Distant Baths

Late night memories…

Unable to sleep, I am up at 4.30 am and typing while the kettle starts to hiss in the kitchen.

I was soaking in the bath on Monday, off sick with some sort of flu, and I floated back to days when I was a very young boy, sharing a bath with my older brother, Rob. There’s a strange thing about memories because as time passes, things meld and become composite memories and sometimes when they’re analysed the component parts can be broken out. I had this memory of mum rinsing my hair, I was a fussy little boy and to calm me down she’d always lean my head back and pour the water over me head with a plastic jug, carefully avoiding splashing any in my eyes. This wasn’t good enough for me as I’d always be scared that some water would drip down, so I’d hold a flannel over my eyes.

As I lay in the bath with the water drizzling down the overflow, I was transported back to a specific Sunday evening bath time, I was probably 13 years old and wallowing in an almost overflowing tub with “Top of the Pops” on the radio, there are two number one songs that stick in my mind, specifically listened to while my toes and fingers crinkled. “Without You” by Nillson and “American Pie” by Don Mclean. From those two songs I could find out the exact nights these memories relate to.

Returning to the composite memories, I pictured me and Rob, in the bath and I was playing with the multicolored plastic plane, it had detachable floats. We also had a solid rubber ring (quoit?) that was a bath toy. Of course, it then occurred to me that this wasn’t the same bath tub, although the memory appeared to play out in the Pottery Lane tub, this wasn’t so. I was around 11 years old when we moved to Whiston and I don’t think the pair of us ever shared a bath there.

So the bath was in Botanic Road, but I have no clear picture in my mind what that bathroom was like. The house was three stories tall and our bedroom was on the first floor, I suppose the bathroom was on the same floor. I have particular earlier memories of bathing in front of the fire, downstairs, in a tin tub I believe. Mum would put our pajamas in the cubby holes of the cast iron fireplace to warm, she’d have pans of water on the gas stove in the kitchen and would fill the “Creda” electric boiler. This was a wall mounted glass appliance that was to the left of the kitchen sink, it was filled using a rubber hose that connected to the tap and had it’s own chromed pipe and tap to empty it after it boiled.

We’d actually both be sitting in this tin tub, facing each other and the last of the water would be poured in between us, often the backwash would almost “burn our willies” so to avoid this we’d cover our “teapots” with our hands. The water would be very hot to start and would quickly cool, then one at a time we’d be whisked out of the bath into a big towel and rubbed. With a swish of talc we’d be in our little warmed pajama’s and red dressing gowns (with the tassles) and be ready for some Ovaltine and toast.

The pair of us would sometimes sing “We are siamese, if you please” the cat song from the Walt Disney movie Lady and the Tramp, both parading naked in front of the fire much to the delight of mum, I would have been around three years old, Rob six.

So, back to the flannel, in the upstairs bathroom in Botanic road, mum would wash my hair, probably with baby shampoo but possibly with fairy liquid, then rinse my head carefully holding my head back at an angle. This would then signal the end of bathtime and the Rob and I would go through the motions of emptying out all the toys which had filled with water, the plug would then be pulled but I’d always want to stay in the bath until it was drained. Mum had a method where she’d say “You’ll go down the plughole!” which I partially believed, so I’d wait until the last few pints of water were gurgling out before having my panic and into the big towel, (most towels are big when you’re only three foot tall).

All this in a bathroom I can’t remember!.

Derek Hennin

Derek Hennin, who was born on the 28th December 1931 in Prescot and died in January 1989, was an English professional footballer who played as a wing half. He was part of the Bolton Wanderers side that won the 1958 FA Cup Final against Manchester United.

Hennin was a product of the St Helens Combination league, having left hometown club Prescot Cables for Bolton Wanderers in June 1949. He had to wait almost five years for his league debut against Tottenham Hotspur. He went on to make 164 league appearances for the club, with his first of his eight goals arriving against Blackpool in January 1957.

The following season saw him help Bolton reach the FA Cup final, where he was selected for the 2–0 win over Manchester United.

In February 1961 Hennin joined Chester, making his debut in a 2–1 derby win at Wrexham. He was installed as captain the following season but left the club at the end of the season after they again finished bottom of the The Football League. This marked the end of Hennin’s professional career, as he joined non-league side Wigan Athletic.

Prescot cables by the way, was where my grandfather, Arthur Sandiland Weldon, worked as a splicer.

