Brick on the Head

Peter Waite

Description

It's not easy to pinpoint that very first memory of being alive. The author's first recollection however was the sharp shock and pain of a carelessly tossed brick landing fair and square on his young head. He was only three years old, having been born in rural Lincolnshire just a few years after the end of World War Two.This heart-warming story describes his early years in a Dad-built caravan parked on a bomb-site. These living conditions, that would nowadays be regarded as abject poverty, were accepted by his parents with cheerful determination. Here is a simpler life of hard work, few possessions, no plastic packaging and no internet.The humour and also the benefits of a good state education shine through. Young Peter was first caned for 'drinking ink' in primary school and spent most of his time in college listening to music and chasing girls. He worked on a French farm, played drums in a jazz quartet, learned to ski and fly planes and skipper yachts. A love of the sea infuses the pages with both terrifying storms and blissful Mediterranean voyages.Having failed in his ambition to become a pilot, Peter worked briefly in a cigarette factory, as a civil engineer and eventually started an international textile business from scratch. As a budding entrepreneur, he travelled widely, drumming up business, staying in cheap hotels and getting into hilarious scrapes along the way.

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Memoir
• Lincolnshire

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 septembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781803139654
• Langue: English

Extrait

Copyright © 2022 Peter Waite

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.


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ISBN 978 1803139 654

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


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This book is dedicated to the people of Ukraine


Contents
Introduction
One
Bomb-Site
Two
Brutus and the Barn
Three
Drinking Ink
Four
Sticks and Stones
Five
The Quarry
Six
Wheels
Seven
Small Fish – Big Pond
Eight
Hello Sailor!
Nine
Drum and Bass
Ten
Vive la Différence
Eleven
Dreams and Reality
Twelve
Back to the Farm
Thirteen
Singing for Supper
Fourteen
Pretty Serious
Fourteen
Crazy Diamonds
Sixteen
Planks
Seventeen
Up
Eighteen
Down
Nineteen
Odyssey
Twenty
Yo-Ho-Ho!
Twenty-One
Stand and Deliver
Twenty-Two
Feel the Quality
Twenty-Three
Clocking Off
Twenty-Four
Heading South
Twenty-Five
Rear-View Mirror


Introduction
I belong to a very fortunate generation. Born in 1951, I just about escaped the hardship and rationing that spilled over from World War II and yet my parents and other adults I knew as I grew up had been through it and so I felt touched by it. Likewise, my grandparents had had even worse experiences in the 1914-1918 Great War. Both of my grandfathers survived war in the trenches to return to ‘a land fit for heroes’. Like many such survivors they were reluctant to talk about their experiences but I was marked by some of their values, character and a kind of gallows humour that allowed them to cope with all that they had endured.
This is the story of a fully paid-up member of the ‘Baby Boomer’ generation. It is told almost entirely from memory so, whilst I have tried to be true to the facts, personalities and times, I must apologise in advance for any inaccuracies. Unfortunately I kept no diaries except for a few notebooks randomly and intermittently scribbled during my late teens and early twenties. Regrettably, I hardly discussed our family story with my parents when I had the chance and now they are both gone. My brother and sister have provided valuable information, as have my friends and I am grateful for all their help. I have always been a bit of a day-dreamer, a dabbler, a jack-of-all-trades and master of none and it was only when I began to write this story that I came to realise that, for many years, I enjoyed what is known as ‘The Bachelor Lifestyle’. However, in case I give the impression that my life has been nothing but a joy-ride, I must stress that, in writing this book, I have largely skipped through the day-to-day slog of earning a living.

Setting down my story has been a satisfying and enjoyable exercise and, if there is one piece of advice that I would humbly offer it is, if your parents are still around, talk to them more, listen and learn. People of my era are products of the years immediately following World War Two; a period of austerity combined with the heady relief that finally the madness and bloodshed was over. Blessed with free education (including a little bottle of milk every day), free healthcare, no National Service and therefore no compulsion to fight anybody, mine was and is a truly fortunate generation. It now seems that few lessons have been learned and, once again, our world is faced with mindless slaughter in Europe and beyond.


One
Bomb-Site
I was born a Yellowbelly on the 12th of April 1951. Yes - a Yellowbelly. A native of Lincolnshire, that little-known and largely agricultural county, sprawling from the East Midlands to the east coast of England. The origins of the colourful title are unclear and there are many theories, but the most plausible is that the officers of the Royal North Lincolnshire Militia wore bright yellow waistcoats on the battlefield. As far as I know, the name has nothing to do with an attack of jaundice or with inherent cowardice. Let’s face it, if you are stupid enough to go charging into battle wearing a yellow target of a waistcoat, you might be accused of many things; foolhardiness, idiocy, exhibitionism, bad dress sense – but you’re certainly no coward.
It is said that life is a circle. We are born, it is assumed, with no memories; unable to walk or speak, dribbling and sleeping for much of each day with no responsibility for our actions. And, sadly, this is also how many of us will end our days. Anyhow, I came yelling and gurgling into this world in my grandparents’ little house in Rectory Lane in the village of Waddington, a few miles south of Lincoln. I don’t know why my mother gave birth in that place, but it might have had something to do with the fact that my parents lived in a home-made caravan on a bomb-site and maybe the birthing facilities there weren’t quite up to scratch.
My parents were both Yellowbellies too. My dad, Les, like me born in Waddington and my mum, Betty, from Grimsby, a coastal town which, for much of the 20th century, hosted the world’s largest fishing fleet. They were both of that generation still largely moulded by the Victorian era. There was strict discipline but also, especially in those rural surroundings, great freedom. This combination of strictness and freedom, I’m pleased to say, formed the framework for my own upbringing.
I was always intrigued by the stories my parents told me of their childhood. My father, born and bred in Waddington, rarely left the village when he was a boy. I believe that, when he was a little older, the church ran occasional charabanc outings to the seaside but, apart from those rare escapes, the village was his world. That does’t mean that life was dull for him. In those days there were several farms within the village itself. I remember saying once to my grandad, ‘I’ll bet it was quiet in Waddington when you were a lad?’
‘You must be joking’, he said, ‘What with the cows mooing, cocks crowing, dogs barking, steam-engines puffing and horses neighing, you couldn’t hear yourself think!’ As a small boy, one job my dad enjoyed was delivering the huge working carthorses to and from their pastures down Somerton Gate Lane (or Milking Hill, as we called it) for a well-earned rest. These gentle giants had to be ridden bare-back but the young village lads were hardly grown-up enough to straddle the horses’ broad backs so they perched on as best they could, clinging to their manes for dear life, as they steered them to and from the lush pasture.
Village kids were expected to help with all kinds of farm work. Of course the main cereal harvest was very important and that is why long summer school holidays first came about. Village people, young and old, were all expected to help but, as well as cereals, lots of root crops had to be lifted. Lincolnshire is still famous for its potatoes and, in my father’s time and right up to quite recently, all had to be picked by hand. It really is back-breaking work. The farmer made several passes with a rusty old contraption called a ‘spinner’, towed behind a little old grey ‘Fergie’ (Massey Ferguson) tractor. Wheezing its way along the rows, the machine brought the potatoes to the surface ready for gathering. Bent double for hours on end and paid only by actual weight in the baskets, we certainly knew when we’d spent a day ‘tatie-pickin’’.
The young children of the village had few toys so they had to innovate and adapt and use their imaginations to amuse themselves. The main Lincoln to Grantham road, now the A607, cuts through the eastern part of Waddington but, until the 1940s, much of it was little more than a glorified limestone farm track. When my