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Saturday 25 May 2019

Little Doris & the Ducks

There was definitely TB in my mother’s family. It was a fact that nobody was inclined to dispute. My grandmother herself was largely hale and hearty apart from an enduring addiction to alcohol which at times ruptured what might have otherwise been cordial relations with her extended family. As for my grandfather, he had wisely abandoned all alcoholic treats after Baby Arthur met an early demise when accidentally suffocated by his inebriated parents at the age of seven weeks. So it was a Bad Heart that eventually shortened Edgar Constant’s life just before the outbreak of war when it was rumoured that the threat of his only live son’s Call Up papers hadn’t made life any easier for him but Old Nan lived stubbornly on until Christmas Eve 1965. At the very moment she eventually succumbed following a late night walk down to The Jolly Farmers at Crayford to buy a half bottle of gin my nephew Merlin was being born twenty miles up-river in St Bartholemew’s Hospital, Smithfield to his excited teenage parents, my brother Bernard and his wife Janice.

When war finally broke out in spite of all the worry and concern about Edgar Constant Junior being called up to serve his country in the event no papers actually arrived because he numbered among the several Constant children whose birth had never been registered in the first place. Old Nan was apt to be forgetful concerning such formalities if seasonal field work was uppermost in her mind and in August 1912 it had been hop-picking which was of course more important than the registration of a child’s birth. This lapse meant that young Edgar was in the fullness of time free to give his entire attention to the wartime Black Market not to mention become of enormous comfort to several local women who missed the company of their serving husbands. Should his presence in the byways and bars of Crayford and Erith cause undue comment his mother and sisters stalwartly maintained that Poor Young Edgar had more than done his bit having been a hero of Dunkirk in 1940 which was of course quite untrue.

The scourge of TB that had plucked several Constant daughters from life in the 1930s continued to plague the family into the next decade taking two more aunts shortly after they gave birth leaving Poor Little Violet and Poor Little Doris motherless. Violet preceded her cousin by several months and being the first grandchild found in such a position was embraced into the maternal breast of my grandmother who said she would take on her upbringing as long as her father chipped in with some readies from time to time. He, only too delighted to rid himself of the burden of a small baby, agreed immediately. Later when fate saw Little Doris in the same position my grandmother was reluctant to again enter into the same arrangement. She wasn’t as young as she used to be and although Little Violet, bless her heart, never gave her a day’s worry, taking on another baby was out of the question. There would have to be a roster. Well, she didn’t quite put it like that but the rest of the family became quite aware of the expectations.

So in 1942 cousin Doris began what was to become a regular passage through the families of her various relatives usually remaining for several weeks before being passed on. Fortunately she was of a calm and placid nature and endured being treated as an unwanted human parcel with fortitude, growing from a small baby who rarely cried to a resilient pre-schooler who seldom required any special attention with what seemed like grim determination just as long as she was occasionally taken to feed ducks. Over time it became clear that of all her cousins she got on with Aunt Mag’s Margaret a great deal better than the rest of us. Margaret was several years older than me and the clutch of Crayford cousins and had been a schoolgirl for a number of years, what’s more she also had the added advantage of child care experience in the form of caring for her own baby sister Ann. She became especially good at amusing Doris, never tiring of ministering to her fondness for ducks by taking her down to the creek to feed them and watching carefully that she did not stumble into the brackish water in her somewhat controlled excitement. Doris came to love her dearly and when she caught sight of her, her large blue eyes would light up which certainly did not happen when she came across me because as my mother was wont to point out, she and I simply did not get on.

My dead aunt had been what my mother called a Good knitter and a Fair Hand at crochet and once she became sick during her pregnancy she took the opportunity of improving these skills. I came to realise that my dislike of Doris was partly because she came equipped with at least half a dozen silk dresses trimmed with angora of which I was very jealous. To add insult to injury she was a rather beautiful child and the aunts were fond of comparing her to Shirley Temple, even wondering if she might grow to develop similar performing skills as the famous child star. Her appearance was constantly commented upon, in particular her astonishingly extravagant and golden curls that framed her face and fell gently around her neck making her resemble a Botticelli angel. The sum total of the attention she generated did nothing to endear her to me and I certainly did not look forward to her visits when for what seemed like an interminable length of time she shared my bedroom and my mother’s attention. Even worse because she was younger than me she also shared my pushchair and I definitely felt that her turns when we walked to Gravesend and back were longer than mine.

