Sty took off his wellington boots and his socks, rolled up his jean bottoms and eased himself overboard. Then he took a garden rake from within the boat and began to rake the stony bed of the inlet with long deliberate movements. My job was to watch keenly for any sight of a glimmer or sparkle of yellow or silver. When Sty had finished raking one part of the stream he just pulled the boat along to another spot. At one point there was a huge rock in the centre of the stream, with a family of grey seals lying on top. They slid off as we drew near and lay submerged a short distance away, watching us with their heads only just sticking out of the water. I had never seen a seal up close and at first I was apprehensive since they seemed quite large but Sty said they wouldn’t bother us as long as we left them alone.
As the day wore on I began to feel tired and hungry so we stopped and ate the home-cured ham and pease pudding sandwiches my aunt had made for us. Then we moved further up the creek and Sty started raking again. Just as I thought that we would never find anything I spotted a glint of something silvery between the stones near the bankside. At my shout Sty halted his raking and began to rummage amongst the stones and gravel where I thought I had seen something. Sure enough, after a moment or two Sty let out a shriek of delight and grasped something in his fingers. Clambering into the boat he showed me what he had found. It was a tiny silver cross with rounded ends and a minute figure of the crucified Christ on the front. On the reverse side there was some writing in a foreign language which Sty said was Spanish, the same as on his doubloons.
We were very excited by our find. Sty wanted me to have the cross but I told him that if my father saw that I had something valuable, he would only take it from me and sell it. Sty said he would keep it for me and hide it in a safe place along with his doubloons – and when I was older I could come and claim it.
By this time the day was much advanced and Sty’s legs were blue with cold after so much time in the water. We returned back home in triumph but we kept our find a secret. The memory of that beautiful day searching for Spanish gold and silver remained in the forefront of my mind for many years. I fancifully imagined that when I grew up I would return to search for doubloons with Sty in the secret, sheltered Scottish waters, just like the characters in Robert Louis Stevenson’s adventure book, Treasure Island. Only I never did.
Another thing Sty did for me was to introduce me to the wondrous grandeur of the Scottish Highlands. On another day off from preparing and selling fish and chips Sty took me on the back of his motorbike, which my aunt assured my mother was safe. We set out on a journey inland to explore the glens and mountains of the Scottish landscape. We rode up through misty valleys with sunbeams slanting through the mist and we picnicked on the crest of a hilltop that was surrounded by a mysterious sort of light, which gave a surreal aspect to everything around us. Sty said that the strange and beautiful light up high in the Highlands was due to all the moisture in the air. He also told me that somewhere in these mountains and crags that ringed the glen there lived a golden eagle, which he said was a great and elegant bird that could steal a lamb away in its massive talons.
‘If we’re lucky we’ll see it today.’
We never caught sight of the eagle but we did see a kestrel hawk hovering expertly in the air before pouncing on its prey, probably a mouse or a shrew, in the long grass. We also spied a large, broad-winged bird high in the sky, no doubt watching us and wondering what we were up to. Sty said it was a buzzard, a bird like a big carrion crow that scavenged for dead things. As the sun slid behind the mountains we collected the motorbike from where we had parked it and, as we made to leave, a soft mist enveloped us. It veiled but did not mask the august purity of the highland scene.
Suddenly it began to rain gently and, after the heat of the afternoon in the sheltered glen, its wetness was welcome on my face and the raindrops sweetened the taste of the highland air as they moistened my lips. It had been a marvellous day and I was thrilled by all I had seen. It was a day I would always remember and recall with nostalgia in later life when I visited the highlands on my own as a tourist. The warmth of Sty’s friendship made the day so much more of an occasion and after I returned home I would remember his kindness to me. He treated me as if we were brothers.
During the weeks we stayed with my Aunt Sheilis, she told me stories about her brother William who was my maternal grandfather. He’d worked in the coalmines but after he married my grandmother and my mother was born he decided to emigrate to America in the hope of making a better life for his family. Once he was settled in a well-paid job at a steelworks in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, he had sent for them to join him but my grandmother was afraid to leave Blaydon and refused to go. He kept up correspondence for a number of years but eventually his letters ceased and she heard no more. My aunt showed me a faded sepia photograph of him on horseback when he was working on a ranch in Argentina and that was the last she had ever seen or heard of him so many years ago. It was a sad tale yet it excited my imagination to think what it might have been like to know him and hear the stories of his life. My aunt remembered him as being very lively and adventurous with a ready smile and loads of charm but, she said with a wry smile, he had a wild side too.
By now, I had found out that my mother was pregnant and I seemed to be more worried than ever about what would happen at home if we ever went back. Since I knew my mother would be resting at my aunt’s because of her pregnancy I felt free to follow my own inclinations. Sometimes, when I had finished helping out at the fish and chip shop and Sty was busy with business things, I would wander off at will to explore the beach that extended beyond the bay. Just meandering along the sandy beach where it bordered the sea was an exhilarating experience. The tangy salty air was spiced with the smells of seaweed and flotsam. The immense sky seemed to go on forever and looked as if it could envelope and swallow you up into its total immensity. The wild cries of the kittiwakes as they swooped and dived in the turbulent air and the mesmerising cadence of the waves as they splashed against the shoreline enriched my senses and confirmed me as a beachcomber for the rest of my days.
