ltd, but really wanted to learn to do french cooking.  He wrote that he had read the article in the paper, and would really like to see the restaurant.  Since there was no address for Jean Conil, he addressed the envelope care of the Daily Sketch on Fleet Street.  The next day, on the way to work, he posted it in the big red royal mail box next to Skinner’s.

At work he talked with a couple of the other boys about his letter.

“You want to watch those Froggie blokes,” said Slick, who worked in the soup department.  “Bunch of perverts, my man, keep your back to the wall!.”

A week later, Slick’s words proved prophetic.  Bobby told Frenchie, an old, short, fat downstairs janitor about Jean Conil, hoping that he could tell him more about French food.  He said he wanted to be a famous chef like Conil, or Phillip Harben, and be on TV.

A couple of days later Frenchie gave Bobby a paperback recipe book by Phillip Harben.  It was the first recipe book that Bobby had ever owned.  He leafed through it eagerly, but was disappointed to find only English recipes.

“See Frenchie,” he said later, “He not a real chef.  He never wears a big hat, just a butcher’s apron.”

Bobby hid the book in his special place because if he told Millie about it she would only think that he had pinched it from a shop, or that Frenchie was a dirty old man with ulterior motives.  She turned out to be right, but that’s another story.

There was no response to his letter, so Bobby figured that the paper had lost it.  Two weeks later, his dad knocked on the bedroom door

“Bob? There’s a letter for you.”  He came in with the letter. “You had better not let Millie see you using her best scissors on the envelope.  You know how she carries one.”  He whipped out his pocket knife and slit the envelope, giving it to Bobby.  “Have you been entering those competitions again?  How many times have I told you that they’re rigged?” 

The envelope bore the logo of Daily Sketch.  At last, thought Bobby, reading the short note on Daily Sketch letterhead. ‘Your letter has been forwarded to Mr. Conil. Thank you for your interest.’

Well, so much for that idea, he thought, crumpling up the letter. 

A couple of weeks later he got another letter, in a plain envelope.  It was from Jean Conil himself, with a signed black and white photo. He said he was glad that Bobby wanted to become a chef, and said to look in on his restaurant any time.  The address was right there on the letter.  Now, thought Bobby, is this an invitation or what?

The next day he took his bike to work, and returned on a route that took him over Battersea Hill. He had no idea what to look for.  Obviously the name Jean Conil would be outside in big letters, after all, he was famous. On the first pass he missed it, because he was looking for something lavish.  The second time he spotted it.  A small, inconspicuous restaurant wedged between two shops.  It had plate glass windows, and looked pretty dark inside.

Perhaps it’s closed, he thought, parking his bike at the pavement, He stood with his nose squashed against the window, cupping his eyes, and peering inside, his breath misting the glass.  He saw a lady moving around behind the counter.  Summoning up his courage, he entered the restaurant and the lady looked up from the counter.

“Well, young man, and who might you be.  We are not open until later,” she said as Bobby walked down the darkened aisle between the tables.  She was beautiful, with dark curly hair, and a rich Irish accent.

Bobby held the letter in front of him. “I, er, came to see Mr. Jean Conil,” he said, showing her the letter.

She took it from him, and read it under the small counter light, with a bemused smile.  “So it’s a young chef that you are,” she said, looking at him, her eyes twinkling. “Well, I’ll just see if he can come down, he’s busy writing a book you know.” She turned and went through a curtain.

Bobby heard her climb the stairs at the back of the restaurant.  He sat at one of the tables looking around.  The restaurant had the aroma of a thousand French meals, all cooked in wine. The tables were laid with lacy tablecloths, sparkling glasses, and shiny cutlery.  Behind the counter was a row of shelves lining the wall, it was filled with bottles of wine.  A doorway led into the kitchen, the magic place where Chef Conil’s culinary masterpieces were created.  Bobby was tempted to take a peek, but just then the stairs creaked, the curtains parted and there stood the man himself.

  He was just like he looked in the paper, rotund and resplendent with a full beard. He wore a medal around his neck. With a quick smile he sat down opposite Bobby.

Bobby was awe struck, tongue tied and shaking in his shoes. Here he was, face to face with the famous Chef Jean Conil, who wrote in the papers, and advertised Bovril. Now that he had come this far, what could he possibly say to this great man?

He mumbled about how he was just starting out, and how much he liked the newspaper articles.  His face burned and he tried not to stutter.

Jean Conil sat back in his seat, smiling, and stroking his beard. He talked about his restaurant and asked Bobby where he was working, and what sort of work was he doing.  They talked for a little while about the Strand Corner House, and Bobbie’s plans to become a famous chef one day.