Walking around the market on Saturdays with Doris being pushed and me having to hold on to the side of the handle and not get lost resulted in rapid affirmation of my antipathy towards my unfortunate cousin. We could scarcely go a few yards it seemed before women of all ages would comment on the blonde tresses, the sapphire blue eyes, the long lashes and the dimples and the object of all this attention would gaze into each approving face, pink lips slightly apart, cheeks dimple indented and a coy smile upon her face. Some of the admirers would also look me up and down and make comment that for sisters we were not in any way alike were we? One woman enthusing over Doris, briefly glanced at me before saying that I was quite plain wasn’t I? My mother simply laughed and said that Poor Little Doris was her dead sister’s girl and that as for Jean, well you could never get her hair to curl no matter how hard you tried. Later she said she’d been a rude cow. That day, while some shrimps were being bought for tea I took the opportunity of pinching my greatly admired cousin on her plump little left leg and then got annoyed when instead of volubly complaining she simply gazed at me forlornly whilst the doll-like eyes half filled with tears.

All things considered it was true to say that I had no love whatsoever for this particular cousin and the Doris feature that I most abhorred was definitely the Shirley Temple hair and probably that was because during the time I discuss small girls with the look of the American superstar were universally revered. As for Doris herself she seemed largely unaware of how she was regarded which my mother attributed to the fact that her mother, Poor Phyllis, had also been of unblemished character and never was one to blow her own trumpet. In fact Doris was so little trouble to care for that had I been better able to tolerate her presence I think she would have been considered for permanent residence at our place. Her Achilles’ heel was definitely her fondness for ducks and the feeding of them with bits of stale bread and so because she was so good and undemanding, after shopping in the market we would invariably make our way along the riverside until we found a group of eager feeders. Although I was wary of getting too close to their beaks, Doris was never happier than when surrounded by a dozen Mallard or Muscovy distributing sustenance and never seemed to mind them encircling her in what I felt was an ominous fashion. Under normal circumstances all stale bread available was earmarked for the making of bread pudding every second Saturday but when my cousin was with us that routine was cast asunder because Bless Her Little Heart she enjoyed the duck feeding so much. Furthermore, when all was said and done, the Poor Little Mite didn’t have much in life so who could begrudge her that pleasure? Well, I could for one.

I very much begrudged Doris her paltry pleasure, as well as her infant daring as she stood encircled by antagonistic Anseriformes battling for bread without at any stage losing her nerve. The shared life we had to intermittently endure, I felt, would be easier for everyone if Doris was not quite as brave or quite as curly. There was not a lot I could do about her exasperating daring so I gave a great deal of attention to the much admired hair and came to the conclusion that we would have to play a game of hairdressers the very next time she came to stay.

I didn’t have long to wait once Aunt Maud’s Pat came down with Mumps and so withdrew from the care roster. Doris was shunted back to York Road, Northfleet much sooner than anticipated looking more dazzlingly beautiful than ever with pretty pink Bakelite clips, a third birthday gift from her father, pinning her hair back from her ears. Bakelite toys and trinkets had been all the rage prior to the outbreak of war and at some stage I had inherited an unattractive grey swan originally belonging to Margaret that I was allowed to float in the zinc bath with me on Saturday nights in front of the kitchen stove. Doris, not understanding much about swans, believed it to be a duck and we often had disputes over whose turn it was to do the floating. She coveted the swan so much that I had taken to hiding it under my bed just to punish her for her existence. However one Saturday in June 1944 I surprised her with my sudden altruism when I handed it to her to play with and even my mother noted approvingly that I was being very unselfish and she was proud of me. I went further and generously announced that Doris could take it to bed with her because I was a big girl now, having recently had my fourth birthday. Doris warmly thanked me managing to look only a little bit uneasy as she did so.

It was halfway through the following morning when my mother was preoccupied with making the Sunday dinner rice pudding that I suggested the new game which involved removing a pair of nail scissors from the manicure set my mother’s long deceased fiancĂ© Fred had given her then retiring to the end of the yard beside the entrance to the Anderson shelter. Doris followed just a little cautiously, the grey Bakelite swan beneath her right arm. Annoyingly she seemed determined to be more of a paragon of virtue than usual which was possibly because my mother had promised a walk to Springhead to the ducks that afternoon just as long as both of us Behaved. I asked her if she would like to play hairdressers and she shook her head vigorously and held the swan just a little closer so I asked if she would like to keep the Bakelite swan when she left us. Doris nodded twice and turned anxiously towards the back door where she could hear my mother reassuringly banging saucepans and singing Molly Malone. Pulling her towards me I said she could keep the toy and it would be hers for ever just as long as we could now play hairdressers. I added that although we called the swan a swan it was in reality a duck, just a different kind of duck. She looked slightly more interested and as I moved above her with the nail scissors and sliced awkwardly through the uppermost golden ringlet she hugged the swan across her chest and whispered that she wanted very much to keep it because ducks were her favourite things and she loved them more than she loved God. Hissing at her to keep as still as she could I denuded her of what Old Mr Bassant next door had once referred to as her crowning glory as fast as possible. We then both stared at the triangular heap of coiled hair glistening between us in a kind of horrified hypnotised silence. Doris rocked slowly back and forth and although I had expected her to cry I noticed that her eyes were totally dry.

