The First Gallery – Page 2

In my post dedicated to him, I say that Alex Schneideman made me a present of one of his portraits of me. This is number 21 in the ‘through the ages series’, taken on 17th March 2009. It seems appropriate to feature it at this time, because behind me in the flat in Sutherland place, are some of the books that now fill boxes in the garage. Becky has recently quoted Daisy Ashford’s ‘The Young Visiters’ on her Facebook page. Among the comments this has prompted is Jackie’s regret that she no longer has her copy. I have assured her that she need have no fear because my copy will be in the box marked Novels A – ?. Since some of the Bs and Cs can be seen on the shelves to my left, the young writer’s famous tale is probably sharing their temporary resting place. It is to be hoped that Jackie does not want to read the book before the boxes are unloaded at their final destination.

This morning I walked to the churchyard via The Splash and footpath, and back through the village. Clopping up the road between the ford and Furzey Gardens was a Thelwell pony, led by a woman in wellies, and carrying a proud little girl. They were grateful to be photographed.

On 16th November, when I was too unwell to attend, there was a ceremony of dedication to the Memorial to Lost Children sculpted by Jeanie Mellersh, whose had been one of the first welcoming faces I met soon after our arrival in Minstead. It seemed appropriate, on a Sunday of my first real walk since getting over my virus, to pay my respects to the memory of Jeanie and Nick’s grandchildren Yaany & Mimi Mellersh, local children who lost their lives tragically in Turkey two years ago. I did so. The white stone memorial stands apart from the graves. One can only extend sympathy to those left behind.

This afternoon we drove to Hobby Craft in Hedge End to buy the materials for a Christmas present picture frame. Afterwards we went on to Margery and Paul’s home in Bitterne for the grand finale of The First Gallery’s three week winter exhibition. Incidentally they sold 6/10 of mine and Jackie’s cards.

The exhibition closed at 4.00 p.m. and the sing song by private invitation began at 4.30. As smooth as clockwork the conjoint sitting rooms were transformed from a picture gallery to a splendid parlour room for group singing. Masterminded by Paul with some assistance from the early arrivals, items were whisked upstairs or into the hall to make way for a variety of chairs. Everything except the pianist was in place by the appointed time. Mary, our musician, had been delayed. This was no problem for the dynamic duo as Margery gamely took over the keyboard and got us under way.

Part of the preparation had been the printing off and stapling of song sheets. This involved various singers supervising the PC, then, by distributing the various sheets on various knees and collecting them up in the correct order, collating them before applying a stapler.

There were two sets of songs; one of carols, and the other of what Paul termed ‘pagan songs’ like Clementine or ‘Enery The Eighth. Examples of each were alternated in our programme, and great fun was had by all.

As Margery was getting into the swing of things at the piano Paul came staggering backwards into the room. Looking rather like the anchorman in a tug of war he managed to dig his heels into the carpet, and, with head bobbing and hair flying, heave on a taught red rope that disappeared the other side of the door. As did Paul, rather like a puppet on a string. Summoning all his strength he got himself and what turned out to be a dog lead back into the room. Momentarily. On the other end of the leash was a black labrador seemingly larger than the pony I had seen this morning. It had its forepaws on the shoulders of a woman whose gradual entry into the room meant Paul could relax somewhat, only to be jerked across to the piano where Mary, the pianist, helped him secure her dog Gem to the piano stool. Naturally this created a pause in the proceedings.

Mary then took over the ivories. All continued comparatively smoothly until Gem took a shine to John. I felt for him as he tried to manage the farmyard sounds of ‘Old MacDonald’ whilst fending off a besotted dog with strokes of self defence. Nevertheless, the more or less harmonious production continued until it was time for a break.

At the interval we were served with tea and Margery’s exquisite mini mince pies, still warm and delicious.

When the singing was ended, the majority of us stayed and had a very enjoyable half hour or so of stimulating and entertaining conversation.