In Victorian times sea air was thought to be therapeutic and the gentry began to popularize seaside resorts for health and recreation throughout the late nineteenth century and well into the twentieth. And like them, I now revelled in the invigorating scents brought ashore by the winds from the sea. The sea breeze revived my flagging spirits, succouring my need for a comfort zone away from the fears and repressions of life at home. My body felt recharged by the spectacle around me and I felt energized with the same zest as the spray and spume of the waves as they erupted with sparkling highlights in the rays of the sun. My mother had bought me some sand shoes from the village store and my feet felt so light that I just had to run and run and, like the wading birds that took flight at my passing, I too felt I would be able to soar on the wind if I just made a little more effort.
Some days later there was consternation in the village because some of the household bins, including one at the fish and chip chop, were being raided by an animal intruder. Following a lot of speculation it was decided that the perpetrator was probably either a fox or a pine marten and a number of nasty steel traps were set. I hadn’t told anyone but I knew almost positively that it wasn’t a fox or a pine marten because I had seen the culprit. It was a cat, a really big cat that was grey with dark stripes. One night, I had seen it from my bedroom window when I was kneeling on my bed looking out at the sea in the moonlight. The cat looked fierce and very wild. Sty and I had talked about pets, cats and dogs because he was planning to buy a dog some day when he had time to train it. In answer to a question of mine he said he wouldn’t have a cat because it might be vicious like some feral cats that people said lived in the area, mainly in the forest. I was sure that the animal I had seen in the moonlight was one of those wildcats, and from the heavy form of her body she looked to be pregnant.
I told Sty about the wildcat but said that I didn’t want her to be trapped and killed, espe
cially since she was pregnant. Sty said he would think about it and see what could be done. Later that day he told me to meet him in the public lavatories, which were in a stone building near the Stag’s Head pub. When I got there Sty produced a large empty paint tin and told me to urinate in it. Then he did likewise and took the tin away with him. I was really mystified regarding what he intended to do but I trusted his judgement and expected that he would have something serious in mind.
Next day at the shop, Sty took me aside and told me that late at night, when no one was about and before the moon had risen in the sky, he had poured some of our urine on each of the three traps that had been set in order to prevent any wild animal from coming near them. He said it was a trick he’d learned from a fisherman whose dog had once been caught in a trap set by a gamekeeper in the nearby woods where he had taken his dog for walks. Sty said that he had it on good authority that no animal would go near a trap impregnated with human urine. Many times in later years I used this ploy when out walking in Northumberland and found traps set by farmers and gamekeepers. Sty’s plan seemed to work. Nothing was caught in the village traps and no more bins were raided, perhaps just because people started to take more care when disposing of their refuse. I kept on looking but I never saw the wildcat again.
Later in life I learned that the wildcat was very rare and mainly found in Scotland. They were classed as vermin because it was believed that they attacked lambs and slaughtered domestic fowl to supplement their food supply, especially when they had a litter of kittens to feed. Their virtual demise came when aristocratic landowners started to pay a bounty to gamekeepers for every wildcat they killed, and only a minority managed to survive in the farthest reaches of the Scottish Highlands. They all but joined the ranks of the wolf, the beaver and the elk, who were also hunted to extinction in their natural habitat in the British Isles. The wildcats, though, seem to be making something of a comeback. Michael, a friend of mine who lived at Powburn in Northumberland, said that he had once seen a wildcat when out walking at the foot of the Cheviot Hills and there are tales of a resurgence in the Scottish Borders. The one I saw that moonlit night in Scotland was a magnificent animal. I hope that she successfully delivered her kittens and raised them to maturity. To this day, I am obliged to Sty for his many kind actions but especially for his help in saving that wildcat of the Highlands.
We stayed an enjoyable and peaceful three weeks with my aunt, who said that she liked having us because she was often lonely with her son and daughter both away serving in the armed services.
My father had contacted the police who had traced us by questioning my grandmother. A local police officer called to see us and, after discussing the situation with my mother and aunt, said that we did not have to go back since my mother had not broken any laws. However, a few days later a catholic priest, no doubt informed through my father’s parish, arrived at the door and told my mother that she was obliged for the good of her soul and her marriage to return home. Apparently my mother’s pregnancy wasn’t widely known before we left but my grandmother had told the police so that they could warn my father of the dangers of any further brutality against her. Now it was being used as the chief reason for her return. It was a wrench to leave and my aunt was heartbroken at our going.
As for me, I hadn’t missed my father one little bit and had savoured the most delicious fish and chips I had ever eaten. With Sty I had explored Scottish waters for Spanish gold and had an adventure searching the Highland glens for sight of the elusive golden eagle. I had found a new friend in Sty and I would miss his happy company. However, I longed to see my grandmother again and eagerly looked forward to being with her.