She only began to cry several minutes later when my mother came to investigate why we were being so quiet and good. And then so did I, heaving shuddering sobs as I explained that I had only done what Doris had asked me to do because she wanted to play hairdressers and she was no good with the scissors. Her hair had only suffered I explained because I was the one who was better with the scissors – simply because I was older. The game itself was definitely not my idea. I said nothing about the Bakelite swan and Doris did not argue when later I decided not to let her keep it after all. My mother was so angry that we were not taken to feed the ducks that afternoon after all which of course hurt Doris much more than it hurt me. She had never before known her Dear Little Niece to be so naughty and it was clear she was learning bad ways from somebody. I immediately agreed and suggested that maybe it was Margaret. Doris was still crying and said nothing at all and my mother simply gave me a very strange look.

Wednesday 15 May 2019

The Pigeons of Northfleet & Gravesend

Budgies and canaries, linnets and lovebirds were definitely not for all who lived in working class communities such as Gravesend and Northfleet. In fact it would be true to say that they appealed to women rather than men and the male members of linnet owning households were definitely not as conspicuous in their enthusiasm for them as their wives. Old Nan thought that as far as birds were concerned you couldn’t go past a parrot because they were a different matter, spending as much time out of their cages as within and having the gift of speech. But she thought you had to think carefully before becoming an owner because for one thing the cage itself would set you back a bob or two and in any case you never knew with parrots with them prone to being delicate. You might spend a lot only to have the bugger drop dead on you. However, should you be lucky enough to be blessed with one of a sturdy constitution it might even see you out. Her Edgar’s Uncle Snowball had inherited one before the turn of the century that had already seen its previous owner out and lived on for years after Snowball had succumbed to the perils of navigating that steep flight of stairs outside The Empire Tavern one Friday evening. In general when it came to birds you couldn’t beat a pigeon or two for a man she thought.

Aunt Mag later pointed out to my mother that Snowball had been well and truly in his cups at the time of his demise. My mother said anyhow bugger how long they lived because what was more concerning was the language they could come out with and it wasn’t natural. Because I had yet to make the acquaintance of a parrot I thought she meant that they were multi-lingual which to my mind would be an asset in case you happened to come across someone needing help in the High Street who only spoke French or German. You could then take them home for a quick translation and become known locally as extremely helpful to foreigners. It might even be more convenient for all concerned to take your parrot with you when shopping. None of the adults in our community seemed all that kindly disposed towards foreigners of course, my mother and her sisters in particular.

It was to be some time before I would discover that the language of parrots had little to do with translation and anyway by then I had already turned my attention to pigeons, birds that every child in the area was familiar with because Old Nan was right and if there was a household pet that men were keen on it was definitely the pigeon, both homing and racing not that I understood the difference. Mr Bassant next door had built what he said was a Pigeon Cree at the end of his allotment bordering The Old Rec, alongside Northfleet cemetery and he was always very keen to explain that his birds were Racing Homers and they could cover nearly a thousand miles in one sweep if necessary. The Cree looked very much like a garden shed to me and indeed he had reserved a space inside for his gardening tools and the wheelbarrow that he pushed laboriously up Springhead Hill twice a week full of vegetables. There was a big open window like space along one side and above it was a special platform with little holes where the birds took off and landed again to enter their nesting spaces. All his birds had names and when he spoke them he did so softly and lovingly, caressing the birds like babies. His favourites were Donald and Ridley because they could take off vertically rising from the wooden platform with no hesitation and soaring up to meet the currents and eddies above before twirling atop of the whirlpools of air. Then they looked for all the world like miniature aerial fighters, the Spitfires we all recalled so vividly from a few years before, tipping their wings and twisting triumphantly one to another. His girls, Betsy and Bella, Florence and Freda were more hesitant which he told us was female behaviour and sometimes they needed encouragement to follow their brothers and venture into the wide arc of sky above the marshland of the Estuary. Then he held them one after another close to his face and whispered to each and almost seemed to kiss each beak before the bird though initially unwilling, suddenly fluffed up her breast feathers and decided to fly.

Sometimes after school Molly and I, at times accompanied by Pat Turner who lived in a cottage very close to the Old Rec Allotments, visited Old Mr Bassant, taking with us a replacement lemonade bottle of cold tea and instructions from his wife as to when she expected him home for his liver and bacon. Then he told us about how clever his birds were and how when he sometimes took them all the way to Dover to visit another Pigeon Fancier, and released them there, by the time he got back to Northfleet in the evening all of them would have found their way home. We wanted to know how they knew their address and why they didn’t get muddled up and perhaps end up in Swanscombe or Greenhithe and Mr Bassant said they used the position of the sun to determine the proper direction for flight. But he didn’t know how they fared if it was a rainy day not that it deterred them because they never once went to the wrong allotment and he knew for a fact there were allotments in Swanscombe. On the way home Molly said that to a bird Swanscombe must look much the same as Northfleet from the air and she for one was impressed. She was going to ask Mr Will Clarke about it the next day at school.

