Visit to a Hero
A "Young Jimmy Bakewell" story
When he returned home after losing his first love, he felt he needed to be close to his mother.
She was busy in the kitchen, as always - washing clothes at the sink, staring out the window. He put his arms around her waist and gave her a long, gentle hug, then made her a cup of tea. The hug confused her. His family did not usually show emotion or affection, and rarely touched each other. The only time for touching was giving Dad a kiss goodnight, and that had stopped many years ago. But it made her feel good.
Without saying a word, he sat at the table with his tea and a slice of bread-and-dripping and browsed through her Marshall Ward catalogue before pouring a second cup and taking it down to his basement bedroom. Later that evening they sat together in the living room and watched 'The Black and White Minstrel Show' on telly. Jimmy hated the program, but somehow today, sitting with his mother and remembering his lost love, it filled a hole in his life.
Later, as he lay awake on the bed he stared at his bedroom walls. They were covered with advertisements cut out of Sunday colour-supplements. Jim had no idea why he had done this, but the end result satisfied him tremendously. Hundreds of competing images of differing subjects, styles, colours and moods; ads for cars, after shave, cigarettes, alcohol, and more. Next to his bed stood a floor-standing wind-up gramophone that he had acquired from one of his brothers. It might have eventually been worth something, if it hadn't been painted white. One of his brother’s phases - the ‘white phase’. When Patrick had eventually left home he passed down to Jim his bright-white basement room and one piece of furniture - the white gramophone – the only piece that he couldn’t quite pack and drag off to London.
Jim put on his favourite seventy-eight. In fact, it was the only one that he had that was anything like bearable at the age of sixteen. And as it played, it filled Jim’s mind with images of a smoke-blackened town, dingy pubs, and long, high, grimy dark-red brick walls. There was never any graffiti in his fantasies.
He superimposed the image of the gas tower that he could see from his room onto an imaginary picture of a dark and gloomy town that he had never seen. The deep gravel voice of Luke Kelly fueled the image as he sang, ‘Dirty old town, Dirty old town.’ Each line called to him. ‘Dreamed a dream, by the old canal.’
He closed his eyes and there it was in front of him. A long, low wall stretching out into the distance, and a sepia barge moored on the calm water. An old man stood on the bow, wearing heavy boots, brown corduroy trousers, an Aron sweater and a flat cap. He greeted Jim from behind a grey stubble beard, as if he was old friend, and they exchanged a few pleasantries. Gradually the image faded, giving way to one of a smoky, low-ceilinged pub, full of sailormen. A sea of cloth caps around small tables, huddled together over their beers. The sound of their murmurings competing with the squawking of seagulls coming through the open windows, and the lilting concertina tune coming from the old-fart sat in the corner. The boatman he had just spoken to at the canal came into focus from the center of this calliope; he nodded, winked and smiled. The music faded.
After reflective moments like this, Jim often felt the need to sit with his grandfather and listen to his many stories and jokes. It was time for a visit, he thought. It was time to exercise that bike again.
Jim knew his world intimately - every street, and cul-de-sac - every pub and seedy amusement arcade from his home town to Westcliff-on-Sea along a narrow five-mile strip along the coast. Today, he chose to ride his favourite route along Shaftesbury Avenue, parallel to the sea front. This took him through the town of Thorpe Bay, and past the golf course.
The family had recently moved from Bunters Avenue to a larger, three-storied, council-owned townhouse on Chelmer Way in the relatively poor town of Shoeburyness. His school on Caulfield Road drew students from Shoebury as well as the neighbouring, rather well-to-do town of Thorpe Bay, thus creating an interesting 'sweet-and-sour' mix. Parents ranged from post-war émigrés 'up from The Smoke' to rich London-bound-commuters who read the financial times every day.
