The treat on a Saturday or a Sunday night was a walk across the fields to Humberstone village, which had two public houses: the Plough, which according to many sold the best beer and kept it the best; and a quaint thatched country public house, the Windmill, which was the families’ choice because it had a garden so you could sit outside. It seems funny to reminisce, as the evenings always seemed to be sunny and the general atmosphere was always friendly and convivial with impromptu singsongs and organised games for children. Money was quite scarce so drunkeness was always minimal, except for one or two characters who shall be nameless, although even that was non-aggressive. I suppose, because the majority of the men were old soldiers who were used to the camaraderie of the trenches, this was to carry through to a civilian life of mutual help and friendship. I remember the long walk back down the hill, across by the asylum, and being carried the last piece by my father, half awake, half asleep, and then being put to bed in utter contentment. Is it imagination?
When we first moved into the Portwey my father worked on the railway and used to keep his bicycle in the kitchen, as he started as a knocker-up then a cleaner and finally as a goods checker. His father and grandfather had both worked on the railway. Sometimes he worked days and sometimes he worked nights and his cycle was the property of the railway. My joy was to light the paraffin lamp on the front of the bike which had to be filled with paraffin; it was on a hinged bracket which clipped to the lamp bracket of the bike. The wick was trimmed and lit, the top casing hinged backwards so the tank with the wick alight could be put into the housing, the wick turned up and trimmed and the case closed up. It had a vent on top and a spring mounting for the lamp bracket. The bulls-eye glass at the front was clipped closed and it had two coloured glass windows at the side, port and starboard, red and green. When all was assembled the flame burnt steadily and brightly without smoke. It was vented at the top and you could warm your hands there although the vent at the top got very hot.
Although my father worked hard and long peculiar hours, he always had time for the children, both me and my sister, and I remember well sharing his meal when he arrived home and sitting in a large chair on his knee while he sang to me.
My special friend was Fred Soars and, up to the time he was called up for the second war, we were absolutely inseparable—even to the point of us both being apprenticed to the same trade and spending our lives in the printing industry. It was Fred who had a serious accident coming home one Saturday night. He and Reg Cooper were racing down the Humberstone Hill and collided with a car. He was in the infirmary for a while but came out a hero in our eyes, with broken bones and a large gash on his chin, a scar he carried for the rest of his life. Fred was always the instigator of what we did, but was always prone to something happening to him. I doubt if even he could tell you the number of times he broke his arm. He always seemed to be in plaster for some reason or another. It must have had an effect on his health as he was sent to the open air school at Western Park to be “built up” (as it was phrased then).
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