Copyright
2010 Ian Olds
23
January 2010
Having arrived in Lelant in 1954 at the age of three, I only have very hazy recollections of my early life at the old vicarage. The house had formerly been a school for young ladies with riding as an integral part of the syllabus. Both the house and land were in a sorry state of disrepair when we arrived; nearly all the rooms on the ground floor were painted black. The cellar had rows of pews as it had been used as a chapel and the house was generally in a very shabby state. The garden and adjoining land were very overgrown. This of course was a perfect environment for an inquisitive three year old, before the days of a health and safety conscious society and in an age of innocence.
The
family plan was to open the house, now named Brush End, as a guest house and
use the land, some four to six acres, to grow produce, not only to be used in
the guest house but also to sell any spare, or barter for things we did not
produce. We did of course have the advantage of my grandfather running a farm
in the village producing milk and all the associated products that is, cream,
butter etc and beef of course. We used the stables to fatten pigs and rear
chickens for meat and eggs. At a later date we converted the grass tennis court
into a chicken pen for up to two thousand chickens at one stage. I believe to
start with this all went very well, until the legislation on slaughtering of
livestock changed which made the plan much less viable. I know that I was
always very well fed and to this day I appreciate good fresh produce. For 1954
this seemed a very enlightened way of life.
My
earliest definite memory of my childhood in Lelant was my first traumatic day
at the village school. My mother was busy finishing breakfast for the guests,
my father, who worked for South Western Electricity Board in Camborne, a very
long commute in 1955, had left for work. The only person available to take me
to school was my uncle Walter, who would drop me off at the school on his way
back to the farm after delivering the milk to Primrose Dairy at St Erth
station. I did not want to go to school so when Walter arrived in the pony and
trap to pick me up I resisted and had to be restrained. I eventually arrived at
the infants entrance to the school, had my coat removed, and was thrown into
the classroom. Walter was not known for his tolerance of children or for the
milk of human kindness so he left me distressed, crying and screaming inside
the door, being gazed at by all the other children. This led to my first
encounter with Miss Newman, well actually not her, but her feet, clad in
sandals; they seemed enormous to a skinny five year old and have haunted me
ever since. She appeared to me to be a big woman, not fat but tall, I suppose
being tall she needed those feet. I very slowly grew to like her and with the
benefit of hindsight I now know she was a very caring and skilful teacher with
a lot of patience, which she was going to need with me.
The
school had three classrooms and teachers. Miss Newman looked after the infants
and what would now be known as the reception class. Mrs Golding, to whom one
would progress when you were seven, and stay with until you where nine. My
older sister was already about to leave Mrs Golding's class and join Miss
Pickering in anticipation of the dreaded eleven plus.
Generally
the school was a very happy place. There was an old tree built into the wall in
the playground which had rotted from the inside and could be climbed on to and
into; the school playground was a hard tarmac or concrete surface which would
graze knees with ease. The playground is of course where children develop their
social skills and involved games like "kingy," the rules of which escape me
now; I am not totally sure I had a full grasp of them then but they seemed fun
at the time. Having a hard surface playground presented some problems when it
came to PT as great big heavy jute mats had to be placed strategically to land
on after running and jumping etc. It always seemed to me that they had been
strategically placed to trip over. The toilets were what one might call
primitive, a blacked tar wall with a drain at the bottom with a cistern and
pipe. I can honestly say I never remember going into or using the cubicle
toilet while at Lelant school. I suppose I must have done but my overlying
memory was that it was a fearful place. There was a wall dividing the
playground segregating the girls from the boys. The wall had one gap in it
which was patrolled by the teacher on playground duty. Lunchtime was
interesting: many children would go home for lunch and some of the mothers of
the very young children would collect them, but mostly the children would walk
home on their own and without the benefit of lollipop ladies or the green cross
code (oh happy days). I stayed for
school dinners which I thought where very good and enjoyed. I think in my last year at Lelant school they were sixpence
a day (I may well be wrong about that). Leaving school at the end of the day
was very like lunchtime. I remember one incident: on the way home from school
it started to rain, a very heavy spring storm. I had no coat and Mrs Ruth Tonks
was rushing towards the school to collect her son Stephen with coat in hand;
she covered me with a plastic mac and sent me on my way, having been scolded
for not taking shelter. This was typical in the close community of Lelant
village. On the way home from school a visit to Mrs Evans's sweet shop, which
was the first house on the left at the top of Church Road, was often required.
I vaguely remember using farthings to buy sweets, I don't think they were still
legal tender. I bought gobstoppers and blackjacks and refreshers, loose wine
gums and sherbet fountain with a liquorice tube to suck up the sherbet. Half
pennies were still legal tender and went a surprisingly long way in those days.
