My Dear Brov’
(A short extract from my
chronicles I have written for my grandchildren)
Just a normal day on the
beach in the early fifty’s. (Or was it?)
Multitudes of holidaymakers, noise levels that no doubt
could be heard across the water in France. A hot sun beating down across a
massive beach, where a vacant square yard could not be found. Delicious smells
to youngsters of our age from hot dogs to vanilla ice cream so varied and mixed
from all the different stalls on the front drifted across to the waters edge.
We sat trying not to let the precious cream run that I had carried all the way
from the promenade by the Punch and Judy show as it dripped off the end of our
cones and ran down our hands. I watched my young brother attempting to dig his
way under the pier wall. Each time he reached a certain depth the soft sand
falling back into his hole. He increased his speed with a determination to
outrun the inevitable tide as it collapsed behind him. A mass of curly hair,
wet, from his last fleeting dip in the sea, was collecting more of the sand
that caught the slight breeze as he threw it over the edge of his hole. It
didn’t seem to bother him, a happier
little chappy you
couldn’t never wish to meet. Nothing
bothered him. How he looked was not a priority to him which was a good thing
really because he seemed to be always dishevelled and accident prone, if it was
going to happen, it would happen to Brov’. His NH glasses were always held
together with a plaster on the bridge until mum would march him down to the
opticians to get another pair, futile really, because it would only take him a
couple of days and back out the plasters would come again on the new ones.
There was no such thing as supper glue in those days, and anyway if there had
been I doubt it would have made a difference. His shoes, when he wore them,
(usually in the summer he didn’t), always had loose soles that let in the water
when it rained and however much my parents tried to correct his appearance as
soon as he disappeared out the door at home another catastrophe would befall
him. But it never seemed to faze him; he would always have a smile on his face.
I can see Pop trying to tell him off for something or other, being very stern
at first, but the innocent look my little brother would give him invariably
softened his resolve to chastise him and he would end up on his knee watching
him mend his shoes. Brov’ would be holding the ceggs or the hammer, thinking he
was helping as he sat in front of the range before he went to bed.
I had bought him a drink in a
bottle with a straw, knowing it was absolutely stupid to buy him an ice cream;
it would without doubt end up in the sand and I hadn’t the money to buy another
so I gave him what I stupidly thought, a lick of my ice cream and I watched as
at least half of it disappeared. I put the bottle in the sand by my side
burying it a good couple of inches so it would stay upright. He was satisfied
with that, obviously thinking he had got the best of the deal, he had I
suppose, but he was happy and I let him think he had got one over on me, he
walked away chuckling to himself, first licking his lips and then wiping his
face with the back of his hand that was covered in sand, back to his
excavations.
Janet loved him to bits, and when
it was time to tuck into the sandwiches, she smoothed the old army blanket out
that we were sitting on and beckoned him to sit next to her, which he eagerly
did. He was sitting next to his big brothers girlfriend; proud that he was
getting all the attention that he must have thought should have been mine.
Janet hadn’t any brothers or sisters and didn’t mind in the least him tagging
along. She would dry him off every time he went into the water, realising what
she would do when he did, the little monkey would constantly go and dip himself
in the sea just so he could be rubbed down with the big towel she would throw
round him when he came out.
Janet went off at one time that
afternoon, I presume to find the ladies, Brov’ looked up from his digging and
noticed she wasn’t there. The look of disappointment, and concern nearly
brought him to tears as he searched for her. I couldn’t help myself from
telling him “She won’t be long, don’t worry she’s coming back in a minute.” He
climbed out of his hole and came and sat next to me all agitated until he saw
her making her way through all the deckchairs. “She smells ever so nice, like
grandma’s flowers.” I put my finger to my lips signalling for him to be quiet,
“I know, but it is rude to mention it, so shssssss.” He happily went back to
his digging after that.
The little three inch spade was
having no effect what so ever on the depth of his hole and by the middle of the
afternoon he seemed to be giving up, doing less and less digging and more and
more dipping and being towelled down.
It was time to move on,
he was getting restless. Some how or other I knew I had to avoid the Punch and
Judy show so I kept to the pier wall on our way off the beach, if he had seen
it that would have been that. We sat on the slope at the back of the Pavilion and
put our shoes back on, at least that was something else I wouldn’t have to
carry. Normally there would have been tantrums with this operation but Janet
took charge changing him into his street clothes, brushing the sand off his
feet, gently putting his shoes and socks on, not a murmur. He just sat there
letting her dress him, not even Mum could do that without some sort of fuss.
She tried to comb his hair that was a mass of curls; I didn’t try to stop her
but knew that was a step too far. Absolutely impossible to make any sense of
the maze of tight curls, in the end she just ruffled it up again with her hand,
“You’ll do.” She took his hand and off they went up the slope leaving me to
collect the bags and towel, his bucket and spade and all the paraphernalia that
goes with a day out at the seaside.