Jim stopped at the golf club, as he always did, and took a breather under the great oaks. He sat on his bike, let it fall against the high fence, and clutched onto the plastic-coated green mesh. He wondered what went on in the big old club-house. Every now and then the odd Mercedes or Jaguar would pull up and empty-out a couple of middle-aged golfing partners, who would then proceed to don flat caps and pull out golf carts from the boot. It was both foreign and strangely familiar to him. The sun was beginning to pull through the hazy afternoon sky and bounce soft, warm, autumn colours off the trees along the back of the course.
Every morning for the past two years Jim had risen at six to make his way to a small newsagent in Thorpe Bay. The other newspaper boys were envious of his round. At Christmas time he would walk away from a single morning’s round with thirty pounds in tips, and then find that on his return to the shop, another couple of patrons had left him a fiver each.
But then, he had earned it. Most customers on his round ordered the heavy broadsheets, and often two or three each morning. On a Sunday the round wouldn’t fit into his bag and he had to break it up into several stages, returning to the shop for each stage. And those driveways were so long. He could spit in the faces of a couple of his customers who refused to let him ride up their driveways - for Christ’s sake!
The golf course was the half-way house on his paper-round, where he would stop and take a breather.
He pulled himself away from the fence and proceeded along Colbert Avenue, continuing on through this mystical world that was unattainable and yet so intimate. His ride took him close by Mr. Robertson’s grocery shop. He couldn’t see it from where he was, but his mind conjured up the coldness of Robertson’s cellar, and the overwhelming smell of mature cheese-rounds with just a hint of Persil washing powder. He rode alongside Southchurch park, a favourite place for bird-watching – one of Jim’s secret passions.
He turned into Chester Avenue and up to number fifteen. He swung his leg over his bike and stood on one peddle as he cruised down the alley way to the left of the property, opened the garden gate at the side, parked just inside, and banged on the kitchen window.
The house was split into two, and his grandparents rented the lower half. But the owner seldom frequented the upstairs apartment, so it felt like home to them. Jim’s father had found the place. Life in London was becoming too much for 'Gran and Grandad' now, especially with Granddad’s debilitating arthritis. This flat was his Dad’s attempt at giving the old boy a few more years. Clean air, less traffic, a short walk with the wheelchair to the beach where he could gossip with new found friends and bask in the sun - what there was of it.
‘’Ello, me old mate,’ said his Gran as the door opened. ‘What are you up to?’ Both his grandparents were from the east-end of London. They considered themselves posh Eastenders. They liked to play-up the cockney accent, but add the odd touch of class to specific words, just to make a point. They were avid followers of West Ham United.
‘Nothing, Gran. Just visiting.’
‘Looking for food, more like it, if I know you.’ And this was not far from the truth. Maybe it was hunger that had driven him here in the first place. He knew that his tea would be ready when he got back home, but he was not averse to eating twice.
‘’Ollo’ legs you have. Never stop eating.’ And she pushed him gently by his back into the sitting room, where his Granddad was sitting, as always, in his upright armchair - a cigarette dangling from his lips, and reading the Reveille magazine.
‘’Ello, mate. How are you?’
‘OK, Granddad. Thanks.’ It wasn’t often that he asked the same question in return. He never thought of it.
And then everything happened and nothing happened. It was the strangest experience. Time went by so quickly, and he couldn’t remember exactly how it went, but when he got back to his ad-covered room at home, his mind was filled with marvelous memories. His Grandad was Jim’s hero, crippled though he was and chair-bound. He never complained. And he found amusement in everything.
‘Are ya staying for tea, as if I need to ask?’ His Gran would say.
‘That would be great. What are you having?’
‘Bread and pullet,’ came the reply from his Granddad, without a second thought. The same reply every time. The same wry smile on his lips, followed by a giggle which always meant that he had to extract the cigarette from his mouth with his bent fingers; and there followed hysterical coughing as he dropped ash all down his lap. The same reply every time, and he nearly died laughing every time. And Jim loved it. He never did figure out what ‘bread and pullet’ was.
