I definitely showered far too many books and toys upon my children. At times they must have felt completely submerged. For years I totally abandoned any idea of sexy high heels and up to the minute fashion clothing and channeled all spare cash into what I then saw as the needs of the children. In fact I can't remember them ever nagging for something because I was excellent at anticipating their current cravings.
There was a time when I was never happier than touring toy shops and children's book departments, seeking out the very latest Playmobil essential or yet another retelling of Greek Myths. Looking back now I rather wish I had given more attention to the writing I felt I didn't have time for.
The obsession, because that's what it was, seems to have emerged from the circumstances of the second world war. Toys and books simply disappeared from shelves and even when they began to return they were prohibitively expensive. The mysterious illness my father fell victim to in North Africa prevented him from being among the first wave of demobilised troops and placed him nicely among the last. At least that's what I was told and I certainly wasn't too concerned as I didn't for one moment think he would be staying long if and when he returned and I certainly did not contemplate the fact that he might be living with us.
My mother, however, frequently mentioned that when he came back to us we would be in a much healthier financial position and might even be able to buy items like dolls' tea sets and books with colourful illustrations should they ever become available. In the interim she did very well on my behalf by creating a range of dressing up clothes out of discarded garments generally involving mock ups of what she called Crinoline Ladies. She was inordinately keen on embroidering these women from history onto tea towels and pillow cases so I was rather more familiar with them than most four or five year olds might be. The required Poke Bonnets that accompanied these outfits were fashioned from wads of newspaper covered with no longer serviceable flannelette bloomers. I was never too critical fortunately but appreciative a year or two later when bundles of brightly hued crepe paper became available from Woolworths in Gravesend High Street.
Other home fashioned games, particularly when the weather was warm enough involved a somewhat rough and ready tent made from a bed sheet and erected from the scullery door across to the tall fence that divided us from Mr & Mrs Bassant next door. On a summer afternoon a lot of fun could be had by factoring in the zinc bath that hung on the scullery wall and filling it with cold water. Equipped with sturdy tea mugs and a small saucepan or two several hours of entertainment could be had. These were shared with Molly from number 31 and sometimes a cousin or two from Crayford or Waterdales. Overall I preferred Molly's company and did not get on terribly well with any of the Constant cousins and none of the Hendy ones.
Winter was devoted to drawing pictures on the endless supply of paper kindly donated by my Uncle Walter who was a foreman at Bowaters. Some of the paper was described as Greaseproof and could therefore be used for tracing. With sheets of this and a newly sharpened pencil I could more accurately engage in reproducing the various advertising pictures and slogans in The Gravesend & Dartford Reporter.
On one occasion the pencil was so sharp and I leaned forward on the kitchen step to admire myself and it in the mirror by the scullery sink so enthusiastically that a nasty accident transpired. Somehow or other the pencil itself became embedded in the roof of my mouth and I was hurriedly conveyed to Dr Outred's waiting room, feeling important. However the latter feeling dissipated when he proceeded to give me a lecture on irresponsible behaviour that forced my poor mother to worry about me. Looking back I believe his attitude was somehow related to what had happened months previously when I redistributed all the drugs awaiting collection on his waiting room table to ensure that everyone got at least one of the small red ones.
There were times when I added my name to the dozens of drawings I did on a weekly basis of a detached house with smoke emerging from the chimney, a home carefully constructed between a row of trees and flowers. Already I had become keen to upgrade my living arrangements and our terraced cottage with no bathroom and an outside lavatory was not my first choice.
This decision about preferred housing only firmed up as time went on, particularly once I was old enough to join the library. Back then I think you had to be at least seven years old. The only books we had at home were The Home Doctor and People of the World in Pictures. I think both had been offered by the News of the World, postage included in the more than reasonable cost. I was startled years later to come across a copy of that self same People of the World on the shelves of a friend's London house and a quick examination revealed the very same families from far and wide that my mother had created stories about all those years ago. The most fascinating for me had always been the Australian quartet, totally naked in the outback. She never gave a believable reason for them losing all their clothes.
It was to be decades later that the lack of books and toys prompted me to ensure that my own children would never be in a position to think the same way about their own early childhood. It's quite odd that many years before they were likely to be born I was already organising in my imagination exactly what books they might be given to read. And whilst reading about the spacious and well equipped playrooms and toy cupboards of the middle classes I would at times even be compelled to design my own in the notebooks that had at some stage superseded Uncle Walter's wartime art paper.
One aspect of ensuring that the youngest members of the family have endless entertainment that was undoubtedly learned from my mother is that of never admitting defeat regarding a play project until all avenues have been explored. Thus when the kids became fixated on King Tutankhamen and all that went along with him it took less than no time to reach the conclusion that all things Egyptian should come to us in Kohimarama as far as possible. King Tut and one of his sisters were effortlessly brought to life with dress-up designs my mother would have been proud of. Spray paint, crepe paper and coloured ribbons rose magnificently to the occasion. A totally invented Egyptian meal circa 1320 BC was stimulating to compile and meanwhile the exploits of Howard Carter were avidly studied.
Later the various adventures of King Arthur's Round Table Knights were met with equal enthusiasm and by the time an interest in how plague and fire swept through seventeenth century London was expressed we had become old hands at recreating history. All in all it was a lot of fun and I am only now beginning to realise how much those Crinoline Ladies from the past played their part. Perhaps more importantly I also now see that the showering of Lego sets and Playmobil together with endless books on every subject were not nearly as important as they appeared to be at the time.
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