  Then, out of the blue, for the first time in his life, Bobby lost control of what came out of his mouth.  He felt out of his body, listening to himself without knowing what he was going to say next.

Bobby just knew what he wanted.  Without thinking, he asked the great man if he could work for him at the restaurant, and learn the trade by his side. The words just poured out, his hopes and his dreams for the future.  He said that he wanted to work in a smaller place than the Corner House, which was more of a factory.  He wanted to learn from a master chef, to write articles, and become famous. It tumbled out and Bobby lost control of what he was saying.

Chef Jean Conil leaned back in his chair, pursing his lips.  He scratched his bushy beard and smoothed his moustache.  Bobby felt his liquid brown eyes weighing him up.             Finally, in a thick, French, garlic flavoured accent, he said, “I offer you a job here with me.  A comis, you understand?”  He wiped his forehead with a stubby hand.  “I start you at the bottom, and you learn from me.”

He went on to explain that Bobby’s wages would be the same as at the Corner House, until he learned how to cook the French way.  He would learn a lot. 

Bobby almost fell off his chair. Here was his hero, offering him a job at his own restaurant.  He had day-dreamed about this, but never for one moment had thought that it would actually happen.  A job, rubbing chefs hats with the great Jean Conil!

Conil stood up, extending his hand.  Bobby shook it, his knees turning to jelly.  How the heck was he going to explain this to his dad and Millie?  He was accepting a job in a small restaurant, throwing over the security of working for the nation’s largest catering company. He was throwing away the job that his dad had gone to so much trouble to arrange. Not only that, but giving up his college training.  What would Mary say?  He would likely never see her again. 

One single fact swept away all of his doubts. He would be working with the famous Jean Conil, learning at the hands of the master about French cooking, in a small intimate restaurant that he had only read about a few weeks before.  It was the opportunity of a lifetime.

He pedalled home in a state of high excitement.  At the dinner table, he gabbled about it to Millie and his dad, sure that they both thought that he had lost his mind. 

“But he’s a famous chef, dad,” said Bobby, as the words tumbled out of him. “He wants me to work for him.”

His dad tried to talk him out of it.  “Joe Lyons is a big company,” he argued. “They can offer you a future. Robert, you’ve only been working for ten months..  You can grow with the company, they can offer security, and jobs are not so easy to come by.  This Conil could be a fly-by-night!”

For an hour dad tried to persuade Bobby not to take up the offer, to think about what he was giving up.  “Can he offer you a college diploma?” 

Bobby knew that he would have to give that up, also that he would miss Mary, and the girl with the big bust in the pastry section.  He wouldn’t miss Frenchie at all.  

No, with the arrogance of youth, his mind was made up, he wanted to become famous chef, write articles, and maybe even be on the TV one day. These were impossible dreams in the Britain of 1955.

Although he didn’t know it, the world around him was poised on the brink of moving on.

Meet Bible Billy

 I thought that I should begin my writing career by jotting down a memoir.  Having been around since 1939, I figured that I should at least know something.  It has sort of developed into a series of literary snapshots with a working title of “Snapshots of a Life”.  Although my life may not be as interesting as most others, I felt that it was a good way to exercise both the memory and writing muscles.  Apart from any other consideration, I just do it because it gives me pleasure, and hope that others might enjoy it too if they stumble across it among the millions of Internet blogs…..

         1954 was Bobby’s last year at school.  He still sang in the Holy Trinity church choir, although his soprano voice was losing the crystal purity of youth.  Standing in the front row in his white smock and blue cassock, he tried without success to drown out the tenors standing behind him.

During the sermon and the interminable prayers, he peered at the congregation.  Everyone was wearing wore their Sunday best, and smelling of perfume, although a few of the older ladies smelled of mothballs and lavender.  There was pretty girl, with long blonde hair that caught his eye.  She was there every week with her mother, sitting in the same wooden pew.  Bobby studied her during the sermon, and when he caught her eye and her mother wasn’t looking, he flashed a quick smile.  When he sang, he tried catching her eye as if he were singing just to her.  Sometimes while everybody’s head was bowed in prayer, he caught her sneaking a glance at him too. 

This furtive church romance continued for several months.   One time Bobby quickly changed in the vestry hoping to meet her outside the church, where the vicar stood shaking hands with the ladies and gents as they left.  But he was too late, and the girl of his secret dreams had gone.

            “When you discover girls,” grandpa told him. “You’ll have to join a tenor section.”  Although he didn’t really understand what his grandpa meant, Bobby didn’t much fancy the idea of singing with a load of old men.  His dad liked a tenor called Giggly or something, and would hold a solo bathtub recital on Sunday afternoons, his voice reverberating around the small room.