Jim did ask him once, after a serious bout of coughing and spluttering, why he didn’t just give up smoking.
‘What, and give up my only pleasure in life?’ The coughing started again, and there was that wry smile and twinkle in his eye. Then he followed up with, ‘I knew a man once, (remember Mother?) who lived until he was a hundred.’ Jim was impressed, until the inevitable punch-line came. ‘He said to his doctor, if only I’d known I was going to live this long, I’d ‘ave taken better care of meself.’ And with another rascally smile, and the inevitable coughing fit, the subject of giving up the ciggies was successfully avoided.
As far as Jim was concerned, tea was a battle between his Gran and his Mum. He loved both very much. His Mum would make the best roast potatoes, with thick, crispy, oily skins, and perfectly cooked flesh - as if the inside and outside had been cooked separately and combined later. And they went so well with the gravy. Gran, on the other hand, was better at the cold teas, especially in the cake department.
Jim polished off his tea of cold ham, cheese and piccalilli, followed by sponge cakes before settling down between his two Grandparents with his fourth cup of tea to listen to them recount their past. Their stories were always dominated by the second world war.
Their blessed house in Amity Road (sold to provide for the new flat by the sea) often featured. They survived the war in that house. One night they emerged from their back yard shelter to find that the house across the street had been flattened.
She was busy in the kitchen, as always - washing clothes at the sink, staring out the window. He put his arms around her waist and gave her a long, gentle hug, then made her a cup of tea. The hug confused her. His family did not usually show emotion or affection, and rarely touched each other. The only time for touching was giving Dad a kiss goodnight, and that had stopped many years ago. But it made her feel good.
Without saying a word, he sat at the table with his tea and a slice of bread-and-dripping and browsed through her Marshall Ward catalogue before pouring a second cup and taking it down to his basement bedroom. Later that evening they sat together in the living room and watched 'The Black and White Minstrel Show' on telly. Jimmy hated the program, but somehow today, sitting with his mother and remembering his lost love, it filled a hole in his life.
Later, as he lay awake on the bed he stared at his bedroom walls. They were covered with advertisements cut out of Sunday colour-supplements. Jim had no idea why he had done this, but the end result satisfied him tremendously. Hundreds of competing images of differing subjects, styles, colours and moods; ads for cars, after shave, cigarettes, alcohol, and more. Next to his bed stood a floor-standing wind-up gramophone that he had acquired from one of his brothers. It might have eventually been worth something, if it hadn't been painted white. One of his brother’s phases - the ‘white phase’. When Patrick had eventually left home he passed down to Jim his bright-white basement room and one piece of furniture - the white gramophone – the only piece that he couldn’t quite pack and drag off to London.
Jim put on his favourite seventy-eight. In fact, it was the only one that he had that was anything like bearable at the age of sixteen. And as it played, it filled Jim’s mind with images of a smoke-blackened town, dingy pubs, and long, high, grimy dark-red brick walls. There was never any graffiti in his fantasies.
He superimposed the image of the gas tower that he could see from his room onto an imaginary picture of a dark and gloomy town that he had never seen. The deep gravel voice of Luke Kelly fueled the image as he sang, ‘Dirty old town, Dirty old town.’ Each line called to him. ‘Dreamed a dream, by the old canal.’
He closed his eyes and there it was in front of him. A long, low wall stretching out into the distance, and a sepia barge moored on the calm water. An old man stood on the bow, wearing heavy boots, brown corduroy trousers, an Aron sweater and a flat cap. He greeted Jim from behind a grey stubble beard, as if he was old friend, and they exchanged a few pleasantries. Gradually the image faded, giving way to one of a smoky, low-ceilinged pub, full of sailormen. A sea of cloth caps around small tables, huddled together over their beers. The sound of their murmurings competing with the squawking of seagulls coming through the open windows, and the lilting concertina tune coming from the old-fart sat in the corner. The boatman he had just spoken to at the canal came into focus from the center of this calliope; he nodded, winked and smiled. The music faded.
