Chapter 2: Sunday’s Child

…the child who is born on the Sabbath Day

Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

My parents, Wilfred & Miriam Brenda Hirst (née Woollam), met at Westhill Teacher Training College, Birmingham in the late 40s. Dad hailed from Barnsley, South Yorkshire. Mum was a Burslem girl (one of the six towns that make up the city of Stoke-on-Trent) born & bred.

Apart from her time at college, I suspect mum never lived more than 25 miles away from her place of birth. My brother Timothy John was born on Wednesday 17th June 1953.  I emerged blinking into the winter sunlight on Sunday 29th January 1956 at 55, Chell Green Avenue, Tunstall, Stoke-on-Trent and immediately started to take a keen & intelligent interest in all that went on around me.

The morning of my birth, dad flagged down the local midwife who happened to be driving past our house on her way to morning service at St. Michael & All Angels, which stood just around the corner. The good nurse deemed that things weren’t too imminent so went off to church regardless. I was safely delivered after morning worship.

I’ve no idea where the name Julian Alistair came from. I do know that Mum & Dad had been hoping to have a girl and had planned to call me Rachel. Apparently, it took a couple of weeks to persuade Tim to stop referring to me as ‘the baby Rachel’.

Although I love my name now, I hated it as a child. I felt it was a ‘sissy’ name which highlighted the fact that a bit of a sissy is exactly what I was. At school playtimes, while the boys were playing football or cricket or recreating scenes from WW2 films - each with their own distinctive gun sound - I was more likely to be found doing skipping or playing “Ring a Ring a Roses” with the girls.

Another factor that didn’t help was the popularity of the hit radio programme “Round the Horne” featuring the characters Julian & Sandy:

"Oh hello, I'm Julian and this is my friend Sandy"

Brilliantly played by Kenneth Williams and Hugh Paddick, they were a couple of chorus boys who spoke using the gay and theatrical slang, palare. This enabled the writers to give Julian and Sandy some double entendres that survived BBC censorship because the authorities either did not know or did not admit to knowing their gay meaning. In one episode, Sandy tells Horne that Julian is a brilliant pianist: "a miracle of dexterity at the cottage upright". All very funny of course, unless you also happened to be called Julian.

As I was born at such an early age, I have no memory of life in Chell Green Avenue other than a strong image in my mind’s eye of being given a piece of easter egg chocolate from a cake tin stored in the under stair pantry. I’m told I was a very placid baby. Someone once defined a newborn as a loud noise at one end, with no sense of responsibility at the other. Not me. Rarely making a fuss, generally smiley, I daresay my farts smelt like candy floss. I was a treat. If another child wanted to play with whatever I was playing with I’d just allow them to have it. I’d either play with something else or go without. I didn’t start walking until I was 21 months. Placid or lazy? Based on the past 68 years I must confess that the latter is the more probable.

Whatever the word, it was just as well for my poor parents who, by all accounts, had their work cut out with Timothy, the Harry Houdini of Chell Green Avenue. The following is based on my mother’s account of events frequently told at family gatherings:

Our dad, Wilf, taught religious education and woodwork. I’ve often wondered whether his interest in magic represented a subliminal desire to do the Jesus triple. I digress. Family legend hath it that, to enable safe play in the back garden, he had employed his carpentry skills to furnish the driveway with a stout childproof gate. Fastened with a solid bolt, this gate was the only thing between incarceration and Tim’s ability to commune with his street wise mucker, Phillip Brockley, who lived a few doors away. Being somewhat older than Tim, the boy Phillip was at liberty to roam the mean streets of Chell. Being a curious & intelligent lad, it didn’t take Tim long to work out how to unfasten the bolt so that he too could freely roam the avenue with Phillip. One nil to Timothy.

But nor was father unintelligent and with him. It was but the work of a moment to relocate the bolt to the top of the gate beyond Tim’s reach. One all.

Tim’s next move was to use the garden broom to slide the bolt across. 2:1 to Tim.

The broom now locked in the garage, Tim used the line prop. Line prop duly joins broom. Tim drags the dustbin from the rear of the house, climbs on the bin, undoes gate. Whoosh!

Bin secured to a drainpipe, Tim kicks out slats from next door’s fence and makes good his getaway down their driveway. And so on and so forth. I’ve lost track of the score.

If Tim and Phillip had restricted activities to the immediate vicinity this may not have been too much of a problem. The avenue was a quiet backwater and road traffic was scarce.

However, one day, a concerned young mum called round to report that, while passing through Fegg Hayes, a mile or so distant, their young son had demanded to “go to see the chickens”. It turns out Phillip and Timothy has taken him on one of their peregrinations to a local farm. Not that there were too many roads to worry about. It was the crossing the Potteries Loop Line - a railway line that served several towns in Stoke-on-Trent, affectionally known as “The Knotty” that was the problem.