A FAMILY AFFAIR
On our return from Scotland, there was no cheerful welcome home – there was only the strain of tension in the air. I had hardly been in the house for half an hour when my life once again assumed its repressive tone.
‘Get yourself off somewhere,’ my father barked at me. ‘Me and your mother need to have a talk and I don’t want you listening in.’
I hastened down to my grandmother’s house with relief but I was worried about my mother being left alone with my father. I told my grandmother so and asked her why he was so cruel to us. She said that there were things that I was too young to know and that for the moment they were better left unsaid. Soon I was tucking in to a typical wartime dish of tripe and onions cooked in creamy milk and washed down by a glass of sarsaparilla, which my grandmother said was good for me. Everything seemed better at my grandmother’s home because she was a very loving person. Even the food she cooked, which was necessarily basic because of wartime privations, tasted better than anything served up at home.
‘Why did we have to leave our house at Axwell Park?’ I asked as we sat relaxing after supper, listening to the wireless. This question had been bothering me for some time. I knew that I had been born in a house called Tynedale on the fringe of Axwell Park, but we had moved when I was young.
‘There were things that happened and it was thought best that you all move back into the town.’
‘Whatever happened?’ I asked.
There was no response to my query. I had started to suspect that the move was somehow connected to our troubles as a family. Why else would we have moved from a lovely area to a terraced house in the backstreets of Blaydon-on-Tyne? Something must have happened and I thought that whatever that event was might lie at the heart of the way my father treated me. I decided that I had to wheedle the truth out of my grandmother because she was the only one who cared enough to realize that I needed to understand why my home life was so difficult. For the time being, however, she held her tongue.
Although my childhood and most of my boyhood was spent in and around Blaydon town, I have always felt drawn back to Axwell Park. It lies to the west of Blaydon and a mile inland from the River Tyne. The baronet, Sir Thomas Clavering, built a mansion called Axwell Hall on the estate in the late eighteenth century. After the death of the last family heir in 1893 the area went into decline and later began to be developed for residential purposes. In 1931 a line of very modern semi-detached villas were built adjoining Shibdon Road and backing on to wild parkland. The fourth house along was given the grand name Tynedale, which was arched in large letters in a glass panel above the front door. This was the house where I was born at around 10 a.m. on the 6 June 1934 in a large bed in the front bedroom. I was delivered by a famous general practitioner in the area, Dr Morrison, a landowner and organic food enthusiast. To all intents and purposes I was regarded as a healthy baby and people remarked on my sweet disposition. I am told that I smiled a lot and slept soundly at nights.
I was aware from my earliest recollections that I shared my home life with a large black she-dog called Floss, who was my self-appointed guardian whenever my mother ventured out with me in my pram. If the pram was parked outside a shop or house, Floss would sit by the pram with one paw laid protectively over my body. The other animal companion of my babyhood was a silky-furred cat called Fluffy who would lie alongside me and purr in my ear. Both animals were wedding presents to my parents. Both disappeared within the first two years of my life. Floss went first. Apparently she was often slapped by my father with the sole of his slipper for misbehaving. One day his slippers disappeared and were discovered some weeks later buried in the garden’s potato patch. Such a crime was deemed a capital offence and Floss was taken to be destroyed. Fluffy just left home, disappeared and was never found. This was perhaps a forewarning of things yet to come in my life.
I think I was mostly happy as a very young child but I soon learned to fear my father. I remember how upset I used to be whenever my mother went out in the evening and he had to change my nappy. He would hold me aloft with his hand grasping me by the left ankle whilst he cleaned me off. In the midst of my crying he would be saying things which I didn’t understand but which gave me bad feelings nonetheless. When I was old enough to be able to walk freely without support I developed a distressing ten
dency of dislocating my left ankle and it required the attention of a doctor’s home visit to reset my ankle. On one such occasion, my grandmother questioned the doctor and he said something about torn ligaments, which caused a terrific row in the house. She must have suspected that the problem was my father’s fault. To this day my ankle has a tendency sometimes to just collapse without warning if my footwear does not offer enough support.
Even though I was very young, I started to feel that my father disliked me and missed no opportunity of saying or doing things to hurt me. There was an incident I remember when the coal fire in the sitting room went out. I had been given a large wooden spade from my grandmother so that I could dig in the garden. My father brought this spade out from the cupboard where it was kept, snapped it into pieces in front of me and used it to relight the fire. There were plenty of sticks in a box near the fire so I just could not understand why he needed my spade. When my mother arrived back home I was inconsolable about the loss of the spade. She couldn’t understand what I was crying about since I was just two years old and my baby talk about what happened was incomprehensible. When I was older I began to suspect that there were things about our family that were not normal. The vibrations that underlaid our relationships were disturbingly negative.
It would be a couple of years until grandmother finally told me the truth. It was a Sunday afternoon and we were relaxing in front of the fire after lunch. I once again pleaded with her to tell me about what had happened to make us move from Axwell Park. She looked across at me without smiling and said that I must promise her that I would never ever repeat what she was about to tell me. She began speaking and there was a mournful tone to her voice that I had never heard before.
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