Where Do I Begin

A Memory of Draycott.

Where do I begin? I have titled this memory thus and placed it in about 1960, because that's the most accurate I can make it. Ida (my mum) pushing me in a pram up the 'Cliff' to the wood yard, that used to be up by the six lanes end junction. The purpose of this jaunt being, to collect logs for the fire in the pram, which I would have then sat on top of for the return journey. We lived in the house I was born in, at number 16 Pipe Hay Lane (which was really number 15 but somewhere along the line this got screwed up and we ended up with number 16). These were the new council houses,three up and two down, outside, as well as, inside toilets and, by today's standards, a large garden which initially my dad tended loyally. Along with mum, dad and me were the oldest of my siblings David, my big sister Susan and our dog Floss (a 'bitzer' as I would now describe her) who I absolutely loved. Dad was a geordie from Normanby, who worked down the plaster pit at Fauld as a fitter - and a good one at that. Mum, was born and raised at the Swan (the local pub), along with her sisters Annie and Molly. Times couldn't have been all that easy with Dad's wages, and the fact that he preferred to frequent the pub more than he really should have done. That said, my mum and dad were very loving parents, and as the 'baby' of the family I don't think I wanted for much.
Before Pipe Hay Lane (and me - so pre '56), my family lived in a cottage near Woodedge towards Marchington. I don't know why this move took place (and I guess I never will), but all I have ever thought about this was; why on earth would they have moved from such an idyllic location? I still long after this property even now. My lasting memory of their time there, is my Dad telling me about the mice that nested in the piano, and how suddenly the instrument would start 'playing itself' at all hours of the night! Oh, and about the time when, during the war, he was on leave from the army (REME) and how he rejected the calls of an Italian POW who was trying to sell items at the door of their house! My next memories revolve around the village school, which of course was the building now used as the village hall. My first teacher was Mrs Keifer, who I adored because she was so kind and encouraging. Even at that early age I was mad about all things military (being so close to the end of WWII, as it was). I even insisted on going to school one day wearing a tea cosy on my head because to me it looked like the hats I had seen soldiers wearing!!! Playing British Bull Dogs in the playground, Hilda Morris cooking in the kithcen, and Don Thompson's (headteacher) great science lessons - all have wonderful memories for me. I learnt a lot from Don, though I was scared stiff of going up to his class when the time came. Only David my brother, could convince me that all would be well with this 'fearsome' Yorkshireman, as I perceived him to be in those very early years of my life. Fearsome he was not, and when in later life I was often asked who was my most revered teacher, it was Don. "Remember Maurice, we learn from our mistakes"... Well Don, I've made many. Have I learnt from them? - I hope so. My school time mates in those days were; Anthony Bott, Tim Steers, Nigel Nuttal and, biggest pal Les Buckley. Memories of playing up in the woods, Balls Park (before it was demolished) being chased around the fields by Richard Lawley in his tractor (didn't we learn some choice words from Richard?!) after scrumping the fruit in his fields. Sledging down Milner's Hill, making 'huts' (dens) in anything and everything that seem to offer excitement/adventure (to our minds at least), and generally just enjoying growing up in the most pleasant way. That said, we lost Chris Walker along the way - he died of cancer aged twelve. Christ, when I think of it now, his parents George and Doris must have been destroyed to lose him at such a young age. I recall going to his grave at Hanbury soon after the funeral, and on seeing a depression in the grass (at the head of the grave), hearing one of the Harrison girls say,'it was probably where the angel knelt after he was buried'. I have tried to find Chris's grave on several visits to the churchyard, to no avail. Poor lad lies somewhere near to where mum and dad lay. I'm running out of words for this 'memory'. I have lots more to add if anyone is interested, as I grew up there. It was a wonderful childhood and there is much I have to be thankful for.

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