            Bobby like being in the choir, it enabled him to show off.  For this, he paid the price of sitting on a wedgie and listening to the vicar deliver boring sermons about the lack of God in the fifties, and how the post war ‘good life’ was corrupting the flock. Even the old sheep, Bobby noted, were nodding off for a quick forty winks.

In the announcements, the vicar mentioned something that caused a stir among the ewes and lambs.

            “Three weeks from Saturday,” he said, fixing the flock with steely shepherd’s glare. “There will be a blessed revival of the Christian faith here in Britain. The Billy Graham Crusade, a wonderful organisation that has brought thousands to saving grace, will be arriving on our shores.” He went on to describe how this Graham fellow had converted more people, saved more lives, and done more good than all the religions in the country combined. 

Bobby didn’t care much about the statistics, but the thought of a trip to Harringay arena sounded great.  His Grandpa had been there a few times as greyhound racing was his passion.  He offered to take Bobby with him one evening, but Millie had put her foot down.

“That’s no place for children,” she told him in a murderous whisper.  “It’s bad enough that their parents go, gambling away the rent money and the clothes off their backs.”  

To Bobby, Harringay sounded like the pits of hell that the vicar was so fond of. Perhaps if he went with the church, she might not have an objection.

            “We will need some counsellors from amongst our congregation. Forms are available in the foyer for those who are interested in making up a coach to witness this remarkable crusade,” the vicar went on.  “I do hope that Holy Trinity will have a good showing.”

            Bobby took a form and filled it out in his bedroom.  Bobby discovered that he could pry off one of the panels between the shelves of a book case that his Dad had made him, it making a perfect hiding place for his private treasures.  He placed the form in there until Sunday, when he presented it at church.  Millie couldn’t object if he was already on the list, and he could say that he had to go with the choir.  It was a fait accompli, he was going to Harringay.  He was dying to see a dog race.

            It was sunny on the day of the trip, and the coach ride with the congregation was hot and sweaty.  The blonde girl was near the back of the coach with her mother, and now and then, pretending to look out of the window, Bobby caught a glimpse of her.  When she caught him looking, he flashed her a quick grin. By the time that they arrived at Harringay, everyone was happy to get out of the coach and stretch their legs. The hot tarmac of the car park was crowded with people disembarking from other coaches

            “Now remember which aisle the coach is in,” said thin Mr. Tibbs, the organiser, who also collected the money on Sundays.  He pointed to a large letter ‘N’ on a red pole, stuck into the ground.  “Aisle ‘N’, just follow it until you come to the coach.”

            He scurried around, organising, imploring them  all to stay together.  There were a couple of other children, and the blonde girl from the congregation.  But they looked posh, so Bobby didn’t gang up with them as they filed off to the designated entrance shown on their tickets.

All around the car park similar groups were gathering around their leaders. The scene reminded Bobby of the cattle round-ups he had seen on the Saturday morning westerns, at the pictures.  They were all being herded into the corral, where they’d be roped and branded by this Graham bloke from America.

After separating the counselling volunteers at the entrance, Mr. Tibbs led the rest of them up some stairs and then down into the arena.  It was a huge tiered oval, full of people milling around like ants at a nest.  In the centre of the arena was a stage, on which stood a massive choir. 

Sound began pouring from the speakers all around the stadium … “This is my story, this is my song…”  Bobby looked at the sea of faces, and felt overwhelmed by it all. … “praising my saviour, all the day long…”  the background murmur of thousands of voices droned in his ears, and through it all the choir sang. … “This is my story, this is my song…’ The throng of people took on a life of its own.  It rose above the individuals, and made its own rules, swaying and rippling like a massive sea….”Praising my saviour all the day long…”  Bobby slumped into his seat, allowing the wave of sights and sounds to wash over him.  The Sunday morning congregation was nothing to this.  He felt curls of fear wind themselves around his stomach.  What had he let himself in for?  He scanned the seats near to him, seeking out the blonde girl; a beacon in a frightening, uncontrollable sea of humanity.

“God bless you all, and thank you for heeding the call.  Let us pray.” A man had stepped up to the microphone.  A hush fell over the stadium, as his voice echoed a prayer from a hundred speakers.  He raised his hands.   “Now please welcome, Mr. Beverley Shea.”

The show began, and Bobby sat fascinated, as the choir raised the roof, and several people came forward to give ‘Personal Testimony’.  More singing, more prayers, and finally the moment they had all been waiting for.  “And now please welcome the Reverend Billy Graham.” 