After reflective moments like this, Jim often felt the need to sit with his grandfather and listen to his many stories and jokes. It was time for a visit, he thought. It was time to exercise that bike again.
Jim knew his world intimately - every street, and cul-de-sac - every pub and seedy amusement arcade from his home town to Westcliff-on-Sea along a narrow five-mile strip along the coast. Today, he chose to ride his favourite route along Shaftesbury Avenue, parallel to the sea front. This took him through the town of Thorpe Bay, and past the golf course.
The family had recently moved from Bunters Avenue to a larger, three-storied, council-owned townhouse on Chelmer Way in the relatively poor town of Shoeburyness. His school on Caulfield Road drew students from Shoebury as well as the neighbouring, rather well-to-do town of Thorpe Bay, thus creating an interesting 'sweet-and-sour' mix. Parents ranged from post-war émigrés 'up from The Smoke' to rich London-bound-commuters who read the financial times every day.
Jim stopped at the golf club, as he always did, and took a breather under the great oaks. He sat on his bike, let it fall against the high fence, and clutched onto the plastic-coated green mesh. He wondered what went on in the big old club-house. Every now and then the odd Mercedes or Jaguar would pull up and empty-out a couple of middle-aged golfing partners, who would then proceed to don flat caps and pull out golf carts from the boot. It was both foreign and strangely familiar to him. The sun was beginning to pull through the hazy afternoon sky and bounce soft, warm, autumn colours off the trees along the back of the course.
Every morning for the past two years Jim had risen at six to make his way to a small newsagent in Thorpe Bay. The other newspaper boys were envious of his round. At Christmas time he would walk away from a single morning’s round with thirty pounds in tips, and then find that on his return to the shop, another couple of patrons had left him a fiver each.
But then, he had earned it. Most customers on his round ordered the heavy broadsheets, and often two or three each morning. On a Sunday the round wouldn’t fit into his bag and he had to break it up into several stages, returning to the shop for each stage. And those driveways were so long. He could spit in the faces of a couple of his customers who refused to let him ride up their driveways - for Christ’s sake!
The golf course was the half-way house on his paper-round, where he would stop and take a breather.
He pulled himself away from the fence and proceeded along Colbert Avenue, continuing on through this mystical world that was unattainable and yet so intimate. His ride took him close by Mr. Robertson’s grocery shop. He couldn’t see it from where he was, but his mind conjured up the coldness of Robertson’s cellar, and the overwhelming smell of mature cheese-rounds with just a hint of Persil washing powder. He rode alongside Southchurch park, a favourite place for bird-watching – one of Jim’s secret passions.
He turned into Chester Avenue and up to number fifteen. He swung his leg over his bike and stood on one peddle as he cruised down the alley way to the left of the property, opened the garden gate at the side, parked just inside, and banged on the kitchen window.
The house was split into two, and his grandparents rented the lower half. But the owner seldom frequented the upstairs apartment, so it felt like home to them. Jim’s father had found the place. Life in London was becoming too much for 'Gran and Grandad' now, especially with Granddad’s debilitating arthritis. This flat was his Dad’s attempt at giving the old boy a few more years. Clean air, less traffic, a short walk with the wheelchair to the beach where he could gossip with new found friends and bask in the sun - what there was of it.
‘’Ello, me old mate,’ said his Gran as the door opened. ‘What are you up to?’ Both his grandparents were from the east-end of London. They considered themselves posh Eastenders. They liked to play-up the cockney accent, but add the odd touch of class to specific words, just to make a point. They were avid followers of West Ham United.
‘Nothing, Gran. Just visiting.’
‘Looking for food, more like it, if I know you.’ And this was not far from the truth. Maybe it was hunger that had driven him here in the first place. He knew that his tea would be ready when he got back home, but he was not averse to eating twice.
