Harry’s Boy
The memories of mine which I
can’t clarify, because they are rather obscure, but gradually transform into
scintillating light that vagueness in which the earliest recollection of my
existence would appear to be involved, is derived from the scrutiny of sepia
photo’s left in the care, by my dear departed mother, to my elder sister.
Diligent attentiveness within the
past few weeks to time and date with which my search among the diverse paper’s
and photo’s entrusted to her has been conducted, bringing to the fore memories
of infancy in my hometown of Ramsgate.
The recollection of my father so
elevated and erect by my side on the bordering quay by the slipway in the outer
harbour one blustery winters day, articulating with some weather-beaten individuals
in a mystifying parlance, I tried to conceal myself behind his exceptionally
large military overcoat, hoping they wouldn’t observe such a small individual
such as myself, the uneasiness I felt, and dread, that I would be transported
away to some extraneous land, never to see my beloved parents again was all too
real. I couldn’t have been much advanced in years, conceivably five or six.
The waters outside the harbour
were furious. The forceful easterly winds had disturbed their journey up the
channel as the tide began to turn, bringing in all manner of flotsam onto the
vast beach that stretched as far as the eye could see. The waves white with
froth showed their anger climbing higher and higher; meeting the resistance of
the pier wall. Their temper exploded in spray and showered everything in
frustration as it came crashing down on the quay where we stood, soaking
everything in suds and bubbles, popping and hissing like a fizzy lemonade as it
made its way across to the edge of the quay, falling in small rivulets into the
comparative quiet muddy waters of the outer harbour.
It’s easy to see how the
distribution of wildlife is dispersed in different directions on these
occasions, how a completely isolated corner becomes teaming with all manner of
life. A small crustacean, claws outstretched scurried across the stone path
only to be caught in the current of a rivulet on its way to the depths of the
harbour, splashing into the water ten feet below. Just two inches across its
back, it had traversed the pier wall that was at least fifteen feet high from
the waters below on the spray, landed on the path, another ten feet across,
caught in the rush of water making its way to the outer harbour and dropping
down another ten feet on the other side. All in the matter of a few minuets as
I looked on fascinated.
Looking up to the seagulls
remonstrating over a morsel thrown down by the French fisherman who had just
birthed into the outer harbour sheltering from the storm, they too had put up
with a buffeting during the night. Gutting some of their catch, the hungry
gulls hovered against the gusts of wind, soaring high into the air as the
turbulence caught them in an updraft struggling to maintain station over the
boats below. Presumably loosing sleep made them argumentative with each other,
fighting and squabbling like unruly children.
I silently revelled in the
isolation of the winter promenade and pier walls even at that early age. The
peace it seemed to give me, all the terror of the war years, the explosions,
the dust and rubble, the noise of the sirens shrieking and screaming had at
last seemed to have stopped. The tall figure of my father shielded me from most
of the wind and spray. I remember gripping his trousers and holding on as if my
life depended on it. The smell of oil and grease from his boiler suit had a
comforting warm feel in a curious sort of way. He looked down at me, and I
suppose the look on my face made him bend down and pick me up, as somebody dear
to me later on in life said ‘A Prince of a man’ I loved him to bits and
couldn’t get enough of his company.
His conversation ended and we
retraced our steps back to the quay that separated the inner and outer harbour.
I was, I remember in my element being carried, snuggling into his ruff army
coat. The wind and rain that had started again lashing against us, he opened
that big coat up and tucked me inside to shield me from the weather as we
approached the big swing gate that had just been opened to the inner harbour.
There was an air of expectancy on the quay that morning, a lot of hustle and
bustle, the old dark green tea van in front of the sheds had pealing paint on
its walls from the constant buffeting salt spray, a large metal bucket stood on
the floor catching the drips that fell from the leaking roof, when it rained it
needed to be emptied every five minutes or so. Nicknamed ‘the watering hole’ by
the boatmen and dockworkers, it had been there all through the war years, to
calculate the service it had given to so many appreciative men returning from France
during those terrible years, would take a more articulate scholar than me, but
still though, doing a roaring trade with steaming mugs of tea being handed out
to all the dockhands that had gathered.