The choir sang, the people jostled, and Bobby squirmed in his seat, now comes the sermon, he thought, and I haven’t seen hide or hair of a dog yet.  From what his grandpa had told him about the races, the greyhounds ran chasing the furry bunny around the oval cinder track that circled the centre,.

Billy Graham stepped up to the microphone, clutching his bible.  The tension in the air was electric as the crowd fell silent, as his first words crackled over the speakers.

 “The bible says …” This phrase was repeated over and over,  as he pounded the book with his fist, denouncing the sin in the world and offering salvation in Jesus, with a slightly southern American accent.  He was forthright.  He scolded.  He cajoled.   He mounted a tirade against the devil that captured the ears of everyone in the arena. He invited them to be born again in Jesus – a new beginning.  Bobby sat captivated, eating up every word.  The vicar’s sermons never had this sort of fire back at Holy Trinity.

Then, with the choir softly humming in the back ground, Billy stepped back from the microphone. His hands were raised as he invited believers to come forward and receive Christ into their lives.  “I want you to get up out of your seats, wherever you are, and come down.  There are attendants ready to show the way, just come now, and give your life to Jesus.”

Bobby could feel the electricity in the air, as people began hypnotically rising from their seats, and heading towards the aisles that led down to the stage.  Just along from him, the blonde girl from the congregation got up with her mother.  He felt disturbed, one part of him was telling him to get up and join the growing throng.  Another part was telling him to sit tight, and not to make a fool of himself.  Yet another part was urging him to go down and see the dog race track.  All the while, the choir hummed.

Slowly Bobby stood up, threading his way to the aisle.  He followed the girl and her mother down onto the centre of the arena.  His feet crunched on the cinder race track as he moved in towards the centre.   Billy Graham was standing on the stage, his head bowed in prayer, and the choir hummed on.

“Step this way son.”  A lady took him by the arm.  The group in front of the stage were being led away into the arena for counselling.  Somebody took his name and address, and asked him to sign a form that said he accepted Jesus as his saviour.  Then he was given a handful of brochures, and a copy of the New Testament. “There is a passage to read every day,” said the lady.  “You will be hearing from us in a week or so, and we will recommend a church in your area.

Then he was out in the car park again, as the sun just started to set.   ‘I’ve been roped and branded’, he thought, searching around for the red pole with the letter ‘N’ on it.  He saw the blonde girl with her mother, and followed them back to the coach.  Mr. Tibbs was busy counting everybody, and fussing over his list.  There were still several people to arrive, so Bobby leafed through his brochure for Scripture Union.  He caught the girl looking at him, she smiled, and he felt his ears warm up as he blushed.

The Great Smog of ’52

On a cold, misty December morning in 1952 Bobby was having a breakfast of toast and jam at the front room table, and reading the Children’s Newspaper, when grandpa came in with the newly filled coal scuttle.  He threw a large chunk of coal onto the dying embers of the fire and poked it back to life again.

“You’re going ter ruin yer eyes with all that readin’ mate,” he said, leaning on the mantelpiece to catch his breath.  “A youngster like you should be taking up a sport, like soccer, or boxing.” He wheezed out a cough, spitting the resulting phlegm into the fire. It burned with a green flame.  Then he picked up his Daily Mirror, put on his national health glasses, and settled into an armchair to study the horse racing form for the next day.  Before long he nodded off for forty winks.

Horses, football pools and dogs are about the only sports that he does Bobby thought, finishing his toast and getting back to his paper.

The next day it was foggy on the way to school where Bobby thought about Grandpa’s advice as he stood with the other kids in the assembly hall, preparing to sing God Save the Queen before starting class.  The hall doubled as the school’s gymnasium, and the walls exuded the aroma of stale sweat and unwashed feet. It was here that he experienced a boxing career.   During a tryout, he was matched up with Theo, the heavy son of the local Greek restaurateur.  He got the stance right, fists up; legs positioned to dance around the ring ready to dodge and weave.  But what came next was definitely not in the Marquis of Queensbury rules.  Out of nowhere an uppercut on the chin had him seeing stars, and the next moment he hit the deck. End of boxing career.  P.E. class wasn’t so bad though, except that when he had to jump over the horse, generally getting stuck halfway along. 

The murmuring at assembly ceased when Mr Lester, the beetle browed head master and well known sadist, entered and mounted the stage, his head bowed, and hands clasped before him.  He suddenly aimed his fiery gaze at the students, and Bobby felt the heat.

He talked to them about a new rural boarding school system being tried out for urban students.  It was intended to relieve working parents who were required in the national post-war rebuilding effort. They offered a limited number of places per school. 