Things came to a head on the day when the rather breathless Brockley boy raised the alarm.

“Tim is stuck on the railway line!”

Turns out that Tim’s handkerchief had blown onto the line and, in endeavouring to retrieve it, he had become stranded, as the embankment was too steep for him to scale. And there was a train on the way. In a scene straight out of Edith Nesbit’s beloved book “The Railway Children”, mum used the ever present apron to flag the steam train down so that she, the train driver & the fireman could extricate Timotheus from the cut and return him and his hanky to safety. Tim started full time at Dollies Lane Nursery school soon after.

Around the age of three I vividly recall us visiting a building site to look at a half built property. I remember because I stepped in some wet cement which came over the top of my Start Rite sandals and got my socks dirty. Turns out that this was to be our new family home. Next thing I know, we lived there.

Life in Biddulph was swell. The house had all mod cons. Gravel soil, mains drainage, that sort of thing. We had a cool white kitchen with red upholstered high stools at a breakfast bar and red cupboard handles to match. There was a gas cooker with an eye level grill which allowed hot fat to squirt straight into one’s eye. In the corner of the kitchen stood a washing machine with agitator post and a mangle which I once got my arm stuck in; one has to try these things. We hadn’t a fridge but a cool, dark pantry with tiled surfaces. No best before dates back then. Food freshness was checked with a good sniff. If the cheese was mouldy, you simply cut the mould off. There’d be fresh fruit and vegetables, pats of butter and freshly sliced bacon delivered by Mr Pedley the grocer and cold meats and lamb chops from Arthur Barker the butcher. Mum regularly baked delicious homemade cakes & scones which were stored in airtight cake tins. To this day if you mention mum’s coffee cake to Tim, he comes over all misty eyed & wistful. She also made the best meringues ever. Piped into individual shapes & dried ever so slowly in the oven with the door slightly ajar, she would sandwich two meringues together with sweetened whipped cream. Creamy, crispy, crunchy on the outside and soft & gooey in the middle, they were always a huge hit when we had guests to tea. Also, in the pantry was a large jar of pickled onions which was nearly the end of me.

I love pickled things. I’m very big on piccalilli don’t you know? At one time in my teens, it became my custom when passing the pantry to pop in for a sneaky onion or three. I became hooked; I would even drink the vinegar out of the pickle jar, the acidity turning my lips white. For some reason, mum decided this wasn’t good for me & I was forbidden from consuming onions other than at designated mealtimes as part of a balanced diet. But as gripped as any meth head I continued to feed my habit, albeit on the downlow. I suspect you’re ahead of me by now. One day, having just popped a succulent tangy onion in my gob I heard the sound of mum coming in through the front door. I panicked, swallowed the darn thing whole and quelle surprise it lodged firmly in my throat. I couldn’t breathe, my eyes were bulging and I could feel myself turning purple. Then came an almighty thwack on the back and the offending pickle shot the length of the kitchen and smacked against the wall. Hugs and tears and just a few “I told you so’s” ensued but, suffice to say, my addiction was cured.

Tim and I shared a very large bedroom complete with bunk beds and home-made built in toy cupboards topped by a Hornby railway track. We got along fairly swimmingly apart from the time we nearly choked each other to death with a length of rope whilst playing cowboys & Indians. Let’s not mention the time we gave each other the runs while playing pirates using a bottle of Syrup of Figs as a bottle of rum substitute. How did any of us survive the 60s?

Our large back garden was complete with swing, well stocked vegetable patch and a beautiful weeping willow tree. The leaves from the willow could be used to create a reed which, when jammed between the thumbs and blown through, produced a rasping, high pitched screech. At the front of the house a beautifully manicured lawn surrounded sunken rose beds.

In the bungalow next door lived a kindly, retired couple called Mr. & Mrs Stubbs who would occasionally ‘sit’ the two of us if mum and dad went out. They had a beautiful long haired terrier called Bella. Mr. Stubbs had spent his career working as a miner down Black Bull Pit. His face and hands bore some small scars inflicted underground which had been impregnated with coal dust which turned them blue.  He always looked like he had on mascara, also the effect of coal dust. Mrs. Stubbs had wispy white hair always scraped up into a bun. They reminded me of Henry & Minnie Crun from “The Goon Show” of which I am a lifelong fan.