Something serious was afoot.
Everybody was bringing their
empty mugs back and putting them on the counter, then joining a queue in front
of a big pile of rubber tyres, each one had a rope attached, either with a big
hole in which the rope went through, or some just tied round with loops in.
This was happening on the other side of the quay as well.
Now I was interested.
I struggled to get down from my
fathers hold on me; eventually he put me down on the quay. The rain had stopped
and I remember padding across through the puddles to where all the excitement
was. Standing in a line, on each side of the quay, each dockhand held a tyre
and let it hang down over the edge.
I wasn’t very tall so my vision
beyond the men was limited, just a gap between flapping trousers, wellington
boots with big thick socks over their edges and then if I was lucky a gap
through it all. Without any warning the sky disappeared in front of me, an
unearthly noise from the tyres the men were holding being compressed against
the quay, a monumental wall of steel imperceptibly moving it passed before me
into the inner harbour, it took what seemed an age, my little legs could have
easily outrun this monster. The thunder of engines, the smell of wet metal
mixed with smoke from the stack as I looked up, straining my neck. Pealing
black pitted paint, rust running down the sides where the paint had once been,
all set my young tiny heart thumping as I stood transfixed to the spot not able
to move watching this spectacle. As it slowly passed into the inner harbour I
looked up to see it was laden to a very precarious height with timber, lots and
lots and lots of timber. That smell to this day of wet wood invokes memories of
that day when I watched my Grandfather’s timber boat docking in Ramsgate
harbour.
Boats, now I loved the boats, the
big long barges that sometimes stretched from one side to the other with their
big brown sails flapping in the breeze as they unloaded their cargo of all
manner of merchandise. I’d sit right on the edge of the quay, my legs dangling
over the side with no fear of the drop in front of me, watching big gruff
looking individuals wearing sweaters with holes in where there shouldn’t have
been holes, pants held up with huge leather belts and buckles, beards that
sometimes were platted like my elder sisters hair, but no ribbons though, just
a piece of string. I knew each one of them by name, the names I of course had
given them, there was ‘Blackbeard’ the most fearsome of them all I remember. A
huge man dwarfing his rigging, his skin was the same colour as his trousers and
he always wore big black boots that he tucked those pants into, effortlessly
lifting sacks piled up on his barge and throwing them onto the quay as if they
were full of feathers.
The waterfront from as early as
five years old was my playground, I think because I felt safe, my Dad worked on
the slipway as far back as I can remember, he would take me to work with him on
the crossbar of his big black bicycle most summer days and I would help him eat
his sandwiches, or whatever Mum had made up for him in his lunch box at dinner
time. It didn’t seem to matter what was in between the two slices of bread, it
was what my Dad was eating. I can see that lunch box now being held out to me,
my hands like dads were black from my escapades of the morning, probably from
watching the coal being unloaded and picking up chunks that had dropped on the
quay from the crane bucket. So I, like him, would eat it without a murmur.
Everyone knew me round the inner harbour as ‘Harry’s boy’ and no doubt kept an
eye on me for him. I felt safe in their world, imagine that today if you can, I
would without doubt end up in care, my parents being accused of all manner of
charges. But what a wonderful childhood I had. Those early years to me hold
magical memories. The characters on the London barges, the different activities
along Military road that I would sit and watch with keen interest, boat
builders with their fine carpentry, chandlers and grain merchants. They all
would include me as I sat on an upturned box and watched them working, chattering
away to me as if I was one of them. What a start to my young life amongst all
the activity going on around me. I was never ill, never had a cold, the only
thing I remember suffering from was Mum’s scrubbing brush trying to get the
little urchin that stood in her kitchen clean when I arrived home, happy,
dirty, and starving from all the fresh air in my lungs. Dad would wink at me as
she pulled off all, or most of my cloths to get to the grime, tutting and
complaining about the state I was in. At the end of it all she would sit me on
her knee wrapping a massive towel round me and I would invariably fall asleep
in her arms as the smell of lavender wafted up from her pinafore, content, safe
in her obvious affection, all from the exciting world I was exploring and
discovering around me.
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