Maid of Honour

The lady who was a witness at my mum and dads wedding was Mary Wright, I'm assuming that she was a good friend of my mum, Dorothy, and I'm certain that she was a member of the extended Weldon family in Huyton Quarry.

She was born in Tarbock, and later, still as a baby, the family moved to Huyton, which is when the family association began. The Wright family initially lived on Hall lane in a flat over a shop that was opposite our family Fish and Chip shop.

In addition, when she was about two years old (around 1935) the family moved to St. Gabriels Avenue in Huyton, the same Avenue that my Grandparents, Arthur and Margaret, lived on.

In 1954, a year or so after my mum and dad's wedding, Mary married a footballer called Derek Hennin.

Birthday

Exactly ten years before I was born a brave young test pilot named Chuck Yeager broke the sound barrier for the very first time, something that was thought to be impossible.

Just three years before that, to the day, another brave man, German Military Commander, Field Marshall Erwin Rommel - nicknamed 'the Desert Fox' - comitted suicide by taking a cynanide tablet shortly before being arrested on suspicion of being involved in the failed attempt to assassinate the German leader Adolf Hitler.

It was coincidently, eight hundred and seventy eight years before that, to the day, that another brave man, William, who was later to be called the conqueror, was proclaimed King of England.

And, it is Cliff Richards birthday.

Colomenditz

Calamity week continues on the blog:

Since 1939 generations of Liverpool schoolkids have stayed at Colomendy, Liverpool City Council's outdoor pursuit camp in North Wales.

Robert, my brother went and I didn't and for a few years, I didn't and then, one year, young David finally had his chance to go to the camp.



This was the dormitory, and well, it wasn't bad at all to a bunch of ten year olds back in 1967, I remember reading a book under the covers with my ladybird torch, snuggled in for sleep after late night milk and cookies in another hut while watching thousands of flies bounce off lights all over the camp.

The calamity happened about two days into my weeks stay, I was running with three or four pop bottles when I slipped and fell, one major shard of glass punctured my right hand at the base of my thumb, very deep and I was rushed to hospital for stitches.

This was typical of my early life, another great adventure was truncated by a foolish moment, for the rest of my "active" time there I had my hand bandaged up and in a sling, regardless the week at the camp remains a great memory.

Jumper

Stricken with flu at the moment, reminds me of a time when my older brother, Robert, jumped down from a high place in the grotto in Sefton Park, Liverpool and bit into his own knee.

A simple kid thing, jumping, lots of elastic and damping working for you, and in this case, he just over extended and his teeth impacted his knee, no big deal.

What was to be a big deal happened next as we went to the big pond and wet a hanky and cleaned the wound for him, doing the right thing in a very wrong way, a pond where old men spat, little kids widdled and gosh knows what else.

I recall Rob, a few days later, with a bottle of pink stuff from Doctor Forshaw, laid out on the couch, almost at deaths door with a hugely inflamed and swollen leg, waiting for that new fangled penicillin to take effect, of course, as kids always did back then, he survived to jump another day.

The Players

Introducing some of the people discussed or to be discussed in this blog:




Front and centre, the Hairdresser and the Taxi Driver. Dorothy (Edwards) and Arthur Weldon. Their wedding day, March 29th, 1952

The tall guy at the back, left hand side is my Grandfather on my mums side, "Jack" Edwards, his wife is far left "Betsey". The chap peaking over my dads shoulder is my other Grandfather, the old mother Riley one, and his wife, dressed like a grizzly Bear, Margaret is standing proudly in front.

There are three more people in the photo, peeking out of the church is my Auntie Alda and the best man, Stanley Weldon is at the top right and the maid of honour, Mary Wright is front left, next to my mum.

Old Mother Riley

I have few memories of my grandparents, my grandfather on the Weldon side was another Arthur, Arthur Sandiland Weldon.

It seemed that back in the 1950s, everyone had a "party piece" that they would roll out during an occasion, and this is one of those things that I remember about him.

One of Arthurs party pieces was to dress up as 'Old Mother Riley' who was an old Irish washerwoman made famous on stage and screen by Arthur Lucan (Born, Arthur Towle, in Boston, Lincolnshire in 1887).

This is my grandfather in all his Old Mother Riley glory:

Wales

In these days of almost 24 hour shopping, the following is quite funny in the life of the hairdresser and the taxi driver.