Reaching the top of the slope
they turned onto the pier hand in hand. I seemed to have been forgotten. There
was a boat on the slipway and young Brov’ was fascinated he could see the
underside of this massive boat. The big propeller was slowly turning, the
bottom of the blade swishing in the water on each revolution, it was all
drawing a crowd as everyone tried to get a better look at this spectacle. I
will admit, it was quite unusual to see the boatyard testing the boilers,
normally it was done at night when all the holiday makers had gone home. All of
a sudden the safety valves opened making everyone jump backwards. I can see the
pair of them now in my minds eye laughing their heads off. The noise from the
boilers of that boat deafening everyone as steam mixed with the smoke from the
funnel that drifted up in the hot summer air making clouds that made their way
up Harbour Street into the town.
Both of them soon got bored with
it all and took off along the pier. I knew then where they were heading. He
wanted to see the boys and men fishing, even at that early age it was his
passion. A line and rod would keep him occupied for hours on end. It didn’t
matter if nothing was caught the dream he had of the big one would keep him in
the same spot for hours on end praying I suppose for one little nibble at his
worm. This nibble was the one that always seemed to get away; stories of its
size would occupy him until the next time. Even at seven or eight years old you
would find him on the end of the pier dangling his feet over the edge, singing
to himself with perhaps a rough sea fifteen feet below, staying there all day
if Mum would let him.
He had obviously persuaded Janet
where he wanted to go as the pair of them skipped along the pier in front of
me. I tried to keep up laden with all their gear, I had obviously been elected
donkey for the day unbeknown to me. ‘Ah well, they were happy.’ Funnily enough
to see my Janet and brother holding hands in front of me, obviously both of
them enjoying the afternoon sun as they studied the varied catches of the chaps
fishing along the pier that afternoon gave me a sense of well-being. Like
always, she was immaculately turned out in her cotton summer dress. Her white
shoes and socks hadn’t a mark on them, and topping those blond locks a little
straw hat to keep the sun off. You couldn’t help but see that the pair of them
were enjoying themselves, which put a smile on my face.
Nearly at the end of the pier
they had found a bunch of guys that had been lucky that day. All of them seemed
to have caught one or two good-sized fish. This as far as Brov’ was concerned
was what it was all about; they had to be studied in detail. For the first time
since leaving the beach he let go of Janet’s hand and squatted down in front of
the buckets holding the fish to get a closer look. This was a greater priority
for him; all thought of his brother’s girlfriend completely vacated his mind.
One of the men noticed his interest. Brov sat on the ground, legs crossed and
watched him bait up his line. When he had finished he then proceeded to
demonstrate his casting and how to hold the line letting Brov’ hold it, with
this chap standing behind him, showing him the proper way to cast eventually
letting it go over the wall into the sea below.
Janet and I sat on one of the
benches lining the pier wall and started chatting about something or other, not
actually forgetting him but leaving him to his thrill of being with these chaps
fishing. Next thing we saw him jumping down the steps to the wooden landing
that the ferries came into with a small line and bake bean tin which I presume
had worms in. I shot up knowing the depth of the water only to see him settling
down on his knees baiting the hooks ten feet below me. I watched him for a few
minutes and the chap who had I presume lent it to him came over to us, “He’ll
be alright, keen little devil isn’t he?” I remember thanking him, and then
informing him that we would never get him home now he had his rod. He just
nodded with a smile on his face;
“A better pastime no man could
have, let him alone.” He said as he
walked back to his own fishing.
I suppose we had been
sitting down on that landing for a good hour watching him. He never uttered a
word. The concentration on his little face was a joy to watch. He all of a
sudden scrambled to his feet grabbing the rod with a dexterity that defied his
age, not attempting to pull at it just holding it. He was shaking, moving round
from one side to the other letting the line out as he did so. There was no
doubt he had something on the end of the line and it seemed to be swimming out
into the middle of the harbour. I got up to go across to him “Can I help?” the
answer was so emphatic, so emotional for one so young “NO” he shouted. We both of
us watched as he played that fish for a good ten minutes, finally reeling it
in, a large flat a good ten to twelve inches long dwarfed his line that it was
attached to. If there is someone that has seen greater pride or joy in a face
so young I would like to meet them. He just stood there looking down at that
fish flapping on the landing for an age. He finally looked up at his big
brother with the biggest grin that ever crossed a human face. “Got it!”
He had to go and show his new
friend so I climbed the steps with him, worried he might slip, leaving Janet to
look after all the gear. When we reached the pier there was no one in sight,
they had all gone, had he forgotten his rod and line or was it a gift from a
complete stranger, I’ll never know. But that afternoon my brother I know caught
his first big’en. So proud as we walked back along the pier, (this time only
hanging onto the fish not Janet’s hand) to where Dad worked, he couldn’t wait
to show him as we waited at the gates on the slipway.
……………………………………………………….