“This week we will take applications to attend Sheephatch School, which is located near a small village in Surrey,” he said. “Those of you, who are interested, can stop by my office on the way home to collect the necessary information for your parents and an application form.”  He glared around the hall, pausing briefly at one or two troublemaking students that Bobby figured he wanted to get rid of.  His eyes met Bobbie’s.  “It is a school,” he added, “where lateness is not tolerated,” he paused. “Indeed it can cost you your supper.”  Bobby shuffled, embarrassed at being singled out.  Only last week he had got six strokes of the cane on his hand for being late.

     He stopped by the office on the way home, and the secretary gave him a couple of leaflets and a form, pointing to the bottom line.  “Be sure that you have your father’s consent, and hand it in to your teacher.” she said between thin lips. Bobby put them in his satchel. 

Making his way home through streets lined with draughty brick council houses, each heated with fire places, he noticed that the fog was getting thicker as everybody began lighting their fires. The air smelled like it did on fireworks night.   

That weekend the fog got really bad. The papers were calling it “A Real Pea Souper”, and “The Great London Smog”.

“You stay indoors, Mum,” his dad told Grandma.  “I read in The Daily Sketch that hundreds of old people dying from this filthy weather.”  Two inch headlines screamed from every newsagent shop about the dangers of burning coal. 

“There’s some new stuff called coke,” said Bobby, “I was reading about it in the paper.  It’s made from coal at the gas works after they remove the gas. They say it won’t poison people.”

“It’s bloody expensive too,” grumbled Grandpa.  “They’re just trying to keep us all poor.”

Bobby’s bedroom still had gas lights on the wall, and the street lamppost outside his window was gas too.  He sat on the edge of his bed watching the smog curling around the lamp from his bedroom window.  He and Sylvia were discussing Sheephatch Boarding School.  The country sounded super.

When his Dad said, “I’ll sign the form, but you have really got to try and make something of yourself there.”  Bobby jumped up and down with excitement.

Sylvia thought it was a daft idea, living in load ex-army barracks in the middle of nowhere.

     “What will you do after lessons?  What will the food be like?  Once you’re there, they lock you up till the end of term.  What about your friends? I could never leave all my friends just like that.  Is anyone else going?  I bet the beds are terrible!”

She went on and on, sowing doubts in Bobbie’s mind.  He only knew that he was getting away from all this fog and from Millie for at least one term, which wasn’t so bad.  It was only six months. Out there people weren’t dying of smog and there were trees and countryside instead of brick houses and endless streets.  It would be like living in a park and he couldn’t wait.

On Monday morning, he took the completed form back to school.  Walking through the fog, grandma had wrapped a scarf around his mouth. He could still taste the smoke in the air, it was sour, thick and yellow, and he could hardly see his hand in front of his face. 

That weekend, there were pictures in the News of the World, apart from the ones of ladies in knickers. They showed men walking in front of buses and cars with lights, leading the way for the drivers.  It was deathly quiet; hardly a sound penetrated the thick fog.  It was as if the streets were in mourning for the old King.  Bobby followed the hedges all the way to school.  Crossing the road was creepy; it seemed to go on for ever in a milky swirling cloud of nothingness.  He tripped on the pavement and almost dropped his satchel.  He looked left and right expecting a car to came out of the void and run him over. After stumbling through a blanket of fog for what seemed a lifetime, he arrived at school and handed in the boarding school papers to the headmaster’s secretary.

High Noon Shoot Out With Gary Cooper

We are urged by all the writing tipsters to “Write what you know!”  So I thought that I should begin my writing career by jotting down a memoir.  Having been around since 1939, I figured that I should at least know something.  It has sort of developed into a series of literary snapshots with a working title of “Snapshots of a Life”.  Although my life may not be as interesting as most others, I felt that it was a good way to exercise both the memory and writing muscles.  Apart from any other consideration, I just do it because it gives me pleasure, and hope that others might enjoy it too if they stumble across it among the millions of Internet blogs.  It is in the third person, novelistic style which leaves some room for artistic license.  This is more for readability than any attempt to rewrite my history.  My part is played by the character Bobby, and a few names have been changed to respect living persons and or relatives.  So, for what it is worth …  

 For many kids at secondary school, the noon meal in the school canteen was the high spot of the day and for many of them the only hot meal, unless dad stopped off at the chip shop on his way home from the pub.  The school meal program, along with free milk or orange juice on the morning break, was the government’s answer to malnutrition amongst the working classes.  The bustling canteen kitchen prepared meals for several of the local area schools, and the place had its own particular institutional smell, like that of food left overnight in the pantry. The stale, greasy aroma hung in the air but it improved at the serving hatch where it was replaced with the fresher whiff of the day’s offerings.