In
the class-two years, to which I now refer, Mrs Golding had left, and my
understanding of the situation was that the numbers in the school had dropped
and they could no longer justify three teachers. Miss Newman and Miss Pickering coped with the assistance of a
series of part time or supply teachers I never really got to know.
Days
out were a special treat at the school. Trencrom Hill was the destination for
one memorable day. Some parents had been co-opted to help out. We were to walk
to the top of Trencrom Hill, a fair hike for an eight year old carrying
sandwiches and a bottle of pop. We were all marshalled into pairs and set off
in good crocodile fashion. On reaching the summit we ate our sandwiches and
drank our pop, we were given paper and pencils and told to draw what we could
see. Some drew rocks and some drew people I remember having a bash at St
Michaels Mount which ended up looking like Knills Steeple and soon got bored.
Late in the afternoon we set off home again, Lucky it was all downhill. The
interschool sports between Lelant, Trevarrack, and Nancledra were always a
highlight of my year. The schools took turns to host the sports and a field
near the host school was used, a running track was laid, out parents attended,
all finished off with a good tea. As I
was good at sport I nearly always came away with a prize.
The
school got involved with the village produce show held in the village hall, paintings,
and gardens in soup bowls, models, all displayed on the stage area of the old
village hall. I call it the "old" village hall because when I was at Lelant
School it had not yet been modernised and was nearly falling down. It had a
balcony supported by big green columns and this could be accessed from outside
by some steps, which went up to a very wide door. I only ever remember it being
opened for very important guests. Generally entry was gained by double doors at
the lower level. The auditorium had a wooden floor which was noisy to walk on
even in plimsolls, so if you arrived late for an event there was a mass turning
of heads and disapproving looks and harmony of "tuts". My mother was notorious
for being late so we were often subjected to this humiliation. There was a
stage arch and theatre curtains. All
the paintwork was green There was a big cupboard in brown and yellow GWR livery
just inside the front doors with Lelant Band written on it. The stairs at the
back of the stage led down past a ladies toilet and into a kitchen area where
the fruit and vegetables were displayed at the show. Gentlemen wishing to use
the toilet were directed to a brick structure at the back of a little overgrown
garden. Many of the gentlemen attending functions at the village hall preferred
to use the conveniences at the Lelant Hotel (The Badger). I wonder why?
One
incident related to the village show, I remember, started when my mother
exhibited in the fresh eggs class six very brown eggs. She was approached by
another exhibitor and asked how she managed to get her eggs so brown. Jokingly
she said that she had stayed up all night dipping them in black coffee. When
she went to view the results by looking to see which entries had prize tickets
on them, she found her entry with a note saying they were disqualified. She was
not pleased and didn't speak to somebody for a very long time. The village show
was then, and I expect still is, very competitive.
The
school Christmas party was always a scream and pee generating event. There were
games, a visit from Father Christmas where everybody got a present, and country
dancing to Miss Pickering's wind up gramophone, the Circassian Circle and the
Gay Gordons, all great fun, and in a very different world.
The
British education system allowed holidays, especially in the summer where in
country areas children were expected to help with the harvest. This in my case
provided the exact length of time to forget what had been learned in school in
the previous year. And, yes, I do remember helping with the harvest (well I
called it helping). In fact the whole family would gather for a big lunch/tea
in the fields with pies, sandwiches, tea, and pop, and my grandmother's
memorable ham with freshly picked tomatoes that smell of the greenhouse.
Most
of the summer holidays were spent having adventures. I could clear off in the
morning and not be seen again until teatime.
Sometimes with friends playing cowboys and Indians imitating the actions
of Roy Rogers, Buffalo Bill, and the heroic stand at the Alamo. Spending days
on the beach getting extremely sunburned while digging holes until the water
came in. Building sand defences to keep the sea at bay which they never did.
The beach at Lelant was dangerous but we were locals and we knew where to swim
and when. When friends were not available I was lucky, I could play in the
garden, climb trees, build dens and annoy my sister. Saturday was change-over day. I was expected to do my bit at
Brush End. Helping guests with their luggage, collecting laundry, cutting the
grass (well helping dad cut the grass), trimming the lawn edges. I even earned
money in the form of tips from guests, usually enough to keep me in sherbet
lemons and Corona orangeade purchased from the village shop. If I went further
up the village I could go to Polglase Stores which had a very distinctive smell
a mixture of paraffin, cheese, and bacon, with a hint of cleaning fluid. It
sounds revolting but it was reassuring.
While
on the subject of smells, my mother would go on a midweek shopping expedition
to Penzance. With dad being at work, and mother not able to drive, the number
17 Western National came into play.
Mother, children, and a selection of baskets would be seen running up
the village to the bus stop, outside the village hall. As I said before mother
was not known for punctuality and often a bloody minded bus driver, as she
would call them, would drive off leaving us gasping fifty yards short of the
bus stop. When we eventually arrived at Penzance railway station we would head
up Market Jew Street calling at various shops, gradually filling the baskets
and gathering brown paper parcels tied with string, not a plastic bag in sight.