‘’Ollo’ legs you have. Never stop eating.’ And she pushed him gently by his back into the sitting room, where his Granddad was sitting, as always, in his upright armchair - a cigarette dangling from his lips, and reading the Reveille magazine.
‘’Ello, mate. How are you?’
‘OK, Granddad. Thanks.’ It wasn’t often that he asked the same question in return. He never thought of it.
And then everything happened and nothing happened. It was the strangest experience. Time went by so quickly, and he couldn’t remember exactly how it went, but when he got back to his ad-covered room at home, his mind was filled with marvelous memories. His Grandad was Jim’s hero, crippled though he was and chair-bound. He never complained. And he found amusement in everything.
‘Are ya staying for tea, as if I need to ask?’ His Gran would say.
‘That would be great. What are you having?’
‘Bread and pullet,’ came the reply from his Granddad, without a second thought. The same reply every time. The same wry smile on his lips, followed by a giggle which always meant that he had to extract the cigarette from his mouth with his bent fingers; and there followed hysterical coughing as he dropped ash all down his lap. The same reply every time, and he nearly died laughing every time. And Jim loved it. He never did figure out what ‘bread and pullet’ was.
Jim did ask him once, after a serious bout of coughing and spluttering, why he didn’t just give up smoking.
‘What, and give up my only pleasure in life?’ The coughing started again, and there was that wry smile and twinkle in his eye. Then he followed up with, ‘I knew a man once, (remember Mother?) who lived until he was a hundred.’ Jim was impressed, until the inevitable punch-line came. ‘He said to his doctor, if only I’d known I was going to live this long, I’d ‘ave taken better care of meself.’ And with another rascally smile, and the inevitable coughing fit, the subject of giving up the ciggies was successfully avoided.
As far as Jim was concerned, tea was a battle between his Gran and his Mum. He loved both very much. His Mum would make the best roast potatoes, with thick, crispy, oily skins, and perfectly cooked flesh - as if the inside and outside had been cooked separately and combined later. And they went so well with the gravy. Gran, on the other hand, was better at the cold teas, especially in the cake department.
Jim polished off his tea of cold ham, cheese and piccalilli, followed by sponge cakes before settling down between his two Grandparents with his fourth cup of tea to listen to them recount their past. Their stories were always dominated by the second world war.
Their blessed house in Amity Road (sold to provide for the new flat by the sea) often featured. They survived the war in that house. One night they emerged from their back yard shelter to find that the house across the street had been flattened.
Jimmy drifted into a half-sleep. Vivid memories came to him of that house. The time, when he were seven years old, when he and his two younger brothers had to ‘go away’ for a few weeks while their mother recovered. No one talked about what she had to recover from.
He remembered with fondness the visits to the grocers shop on the corner, awakening his love of cheese; waiting patiently while the old ladies finished their gossip. Gran would proudly introduce the three of them to her cronies. ‘These are my grandsons,’ she would say, looking proudly down at Jimmy and giving him a hair massage that made him flinch away. ‘They call me Gran, you know.’ He never really understood why that was an issue, and why it was worthy of note. Didn't everyone call their Gran 'Gran'? Apparently not. Then there were the long, eerie shadows cast up on the ceiling as the three boys huddled into the two single beds in the spare room at night. Gran always insisted on leaving the curtains open so they would have light in the room, but she had no idea what monsters she created in so doing. The only comfort they had came from clinging onto the camberwick bedcovers and wishing for the morning to come. Small boys were not made to make the run to the outside toilet in the dead of the night, but small boys’ bladders are awfully small, and there was only one proper place to get relief. The climb down the steep stairs in pitch dark could have proved fatal in of itself, and when the bottom was reached, the crazed barking started from the scullery where Chum, the wire-haired terrier was locked away. Take a breath. You’re scared, but he’s locked away. He can’t hurt you, you know that. Wait until the