Elizabeth, Jackie and I then repaired to Eastern Nights at Thornhill for the usual top quality Bangladeshi meal with Cobra, Bangla, and fizzy water to accompany it.

We were promised pleasant weather today, and when we set off late morning to Elizabeth’s, it certainly looked that way. By midday the rain had begun again, just as we arrived at Bursledon Brickworks industrial museum. When we left, a little more than two hours later, it was teeming, and continued to be so for the rest of the afternoon.

The trip to Bursledon had been arranged by Elizabeth for Mum to have a tour of the works on this their open day. Paul Robinson is a member of Elizabeth’s bookbinding class in Winchester. He is also a volunteer at the Brickworks, which was the last steam driven factory of its kind in the country. He patiently, amusingly, and informatively, gave us two hours of his time and attention. Mum managed, on her two sticks, to last the course. When it came to going upstairs, Paul carefully strapped her into a stairlift and stepped up alongside her to assuage her fears.

Until the rain set in for keeps, we had wandered around the outside area where people were being given rides in trucks tugged along by steam engines and trains; and where there was a display of steam driven vehicles and engines. Looking at the stacks of different bricks lining the railway tracks, I speculated about whether any of the recycled bricks I had used to build the compost heaps earlier in the year could have been made at Bursledon. Speaking to a woman polishing the brass on one of the steam engines, Mum told of her childhood in Manchester where children with chest infections were led to steam rollers so they could inhale the supposedly curative fumes emanating from the creosote being laid on the roads. This was a free expectorant before the National Health Service made such medicines available to all. I remember these engines in the Stanton Road of my childhood. There would always be lots of sticky black tar with an intoxicating smell.

Upstairs, the display areas, where we were shown bricks, plasterwork, chimney pots, and war horses, were on slatted floorboards with gaps in between them. The war horses were small terra cotta horses which people had paid to make and decorate as a fundraising activity. One display was of a model roof and chimney pots showing the various ways in which lead had enhanced roofs. It was in a bit of a dark corner. In order to make it easier for Mum to see it, Paul unplugged an electric lead and plugged it in somewhere else. ‘Oi. You’ve turned off my light’, came a cry from below. ‘You’ve turned off mine’, cried Paul. Good-naturedly he gave the man back his light. Which was just as well, for the complainant was Santa in his grotto.

We were shown a plaster cast sculpture of a man who, at the age of 92 had still worked a nine hour day creating hand-made bricks at the rate of three bricks a minute, which was a better rate than anyone else. They were all on piece work in those days. One area which had long queues was where children could make such bricks. They paid £1 and could take their creations home with them.

Some years ago Paul had been told how the men working brick making machines gained their lunch or loo breaks. Scattered around the floor would be broken off bits of brick. These would be picked up and thrown into a kind of hopper in the machinery. The result was that the machine would sieze up. This gave the men the opportunity to take a rest. These fragments were called brickbats. Nowadays the word has come to mean criticism.

By the time we had returned to The Firs for lunch and Elizabeth had taken Mum home, we were just in time to take in the end of The First Gallery 38th. Christmas show and stay on for a couple of hours carol singing. This is the gallery of Margery Clarke who has featured at times in these posts. On 22nd November I explained the link between Norman, Margery, and Alvin Betteridge. I was therefore very pleased to see some of Alvin’s work on display, and to buy Norman a Christmas present of an owl made by this potter.

The carol singing was an entertaining mix of traditional carols and more secular works like ‘Enery the Eighth’, and Old Macdonald. The pianist was accompanied by her rather young black labrador who got very excited at the dog verse of ‘Old Macdonald Had A Farm’. After the singsong there was a raffle for the prize of a bear made by animal sculptor Suzie Marsh in aid of Animals Asia’s campaign to end bear bile farming. Elizabeth bought her tickets at the very last minute. She won the raffle.

After this entertainment the three of us dined at Eastern Nights on the usual excellent food; Bangla being drunk by Jackie, and Cobra by Elizabeth and me.

Tag: The First Gallery

Showstopper

Brickbats