Stanley Weldon, who was Arthurs lifetime friend, tells the story of the move from Whiston to Wales as being a nightmare as the volume of stuff was underestimated, especially in the garage, plus there was the wrapping (in newspaper) of all the frozen goods in the 17 cubic foot chest freezer.

Dorothy was a member of a frozen food club, and that freezer was always full.

They emptied the huge freezer, loaded it into the van, wrapped all the food and packed it all back in. Then a 90 minute journey to Rhyl and the reverse process, unpack, unload, unwrap and repack.

The big problem down in Wales occured when it was realised that the power cord from the freezer wasn't long enough to reach the socket in the new garage, and of course, it was either after five o'clock or half day closing and the only available extension cord was hidden in a packing crate somewhere.

It's another one of those stories where you would have to be there to see the funny side of it all, another reason for my mum to break out a bottle of Malibu.

If only she could find it.....

The Hairdresser

Dorothy used to tell stories of the local actors and actresses who frequented the salon she worked for around St. Georges Place in Liverpool Town centre. They were from the Empire Theatre, New Shakespeare Theatre and often gawdy, sometimes openly homosexual which was very much a taboo back in the early 1950s. They did have money though, and tipped well. She told stories of the Adelphi Hotel and wild parties that stretched into the night although she never witnessed these first hand.

She used to buy her cigarettes from a small tobacconists at number 16, in between the Imperial and Washington Hotels at St. Georges Place. Probably unfiltered Woodbines.

In the very early 1950s she was offered at job to work on a cruise ship, as a hairdresser, but declined as she had met the young cheeky Arthur Herbert Weldon. This became a "standard" of stories in the Weldon household, often preceded with "I should have", "I could have", "I wish you had have" etc.

The Taxi driver

In the middle of the 1950s, my dad the taxi driver, was employed at the Meccano toy factory, Binns Road, Liverpool. The job of paint tester was basically quality control for the enamel paints that were used on the Meccano construction kit parts, toy trains and Dinky cars. Paint would be sprayed onto glass and the drying time, consistancy and colour checked.




It was around this time that Arthur, during lunch and tea breaks, would sell shirts and ties to the many female employees. This was a practice that was looked down on by the bosses and may also have affected his timekeeping.

He used to cycle from Botanic Road to Binns Road via Edge Lane on his old boneshaker, which would usually take 30 minutes or so, and was warned about his timekeeping. After a bout of what Arthur called dysentry, he was late one more time and was sacked.

This was a transitional point in his life and the last time that he would work for an employer, in the process of eventually becoming a taxi driver, dad would be a barrow boy market trader, shop keeper, prawn and seafood salesman and do anything he could to "earn a note" and keep the family machine running.

Name calling

Five minute moment, just one a day, but already, here in February, I'm slacking and falling behind, I mean, it's only five minutes and I am retired, so what's the deal?

I would say I've been sick, but really, that's just another excuse, five minutes.

The concept of a diary, the luxury of a notepad on past life, just five minutes per day to assemble the life to date, the life and opinions of another Tristram Shandy or David Weldon, a possible but impossible task.

A name like David is quite useful, because it can be used in many ways, David, Dave or even little Davey, as in Davey Jones the most annoying little fake British member of the Monkeys.

In the stories of my younger naughty life, it would always be David and that has stuck with me throughout life, whenever anyone calls me David, I remember my mums tone in those uncomfortable moments. However, she would also call me to dinner with a higher pitched, drawn out David, so it wasn't all bad.

Stolen Goods

I was writing to my son today, and I recalled this :

I don't know what it was about Liverpool, growing up there, a certain level of "scally" gets infused into a person, when we moved "up" to Whiston, Lancashire at the age of 14, my mum and dad shelled out for a Switzerland trip which was a chance in a lifetime for me.

The little village we stayed at had a supermarket, full of lovely swiss chocolate and sunglasses and you guessed it, quite a few of our group of about 25 started shoplifting and I actually bought several items, bargain prices of course, off a couple of my "mates".

It seemed to legitimise the process, I wasn't stealing, just buying.

What an idiot.

Anyway, as with all schemes, it came tumbling down as the shop owners noticed the enormous amount of stuff going missing, so they talked to our teachers and there was an inquisition where the group was isolated on the top floor of the hotel and all the names came out, divide and conquer as they say.

A night of shame.

It all seem to fade away and happiness returned in my young life until mum and dad were called to the school for another night of the long knives a month after we returned.