Bobby watched the busty, motherly ladies; heads covered in scarves stirring the vats with massive wooden spoons, pulling pans from the ovens and portioning soups and stews into containers for transport to the other local schools.  

When he left for school each day, Gran loaded him up with a spoon of fishy cod liver oil – which he hated. “You’ll thank me for this later, Bobby”, she would say, following up with another of sweet, sticky malt – which he loved. 

Every Monday morning Millie gave him half a crown for school meals. This two shillings and six penny piece paid for five days of hot lunches.  The food wasn’t all that bad; it was “cheap stuff that sticks to your ribs”, as Gran said.  Sometimes there was stew made with loads of vegetables and potatoes but little lamb or beef. 

“My dad says its horsemeat,” said Norman aloud one day to Bobby.  His observation rewarded him with the stew scrapings onto his plate from everybody within earshot.  Nobody wanted to eat Black Beauty, or Trigger, Roy Rogers would have been “a mite upset, pardoner.” 

Stews often came with plenty of floury dumplings. For pudding, there was always a steamed suet ‘Spotted Dick or a Jam Roly-Poly with thick custard.  Sometimes they served up a scary sago pudding, which the kids nicknamed ‘Frogs Eggs’, because it resembled the jelly-like clusters that they found along the banks of the backwaters on the river tow path.  They were never on the plate long enough to grow tails and turn into tadpoles. Everybody loved a good, sweet, filling pudding.

The week that Gary Cooper starred in ‘High Noon’ at the Odeon cinema, he represented fierce showdown to school dinners.  Bobby examined his shiny half a crown piece; rubbing King George’s head on the front and the royal coat of arms on the tail side between his thumb and forefinger. He had to make a weighty decision.  In a toss-up between Gary Cooper and five school lunches, there was really no contest; Grace Kelly, he figured, was worth starving for.  On the way to school he flipped the coin, heads the OK Corral, and tails the school canteen.  His silver ‘alf-a-dollar spun in the sunlight, and he tried to catch it on the back of his hand.  He missed.  It bounced on the pavement, spinning until it came to rest in the gutter.  Squeezing his eyes shut, he mentally willed Gary Cooper into existence and with heart in mouth he bent over to look at the coin. The OK corral it was!  “Whoopee,” he yelled like a redskin brave.  Picking up the coin he scooted over the railway bridge to school. That morning when the teacher came around distributing free milk and collecting dinner money, he kept it tucked into his pocket, blurting out the story he made up for the occasion.

“Not having dinners this week?” she asked, giving him her famous stare that made even the hardest boys in the class confess.  She knows I am lying, he thought in a sudden panic, feeling his face warm up. He avoided eye contact.

“We got company all week,” he said, looking at the blackboard as innocently as he could. “I have to go home and have dinner with them.”  In case she was a mind reader, he stored ‘High Noon’ and the Odeon cinema out of sight at the back of his mind.  “They’re expecting me,” he added, embellishing the lie.  Summoning his courage, he looked her straight in the eyes with a Buster Keaton face and further compounded it with. “It’s an Auntie from Devon.”  Was this embellishing too much?  When she moved on with a humming sound to the next pupil, Bobby felt terrible and excited at the same time. His face felt hot, he knew that he was blushing. It was a dead give-away.

After tea that day, he excused himself from the table.  “I’m going round to play with Jake,” he told Millie.  “He’s got one of the new transistor radios and can get Radio Luxembourg on it.” He slid off of his chair, praying that Jake would back him up. 

Instead, he headed down town to the Odeon cinema.  The posters at the entrance showed Gary Cooper as Sheriff Will Kane, in full western clothes, toting his six guns like he meant business.  Inside, Bobby could imagine him blazing away at the bad guys like Hopalong did at the Saturday morning pictures.

A little way down the street from the picture house was a bus stop, where a couple of other kids stood checking passengers and scanning passers-by.  Now and then they would furtively peek up and down the busy main street. They were obviously his main competition.  He watched the cars as they turned at the traffic lights onto a bridge across the river Thames. His conscience made him nervous and he kept a wary on the street in case his teacher should walk by. He hoped that he would not be spotted by anyone who knew Millie and his dad.  Since his weekly pocket money was only sixpence it would be hard explaining how he got the money to go to the pictures.  He would be in serious trouble if they decided to go for a riverside walk after dinner and spotted him

But Grace Kelly was worth it, she was beautiful and Bobby was in love with her.  She reminded him of Marion from primary school, a young Goddess with golden hair who lived on one of the posh streets.  Her beauty made him weak at the knees; she was so fragile, so gentle, so classy, aaah so unattainable.