On the subject of goonery, in the early sixties the BBC screened a puppet version of the Goons called “The Telegoons”. Filmed in black & white, it was quite low budget & crudely done but it featured all the fabulous goon characters voiced by Harry Secombe, Peter Sellers & Spike Milligan: Ned Seagoon, the famous Eccles, Major Dennis Bloodnock, the villainous Hercules Grytpype-Thynne with his side kick Count Jim Moriarty and my favourite, Bluebottle. On 23 November 1963 I enjoyed watching it as per and at 17:16:20 GM, eighty seconds later than the scheduled programme time because of announcements concerning the previous day's assassination of John F. Kennedy*, I watched the 1st ever episode of Doctor Who. It was very exciting & quite different to anything I’d seen before. I was a bit miffed that the Beeb cancelled “Telegoons” the following week to repeat episode one followed immediately by episode two. This because the awful events in Dallas the week before had overshadowed the good doctor and his companions. No video recorders or on-demand streaming in those days.

Monday to Fridays revolved around school life. Tim went to Knypersley Primary School while it made sense for me to continue to attend Kingsfield where mum still taught. Dad travelled to the nearby town of Tunstall each day where he taught at Mill Hill Junior School.

Saturdays would be spent playing out with Tim and other boys from our road: David Large, Phillip Thompson and John Bath. Occasionally we’d be taken shopping either locally or we’d motor over to Hanley, the main Potteries shopping centre. Dad would wear a suit & tie.  Mum would never been seen out anywhere without a hat and gloves or a silk head scarf at the very least. We’d traipse around the large department stores: John Lewis, Huntbatches, Bratt & Dyke. Then we would visit Boyce Adams, a large grocery store which sold a wide range of luxury comestibles. These were presented in a way you probably only find in the food halls of Fortnum & Mason or Harrods these days. Everything was sold ‘loose’ to be hand wrapped into neat paper packages. Butter was hand patted with wooden paddles; cheese was cut with a wire. The ceilings were festooned with salamis & hams, the walls lined with large bright canisters containing teas & coffee beans from around the world to be scooped out, weighed and bagged. I was always particularly fascinated by the bright red bacon slicer which was as smooth & sleek as a well maintained fire engine. Operated by a large round handle it glided back and forth slicing perfect rashers with ease. There was a posh silver service restaurant on a mezzanine floor where we’d have coffee or lunch. White linen cloths, waitresses in black uniform with starched white aprons and hats.  The sort of place where you were expected to know the correct fork with which to pick your nose.

Often on a Saturday afternoon in the summer Tim & I would accompany father to a gig. I used to love helping dad to set up his Punch & Judy Show. I’d carefully lay out the puppets and ensure that the sausages for the crocodile, the gallows, the coffin (I know, right?) & Mr. Punch’s slapsticks were positioned correctly for ease of access. I’d watch every show.  Dad had made his own puppets out of papier mache in the 1940s. I still have them. Between performances we’d wander the event. Brass bands, tugs of war, bowling for a pig, homemade produce, lemonade, ice creams and no irritating public address system. Halcyon days.

Sundays were not so good. They invariably involved a visit to Pittshill Methodist Church for morning service, home for lunch then back to Pittshill where mum was head teacher at the Sunday School. Although we’d relocated to Biddulph, we retained all our Tunstall connections and many family activities centred around church, thus entailing trips back and forth the 5 miles or so between the two locations. I’m not knocking Sunday School by the way. It just meant I only got to play out with our Conway Road chums on Saturdays. The upside was that I had two friend groups: day school & Sunday School – Geoffrey Unwin, Peter Handcock, Margaret Johnson, Susan Edwards and Denise…erm…it’ll come to me if I don’t think about it.

Julian: Tell me Jimmy, do you go to school?

Jimmy: I go to two schools. Weekday school & Sunday School.

Julian: And which do you prefer?

Jimmy: I prefer Sunday School.

Julian: Why is that?

Jimmy: It’s only once a week.

There were three well attended classes at Pittshill – nursery led by a lady called Elaine Bossons, primary led by mother and a junior group in the capable hands of Marylin (Mal) Riley. The school rooms at church were somewhat dingy but mum would brighten things with strategically placed cardboard room dividers, the sort of posters that came free each month with “Child Education” magazine and always fresh flowers cut from our garden. Visitors to my home will know that I am seldom without fresh flowers. When it comes to first/last night gifts, give me flowers over a bottle of wine every time.

My dear mum was very proud of the fact that her Sunday school produced not one but two district chair - presbyters who lead a Methodist district and who carry out responsibilities on behalf of the Conference - a fact she alluded to in the very last conversation I ever had with her in her 93rd year. One was my Sunday School friend Peter Hancock and the other my dear cousin Rachel. Isn’t it wonderful that mum got her Rachel after all?