heart starts beating normally and then open the back door and step out into cold night air of the backyard. Down the path. Watching, always watching. Seeing nothing in the coal-black night. Fumbling for the lock, it opens. Inside is safe. Yes, inside is safe. And then the relief. Oh, the relief. But now the toilet won’t flush. Pull on the chain again and again. It does nothing except emit a sucking, slurping sound. Pull - over and over. Still nothing. OK - give up. Apologize later. Open the door and run for it. Make for the light in the kitchen. Run for the light. Chum is still barking madly in the scullery. Close the door lock it, get up those stairs fast, and back into bed. Heart thumping, breathing hard, coldness of the sheets. And then all is calm. No-one has woken. Gran and Grandad never knew the terror we went through. And it was during this month-long stay that Jimmy developed one of the 'hot-buttons' that would stay with him the rest of his life; that of being accused of something he did not do. This was the now familiar strawberry incident. His Gran had dished-up strawberries for desert one day. They all loved strawberries. She handed round a sugar-bowl and urged them to put a little sugar on them, and Jim obliged. But when he took a bite he let out a loud wail of discontent, and cried, "That's salt! There's salt on my strawberries!" Gran told him not to be so silly and just eat them up. Clearly she was having no misbehaviour in HER house! But, Jimmy continue to protest, "There's salt on my strawberries." "Don't be silly," and she decided to taste herself. With a grimace she took everyone's strawberries away and threw them in the trash. She had indeed accidentally put salt into the sugar bowl. |
When he awoke, the stories continued, like those of his Gran working 'downstairs' in the kitchen for noble gentry. She had such a reverence for these folk. They treated her well, so she thought. But the memories were always of menial tasks. She talked with pride at being able to see her reflection in the front door step.
But it was always his Grandad’s stories of the army days that captivated him, and the phrases that always tickled him.
‘I was standing around the chart-table in the war room., and said to the fellow next to me, "I say, have you got a light?" He looked up and said, "Yes, sir, Captain!"
And his lips would form a smile as he looked at me searching for recognition in my face. It was not difficult to oblige and laugh with him, but Jim had no idea what he had said. His Grandad had to explain the various army ranks to him.
‘Help me up, Mother. I need to visit the little boy’s room.’ This was always Jim’s cue to leave. The ordeal of getting him to the toilet took at least fifteen minutes. She had to do everything for him. They were definitely in love. Only love could prepare one for such a duty. Jim was embarrassed into leaving. He couldn’t bare to see his Granddad so helpless.
‘I’ll be off, then. Maybe see you tomorrow, is that OK?’
‘Of course it is, love. Any time. You take care on that bike. And don’t forget to tell ya mother you’ve had tea.’ The ritual. The wry smile, just like his Granddad. It was as if they were playing with him. Gran knew full well he would have another tea when he got home.
A year later Jim’s hero died peacefully in his sleep.
But it was always his Grandad’s stories of the army days that captivated him, and the phrases that always tickled him.
‘I was standing around the chart-table in the war room., and said to the fellow next to me, "I say, have you got a light?" He looked up and said, "Yes, sir, Captain!"
And his lips would form a smile as he looked at me searching for recognition in my face. It was not difficult to oblige and laugh with him, but Jim had no idea what he had said. His Grandad had to explain the various army ranks to him.
‘Help me up, Mother. I need to visit the little boy’s room.’ This was always Jim’s cue to leave. The ordeal of getting him to the toilet took at least fifteen minutes. She had to do everything for him. They were definitely in love. Only love could prepare one for such a duty. Jim was embarrassed into leaving. He couldn’t bare to see his Granddad so helpless.
‘I’ll be off, then. Maybe see you tomorrow, is that OK?’
‘Of course it is, love. Any time. You take care on that bike. And don’t forget to tell ya mother you’ve had tea.’ The ritual. The wry smile, just like his Granddad. It was as if they were playing with him. Gran knew full well he would have another tea when he got home.
A year later Jim’s hero died peacefully in his sleep.