Of the town’s three cinemas, Bobby liked the Odeon the best.  Grandpa had told him that it was a converted music hall palace, decorated with gold paint and crimson velvet curtains. The ceiling was three floors high, with a dome in the centre, all carved and painted in gold. There were private boxes on each side. The expensive seats were up on the balcony, where you could see the whole screen.  Downstairs, near the front where it was cheapest, you had to keep turning your head to see the entire picture.

     A man and woman crossed the street from the bridge, approaching the building. Bobby held up his shiny half a crown before the other two kids could get a word in.  “Take me in, mister?” he asked. The picture was rated ‘A’, which meant that kids could only get in if accompanied by a grown up. 

The man smiled at the lady. “Only if you make yourself scarce once we’re inside nipper,” he said with a wink.  They went in and Bobby paid nine pennies for a seat half way up the main lower floor. The woman behind the desk gave him a stare as she handed over the change, then looked up at the man, who winked and gave her a cheeky grin. Bobby could tell that that they knew what was happening, it was the way things got done to get around the rules.  He quickly moved into the foyer, which was full of fake plants and smelled of popcorn.  He counted his change and looked longingly at the chocolate bars and sweets.  He had a shilling, a sixpenny bit and a three penny Joey, plenty for an ice cream in the interval, and enough to buy chips instead of school dinners.  It was a sacrifice, but for Gary Cooper and glorious Grace, it was worth it.

Inside the auditorium, a short picture was already halfway through, but he could sit there until it came around again if he wanted to see the beginning.  The newsreel, showed the coronation of Queen Elizabeth, and a trailer for ‘From Here To Eternity’, after the cartoon, ‘High Noon’ started.  “Do not forsake me oh my darling”, sang Frankie Laine as the titles came up. Spending his dinner money on ‘High Noon’ hadn’t been a bad idea, but it was more of a boring grown-up film than the trailers had shown.  At the end Cooper did knock off the bad guy, but he took a long time to get to the real action.

For the rest of the week he bought two penny worth of chips a day, stuffing them into hollowed out French bread, and dreaming of Grace Kelly.

Shopping with Grandma

We are urged by all the writing tipsters to “Write what you know!”  So I thought that I should begin my writing career by jotting down a memoir.  Having been around since 1939, I figured that I should at least know something.  It has sort of developed into a series of literary snapshots with a working title of “Snapshots of a Life”.  Although my life may not be as interesting as most others, I felt that it was a good way to exercise both the memory and writing muscles.  Apart from any other consideration, I just do it because it gives me pleasure, and hope that others might enjoy it too if they stumble across it among the millions of Internet blogs.  It is in the third person, novelistic style which leaves some room for artistic license.  This is more for readability than any attempt to rewrite my history.  My part is played by the character Bobby, and a few names have been changed to respect living persons and or relatives.  So, for what it is worth …  

The summer sun of 1952 pumped out moist, muggy air that you could almost chew; it clung to the skin like a silk scarf.

“The war’s been over seven years Chick,” said Grandma, who was sitting in a chair on the back lawn shucking peas into a bowl set on a flowery apron between her knees.  “And it still takes three books to get a Sunday joint.”

Bobby’s dad stopped digging the garden, resting his foot on the fork.  He took a handkerchief from his pocket, and taking off his trilby hat, wiped the sweat from his forehead. He squinted at the sun.

“They’re talking about changing Sainsbury’s into one of them new self service shops Mum.” He put his hat back on.  “Just rubbing it in if you ask me, you still need ration books to get anything.  Bobby, why don’t you go and get Gran a glass of water.” He grinned at his mother, “At least they haven’t put that on ration yet Mum!.’  Bobby went inside to fetch the water, and his father resumed digging

Handing grandma the water, Bobby squatted back on the grass with his comic.  Summer’s going to be boring, he thought.  He wished that he was Jack Flash with wings on his ankles, or Jimmy with his magic patch.  That would make the school holidays more exciting. He was attending Gainsborough Road secondary school now, and wore long trousers as part of his uniform, but during the holidays he wore shorts.  Only another three years at school and he would be off to work somewhere, earning money and taking a girlfriend to the pictures like the older boys did. They were always bragging about what they did to their girls in the dark, on the back seats of the Odeon cinema.

When Gran went down to Richmond to do some shopping, he offered to carry her bags, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was on at the pictures.  Maybe it was a western this week or a war story.

Standing in line at one of the long counters that lined each side of the Sainsbury’s shop, Bobby could smell the food.  There was always fresh bread and the smell of coffee tossing and roasting in the front window.   While they waited to be served by the man in the straw hat, he watched the other counter people at work.