Free range Eggs

I'll have to motor on this one to type it out in five minutes.

I was trusted, at the great age of nine, or thereabouts, to stroll up to the farm shop at the top of the road, to buy some free range eggs.

Money in hand, I walked up and had to pass the newsagents, they sold eggs too, and they were cheaper, so I bought some, plus, with the change, bought five bubblies, penny bubble gums.

Two went in to the face and they were chewed rapidly in the slow walk home, then I realised that I had the evidence on me, so the other three were pushed under the back gate of some neighbours house, panic was setting in.

The unblinking eyes gazed up at mother and swore that the eggs, complete with little stamped lion, had been bought at the farm shop. The reasoning didn't work and I was frogmarched up to the aforementioned shop where the lady insisted that she hadn't sold them, they sold real eggs, farm eggs, not that lion stamped stuff.

Then, logic was applied and mother frogmarched me, still protesting my innocence, down to the newsagent, where, that lady insisted that she had sold me the eggs, and with some amazing memory technique told my mum that I'd bought five bubblies as well.

I still unblinkingly insisted on my innocence, that it was all a set up, and there was no evidence of bubble gum on me, I was framed in a sinister plot.

It didn't go down well, and this at a time when mothers were not controlled against beating the bejeebers out of their precious offspring.

Interogation Techniques

There was no need for waterboarding in the Weldon household, because as little six year old David was honing his lying skills, my mother instigated a cunning plan.

It was pure parenting brilliance.

Mum told me, that it was obvious that when I was telling a fib, I would blink a lot and she could immediately tell.

So, I formed a cunning plan of my own, I would combat this blinking habit by making sure that when I was lying to her about anything, I would not blink, no blinking, eyes wide open, the unblinking truth.

It didn't work though, she always knew I was lying after that, I didn't know why, she was just good at those things you know.

I'll have to type fast on my next elaborate lying story.

Chipperfield Circus

The hoodwinking of parents is a very complex process, especially when the circumstances and evidence all point away from the obvious explanation of a bizarre moment in a youngsters life.

I think it must have been a discussion point as to the validity of allowing the six or seven year old David to take his Corgi Chipperfield Circus truck into school that day, however, it was allowed and a docket prepared for the variance in toy policy against the status quo.




The documentary evidence, at lunchtime, was that the truck no longer existed in this universe, and mother, trained to observe this type of phenomenon, noticed this immediately.

The explanation was simple, it was lost, or someone must have pinched it, stolen from my grubby little mitts, end of story.

But, of course, never end of story in the adult world when little David was followed back to school in the afternoon by said mother who raised hell with the school teacher, who raised hell with the class and the truth was uncovered.

David had sold the truck to another little boy for sixpence.

Then followed a long drawn out denial process and trouble.

Mettoy

The typing of the word click at the end of each of these five minute blogs is costing me a second or two of valuable input time, so that's going to stop, a simple full stop will be the end from now on.

If I was using my 1962 Mettoy typewriter however, the time saved by not typing click would be considerably more, especially as, after the "C" the little dial would have to rotate all the way to the "L" and then back to the "I" and then back to the "K" and finally all the way around to the full stop, with a press of the big lever after each step.




Even in my young and furtive rotating days, that would have been more like ten or twelve seconds, which again, as a toddler was a significant portion of my life to that point.

In addition, I would expect that the letter "K" was never tested anyway, no need for that letter in early Britain.

So, no more Clik.

An old tune

Thats a good example, some story that your mother used to tell people about what you did when you were little, or when you were bigger, but some story that really did not have a punchline or an ending, a sort of story just about, well, just about life.

You know, when he was a little lad he used to pretend he was Ringo Star and play the drums, he used to play with the hosepipe in the back yard, he used to dress up as a pirate and smoke your fathers Players extra strength in the back yard.

That sort of thing.

The thing is, when your parents are gone, lost in time, it would be nice to sit and listen one more time to all those lovely none stories, hear the music of your mothers voice, laugh at the melody, not the punchline.

A five minute moment would not seem so trite if it was played by the original characters in your life, it would not matter about the outcome or the meanderings of fact, it would be just magic.

Click.

Big Ears

If you grew up at the time and place where I was evolving, your mother, if she was fortunate enough to have a black and white television set and electricity, would have plonked you in front of it daily when "Watch with Mother" was on so she could have a break, tea and a biscuit.