Sunday tea would be taken with one of mum’s numerous aunts who lived in the Tunstall area. I loved them all, but favourites were Auntie Em & Uncle Charles who lived at 53, King William Street, a two up two down terraced house with no bathroom and an outside loo. Uncle Charles was an invalid who suffered from severe bronchitis. He’d sit in a chair by the fire occasionally letting forth fearsome deep, rib-racking coughs. These he would ease by swigging medicine that looked suspiciously like Newcastle Brown Ale (it wasn’t) straight from the bottle. Auntie Em was a kind soul whom I adored. She was the sort of person who would give her last penny to help support the poor of the parish even though they were the poor of the parish.  As small & sprightly as a sparrow, she always found things for Tim & me to do. We’d be presented with a huge pile of newspapers, half of which we’d roll up into spills for fire lighting whilst the other half we would cut up into squares and thread onto string at one corner. These would be hung on a nail in the privy. Toilet paper cost money and, besides, it was always nice to have something to read. Their loo had a wooden seat polished by generations of Woollam family bottoms. No matter how cold the night the seat always felt warm against your bare cheek. Tim & I sometimes slept over at King William St. Rather than go down the yard in the middle of the night we were furnished with a chamber pot. This reminds me of the story told by actor Sir Bernard Miles who, when staying in theatrical digs was once instructed by the landlady:

“Please do not place the chamber pot back under the bed after use as the steam rusts the bedsprings”.

Sometimes we would return to church for evening service but on a good day Tim & I would be allowed to stay at Auntie Em’s and watch “Sunday Night at the London Palladium” compered by Bruce Forsyth on their teeny, tiny black & white TV.

Some rare Sunday mornings we were excused church altogether. Dad would drop mum off at Pittshill and we would head to the dock doors of the Theatre Royal, Hanley to watch the ‘get in’ of the latest visiting touring company. The theatre building had originally been a Methodist Church so I suppose that counts.

A favourite company to observe was the world famous D’Oyly Carte Opera, who exclusively toured the works of Gilbert & Sullivan. Their move into the theatre was a massive undertaking as they visited for a fortnight to perform four programmes. Typically:

Week 1

Monday – Wednesday: Trial by Jury/HMS Pinafore

Wednesday – Saturday: The Yeomen of the Guard

Week 2

Monday – Wednesday: The Gondoliers

Wednesday – Saturday: Cox & Box/ The Pirates of Penzance

Imagine the sheer volume of flats, props, costume hampers and wigs involved. We would stand on the corner of Gitana St. outside the Gertie Gitana Public House (named for the famous music hall performer who hailed from Longton. The Forces' sweetheart of the 1914–18 war, she was famous for the popular song “Nellie Dean”). I think dad secretly hoped we’d be invited backstage to have a look round but that never happened.

I suspect mum and dad went to each programme over the two weeks (6 operettas). They were mad on G&S. At home we had all the D’Oyly Carte album recordings which would often be the background music to Sunday lunch.  Tim and I would be taken to at least one matinee. My favourites being “The Mikado” or “Pirates”.

My very first introduction to the G&S canon was a matinee performance at the Theatre Royal of “Patience”. It must have been prior to 1961 as that was when the theatre converted to a Mecca Bingo Hall.

“Patience” is a satire on the aesthetic movement of the 1870s and '80s in England and, more broadly, on fads, superficiality, vanity, hypocrisy and pretentiousness; it also satirises romantic love, rural simplicity and military bluster. Lost on me of course. I just liked the soldiers of the 35th Dragoon Guards in their bright red tunics and brass helmets.

At the conclusion of the performance, I apparently refused to quit my seat having been informed that there would be a second performance that evening.  Only when it was pointed out that another little boy would want to sit in my seat and would be disappointed if I didn’t bugger off, did I reluctantly vacate. We then went to the café at the Methodist Bookstore for beans on toast. Possibly. Interestingly, to this day, I have never seen another performance of “Patience”.

I’ll never forget that first experience of ‘proper’ musical theatre. The lights, the brightness, the music. Being enveloped in the sights, sounds and the sheer exuberant joy of it all. The laughter, the applause, the shared experience. It’s a pleasure that has never left me.

A few weeks ago, I went to a performance at the London Palladium of “Hello Dolly” staring Imelda Staunton. Holding hands in the dark with my wonderful daughters Avril & Sian bought back memories of those far off family theatre jaunts. I felt myself welling up. Sad? A little. I miss those the far off days of childhood innocence when everything seemed so certain, safe and secure. Times that were about to come to an end.

But they were mainly tears of joy. After the horror of my recent cancer diagnosis and the indignities of being poked, prodded and tested by medical professionals I was simply overjoyed to be back in my happy place doing what I love sat with two of the most precious people in the world by my side.

*Source: Wikipedia