One man was cutting a big round cheese with a wire.  Another, wrapped small blocks of butter that he had formed with paddles from a big slab.  At the back of the shop, a man in a bloody, striped apron was hacking chunks of meat from a carcase that hung on a hook from a rail.  It was bigger than Bobby; it must have been half a cow.  I bet that’s worth a few ration books, he thought as the butcher assistants sliced and diced the meat and weighed it into piles on a tray for display.  

Gran moved along the queue and stood chatting the woman in front of them, her ration book and shopping list in hand.  “Still only 3 ounces of bacon a week,” she said.  “The war’s been over for years, will this rationing business ever end?”

The huge man behind the counter wore a straw boater hat and a white apron as big as a bed sheet.  He smiled and nodded sympathetically.  “Old Clement Atlee say it’ll be over by the end of the year, missus,” he said taking the pencil from behind his ear, and licking the carbon point.  “But I wouldn’t hold your breath. 

If anyone can do it, Labour can,” said Gran as he wrote her order in his book and began taking items off the shelves.   As he stacked them on the counter, he added.  “That Winston Churchill may have won the war, but the cigar smoking old bugger sold our soul to the Yanks, if you ask me!”

Bobby watched the counter man’s assistant scoop flour and sugar into paper bags from the storage bins behind him. He counted out eggs and finally snipped the required coupons from her ration book.  Gran took out her purse and Bobby watched him stuff the money and coupons into a round cylinder and pop it into a tube. 

Whoosh, off it went, whistling up the tube and across the ceiling into an office somewhere upstairs.  A short while later, the cylinder came plummeting back down the tube again with the change. It landed with a rattle on the counter.

Going to the shops with Gran was always an adventure. Most of all Bobby liked Lovell’s sweet shop the best. The wall behind the counter was lined with big screw top jars filled with sweets and chocolates. It was all on ration, but Gran always found a little coupon in her book on shopping day.

“Two ounces of those,” she said, pointing to a jar of boiled fruit drops. The lady behind the counter weighed them out into a little paper bag.  Gran picked one out and gave it to Bobby.  “No more until after dinner, and don’t tell Millie, she would have a fit if she knew.” 

People always say that, thought Bobby.   His aunt would slip him a three-penny piece for going to the shop for cigarettes.  “Don’t tell Millie, there’ll be hell to pay.”  His uncle said the same, when he popped into the Bricklayer’s Arm pub for a quick one with his dad leaving Bobby sitting outside with ‘Tizer drink.  “Don’t tell Millie, she’ll give yer dad what for mate.”

They walked to the Greengrocer’s stand at the marketplace, where Jim Parker was bellowing out in his gravel voice the specials of the day and joking with all the ladies.  On a Thursday, Jim would lead his horse and cart down their street, and yell out the days fare.  “Fresh Apples today!  Cauliflowers as big as yer ‘ead, cheap at ten pennies a piece!”   Grandad would send Bobby out with a bucket and spade to see if there were any horse droppings for the garden. Several tradesmen brought their horse drawn carts down the street each day, calling out as they passed. Bobby’s favourite was milkman who used to ladle milk from a churn into jugs. Now that they had started bottling the milk, the dairy had given him an electric cart to make his deliveries.  Bobby wanted to become his helper, because they got to ride the cart, but there was a waiting list for that job. There was the baker with his warm loaves and sticky buns, and the rag and bone man calling for unwanted items once a week.  There was always a little something left behind on the road for Dad’s garden.

On the way to the bus stop they passed the Gaumont picture house, one of the three in town,  where a poster announced ‘The Best Years of Our Lives’, a film about American soldiers after the war featuring Myrna Loy and Fredric March.  It featured an actor with a hook for a hand, which Bobbie found pretty fantastic. His favourite actor was Bonar Coleano who played the Yank in a war film called ‘Way to the Stars’; his dad had raved about the film.

“Coleano’s too smart to be a Yankee,” Grandpa grumbled. “Glad they went home, good riddance!” he added, echoing a sentiment shared by many.  

 But the kids on the street missed the Americans now that the war was over.  The phrase “Got any gum, chum?” guaranteed a strip or two from the generous soldiers.  Bobby longed to be old enough to get into grown up pictures. All the good ones were marked ‘A’ (children allowed with an adult) or ‘X’ (no kids allowed) by the board of film censors.

        He looked forward to the Saturday Morning children’s picture show at the ABC cinema. Last week’s serial had left the heroine locked inside a room where the floor was slowly disappearing and there was nothing underneath but water with daggers sticking out of it. Would the hero arrive in time to save her?   Hardly able to wait, he sucked harder on his fruit drop and almost swallowed it whole.