A daily afternoon program, for the development of the young British child, as solid as a Farleys rusk and as entertaining as a finger in a three bar fire.




The delights varied, from Andy Pandy, Bill and Ben (the flowerpot men), Muffin the Mule, which at that time was not a sexual offence and of course other delights which if my memory serves me well, did not include Noddy and Big Ears.

I had a Noddy Tricycle, little three wheeler with a boot (for you American types, thats British for a Trunk, although in my book that's at the front of an elephant, not the back of a bike).

Anyway, one minute left and the story goes that one day, little three year old David cycled with his brother up to a building site and filled the boot with concrete. Thats the way the story evolved, although I have no recollection whatsoever of any amputation of said container, so I have to assume that I filled it up with rocks and sand and that was that.

A sort of none story, a little bit like.....

Click.

Grinding

The internet as an entity is a strange place, log on, type some drivel, read it and believe you can connect to someone, resist the porn and check the stock market, or was it the other way around?.

The blogosphere, a place to record ones life or the daily tedium, to relate to others that probably will never read what's written, a secret diary that's available for all to read.

I started writing my diary around 1975 when things started to get interesting in my life, work, money, alcohol and girlfriend, note the singularity. As Supertramp mentioned, take a look at my girlfriend, she's the only one I got, not much of a girlfriend, never seem to get a lot.

Well, if it wasn't for the knee that insisted on grinding into female crotches during slow dancing I may have actually had one sooner, instead of holding a quarter glass of gin and tonic when my potential partner visited the ladies room, never to return in this short lifetime.

Ah, the early days, KC and the Sunshine Band, Rum and Coke, odd shaped trousers and an easy choice when it came to a lift home from Tiffanies night club or my first shag.

It was the lift home of course.

Click.

Budgies

The taxi drivers sons mother, was of course Dorothy Weldon, and she told the tale of the mad budgie.

The cellar had a front room, that had four big cages where my dad kept budgies, I have very little recollection of that room, or anything to do with the cellar. Well, yes I was scared of the room where the coal was dropped into, called coincidently the coal cellar.

The mad budgie incident happened when a mother of three or four chicks went postal and decided to take it's lifelong frustrations out on it's offspring. Mum said that there was absolute carnage, all of the poor little buggers took it face on, eyes, beaks, heads all mutilated.

A sorry tale, but, they were not killed, that was the unfortunate and heartbreaking aspect of it all for my mum, who had to put the little chicks out of their misery.

It was the early days of gas ovens, before natural gas, which I believe is non lethal, so, mum placed the chicks in a little cake box and gassed them with real gas.

Whenever mum told that story, which was probably only once or twice, she cried and said that she had never felt so much sadness, perhaps remorse about something.

Click.

The Flood

One year, one hot summer in Liverpool, we had a major flood, mainly because it rained solidly for hours and hours on end. I can remember being caught in Botanic Park, in the kids clubhouse at the back of the park, near to the dogs home.

Anyway, we had a flood and the basement, or cellar as we called it back then was awash with about four foot of water. The place was a mess, floating bird cages, damp french polishing equipment and of course, a damp dog.

Sooty was a black Alsation dog, not 100% black as he had a little spot of white below his chin. I think he was my dog, looked after by my dad of course, but my dog as I'd requested an Allerton station, or so my parents told me, when I was younger.




The flood was a shock in my young life, I had to run screaming back across the park, to a neighbours house, the Coldocks, they were flooded too, I think all the homes on Botanic Road had a problem that day.

The cellar was never the same after that.

Click.

Click

The clock is ticking and this is the first blog of the Taxi drivers son, David Weldon, son of Arthur Weldon, who was a taxi driver, an ice cream man, shop owner, breeder of budgies, wedding car driver, landlord, french polisher on the White Star Line and a purveyor of shirts and socks to the ladies who worked at the Meccano factory, Binns Road, Liverpool in the mid 1950s in between checking the paint quality.

Why click, well, this blog is about five minutes of my time, hopefully every day, but we'll see about that. Some days we'll play catch up and some weeks we may be missing, off enjoying the planet. If there are spelling mistakes, well, I apologize, but, hey, five minutes to get thoughts down, that's not very much to proof read as well.

That was my five minutes, this blog will be about snippets of my life, their life and hopefully will connect in some way with your life, hope you enjoy this as much as I expect to.

Talk to you soon, and quickly.

Click.