I was allowed a drool down the window at Kneebones or Knees toy shop (I think
it was called that) before being dragged whining to Jacobs, International
Stores, and the fruit shop next to the White Lion. The last port of call was
Halls on the corner of Alverton. Dad enjoyed cheese, especially gorgonzola.
Halls sold very good mature cheese. A fairly respectable quantity of gorgonzola
was purchased and wrapped. We now headed for the bus stop near the Davy
monument and if my mother was true to form we would see the bus disappearing
down Market Jew Street and would have to stand around for an hour. In the
summer the Gorgonzola would start to sweat in the heat. And strangely enough we
always managed to get a seat on the top deck and on one occasion cleared the
top deck completely.
One
of the things that really annoyed my grandfather was the way part of the
saltings at Lelant between the railway line and the path behind the Woodlands
Hotel (as it was then) was used. It was a landfill site, taking rubbish from
the local towns of Hayle and, more annoyingly for the people of Lelant, St
Ives. The smell used to permeate the village when the wind was in the right, or
more to the point, the wrong direction.For a small boy who had a seriously inhibited sense of smell due to
being confined with gorgonzola cheese on a hot day, and no fear of typhoid,
cholera or hepatitis, it was the perfect playground. There were old pram wheels
to make bogies with, bits of jagged metal to pull just to find out what they
are attached to, glass in sheets and bottles to smash with stones, wonderful
greasy stuff which would stick to shoes and stain carpets. Many a happy hour
was spent on the village dump.
The
estuary was a place of fascination and intrigue to a small boy. Boats of all
shapes and sizes were moored there. A lady called Mrs Oliver lived on a
houseboat at the end of the wall at Brewery moorings. She was a kindly lady and
would often talk to us. I suppose she worked on the principle that it was
better to talk to us and make her presence known, than have to tolerate the
screaming and shouting of a gang of ten to twelve olds. There was an old steel
hull moored there and it was a wonderful pirate ship; it would rock from side
to side on the sand creating the storms of the Spanish Main.
Peter
Scott and the BBC once made a programme on the estuary and several local
children fancied their chances of stardom and were annoyingly trying to get
into every shot, disturbing the birds, the real stars of the show. A BBC
technician was despatched to deal with the troublesome youths. After a
discussion, well, as much of the kind of discussion you can have with children,
eventually money changed hands in the form of sweets, ice cream, and anything
else that could be extorted from the poor hapless chap. We moved on to occupy a
tree in Napiers woods from where we could watch television being made.
Related
to the making of television, in 1954 when we moved down from Middlesbrough, we
owned a television which had to be put into storage until a transmitter was
built and broadcasts were started. I don't remember the actual date but I do
remember the occasion. The television was dusted off and tested. The family
were assembled: parents, grandparents, uncles and aunts, children, and selected
friends. At Brush End we employed some of the local women and a lady called
Olive Courtice was busy in the kitchen when the broadcast started. Olive
chanced to poke her head round the lounge door. On seeing the television in the
corner she burst out with "ugh, work of the devil that is" and headed back to
the kitchen. As it turns out she was a lady of great insight.
Another village event that as a family we got involved with was the gymkhana. It was usually held in a field at the top of golf road just before the crossroads on Longstone Hill. The field when looked at from the gate had a patch of rough wooded land in the far right hand corner. As a very young child the whole family, including the extended family from St Ives, would pull up in cars in a row next to the show ring and quite convenient for the beer tent. My grandfather, being on the committee, ensured this space was available every year as it was also near the committee tent. The highlight of the day for me when I was young was getting in amongst the foxhounds of the local hunt; they were beautiful animals with soft mouths and very strong bodies built for running. When I got a bit older I would meet up with my school pals, many who lived in Carbis Bay, and create havoc in the rough woodland enjoying ourselves so much our parents had to physically drag us away when they wanted to leave.
Come
the beginning of November every young lad turned his attention to flambos and
the gathering of. The flambo is the flower of bulrushes, a brown, velvety
sausage on a long stem, it was soaked in paraffin and lit as a torch on bonfire
night. The best source of flambos could be found on the Hayle River between the
causeway and St Erth village on the right hand side in a boggy pond. The
gathering of flambos was an art form in its own right. The secret is to stay on
top of the aforementioned boggy pond by making a raft out of any available
material which would support your weight, a calculation a small boy often got
wrong, arriving at home covered in organic matter, very cold, very wet, and
very smelly. Many extra baths were needed in November.
All
too soon the eleven plus came to decide my future. It seemed that childhood was
over, the carefree days of warm sunshine, warm people, and no responsibility
had drawn to an end and the process of growing up had to start in earnest.