Mr Clarke said he was pleased we were taking an interest in pigeons because the Romans had used them to carry messages more than two thousand years before and in fact Julius Caesar had found them invaluable during his conquest of Gaul. Then Billy Elliott who always seemed to know more than anyone else in the class added that The Greeks sometimes used them to carry the names of victors of various Olympic events to other cities. Mr Clarke said that yes, indeed, that was absolutely true and well done Billy. We were all impressed then especially when he added that he might speak to Mr Cook the headmaster about considering the idea of us having some school pigeons. We might find them more interesting than the cage full of mice in the corner of the infants’ room and we could have a roster for their care. In fact it never happened but it was a nice idea.
At the library in London Road the children’s librarian revealed that it might sound unbelievable but these astonishing birds had always been much more reliable than the postal service and carrier pigeons could accomplish in a few hours what freight services took more than a day to do. Some of them flew at more than sixty miles an hour and never, ever lost their way. Having learned all of this for a time Molly and I were full of enthusiasm for joining a Pigeon Fancier’s Club but it turned out that to become members you had to be sixteen years old and so then we began to lose interest especially since my mother said in her opinion they were Dirty Smelly Blighters and she wouldn’t want them in the back bedroom like some she wouldn’t name. She was referring to Aunt Elsie’s George from the Tooley Street sweet shop who had several birds living in their tiny attic room that he called his pigeon loft alongside extra cartons of cigarettes and tall bottles of Sherbet Lemons bought whilst the price was low. He wasn’t as friendly as Old Mr Bassant but he did tell us about a famous bird that saved the lives of dozens of French soldiers during The First World War. It was called Cher Ami which was French for Dear Friend and had carried a message across enemy lines during a battle. The bird was shot in the chest and lost most of the leg to which an important message was attached but it did not stop flying, continuing even through poison gas. Later Cher Ami was awarded a medal for heroism called The Croix de Guerre which was French for The Cross of War. I wondered if the injured leg ever healed but Aunt Elsie’s George didn’t know and in any case he was becoming tired of the conversation and I never found out and was never taken into the loft to view the birds. My grandmother said that was because he thought I might be light fingered as far as the stored sherbet lemons were concerned.

Typically, once he became aware of my now waning interest in pigeons my father came up with a great deal of information and this was one of the reasons that prevented me from asking his opinion on some matters. His explanations were generally of the lengthy and elaborate variety. But on this particular Sunday lunchtime, after carving up a piece of rather fatty lamb which I was eyeing suspiciously, he started to tell me about the Dickin Medal which he said was the equivalent of the Victoria Cross but for animals. I was cautiously more interested and so I listened. Apparently the first such award was given to a carrier pigeon. In February 1942 an RAF bomber was forced to ditch into the North Sea following a mission over Norway. The plane had been hit by enemy fire and now the crew of four had to try to survive in freezing waters. Luckily they had a secret weapon, a hen bird called Winkie and so they set her free hoping she could fly home to Dundee which was a place miles away in Scotland, and alert their colleagues at the base. Well Winkie flew a hundred and twenty miles and was found covered in oil and exhausted by her owner who informed the RAF in Fife which wasn’t Dundee but must have been nearby. The position of the downed plane was then able to be calculated using the time difference between it going down and the arrival of the bird in the place called Fife. A rescue mission was then launched and the four men were found within half an hour. They would certainly have died without the help of the pigeon so she became the toast of the base and a dinner was held in her honour. A few months later she became the first animal to receive the Dickin Medal `For valour under extreme circumstances’.

Not too long after this conversation I read of an American bird called GI Joe who saved more than a thousand lives in a village that was about to be bombed and another called Mary of Exeter who was used time and time again to send top secret messages. I learned that there is an inscription on the medals awarded that says `We Also Serve’ which seemed completely appropriate. And a few years ago whilst visiting Bletchley Park with my daughter I found myself paying particular attention to the displays, exhibits and information concerning the valiant feathered fighters of World War Two whose heroic deeds seem so sadly incongruous when placed alongside the myriad of communication choices we now have. Today as long as we have the right connection we can make mobile phone calls, send and receive text messages, send emails and contact all and sundry via Whatsapp and Facebook at the touch of a button. None of these choice options have quite the romantic appeal of the trusty carrier pigeon, however, fifty thousand of which were drafted into service in the 1940s to carry messages, deliver medicines and bring hope to situations that otherwise might have been hopeless.