Tom Paxton – derrickjknight

A Knight’s Tale (59: About The Children)

Jackie had stayed at our home with the children.

The next few years saw me trying to settle somewhere in which I could accommodate the three children at weekends and holiday periods. Michael stayed with his stepmother until there was no hope of reconciliation. First I visited them and took them out.

From Lolesworth Buildings I moved for a few more months to stay with Jill in Blackheath. I remember the flat, at the top of Shooters Hill, but forget the address. The sequence and chronology of the next few months is a bit hazy, as was I, but I had a fortnight in a flat in West London belonging to a work colleague in Southwark Social Services Department and a month or so once again with Tony in Gillespie Road, near Arsenal’s former football ground in North London. A period of stability sharing Giles’ basement flat in Pimlico lasted a bit more than a year.

After spending some time with friends Tony and Madeleine, Jill, a work colleague, gave me the Blackheath room. It was spacious and could accommodate a thick piece of foam rubber measuring 6’6″ x 5’6″ that I had tailor made so that Michael, Matthew, and Becky could share it with me at the weekends – two of us at the top and two at the bottom. That makeshift mattress was to serve for another 34 years. When I set up home with Jessica I had a wooden bed built around it. Only when I left Lindum House and returned to London, where it was too large to fit into the Hyde Park Square flat, was it replaced.

I was to be even more grateful for the Blackheath room and that mattress before I moved on, because for period of six weeks I suffered my one and only bout of bronchitis and hardly left it for a month.

During the time at Blackheath the children and I visited that village where donkey rides and Guinness were sampled.

Sometimes we went down to the Thames waterfront at Greenwich, which would be unrecognisable today. Smoke still billowed from Battersea Power Station and cranes were still in service.

As all my readers will know, music is a powerful trigger for joy or sadness. Jackie and I were fans of Tom Paxton whose Croydon performances we attended. From the day of our parting I was never able to listen to the singer/songwriter until we were reunited. One real tear-jerker was “About the Children”. It is perhaps just as well that the video of this was unavailable for me to add to this post.

Happy New Year

Jackie and I have reached the stage where, not only do we prefer to avoid the crowds and watch New Year celebrations on television, but we can’t even stay up to do that, so we watched them this morning on BBC iPlayer. I had a bit of a hangover.

From 2006 to 2009 I lived close enough, in Central London, to have walked to the Embankment for the event. I didn’t fancy fighting my way through boisterous crowds of people a fraction of my age, to stand in the cold for a glimpse of a display I could otherwise enjoy in the comfort of an armchair. So, when I didn’t fall asleep, I became a couch potato for the evening. For New Year 2008 Anne and Burhan al-Jaf, perhaps correctly surmising I would be alone, invited me to join their party at home in South East London. We had an exciting time viewing my neighbourhood fireworks on screen at our ease, vainly peering into the melee for a sight of my hosts’ teenage daughter Yerevan and her friends, who were young enough to want to be there. Thank you, Anne and Burhan, for a night to remember.

Today was bright and sunny, if frosty early on, thus offering the respite another Anne had hoped for yesterday. My walk was to the church and back. This morning, after patronising the village shop, Jackie visited All Saints church. She accurately described the church as ‘cosy’, and reported the placement of a pipe and floral tribute on the tombstone of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his wife. Naturally I had to go and look at it. The pipe may have been there for some time, but the roses, in a plastic container bearing a £3 M & S label, were fresh.

This is not the first Conan Doyle burial site. A devoted Spiritualist, Sir Arthur was first buried in an upright position in the garden of his home at Crowborough in East Sussex in 1930. His second wife was interred alongside him ten years later. It was not until 1955 that the couple were moved to Minstead, as had been Lady Jean’s wish. Given the beliefs of the creator of Sherlock Holmes, I wonder what he would have made of the face emerging from the blend of salt and lichen adorning the tombstone of Edmund and Mary Bannister who died some thirty years apart in the nineteenth century.

On my way down into Minstead I had been greeted by Anne and Audrey who wished me a Happy New Year from the garden of Orchard Gate. On my return I spoke with two young Dutchmen and a little boy who were admiring Champion and Primrose. One of the men held up the boy so he could commune with the horses whilst his companion photographed the scene. They had just moved to Southampton where they would be living for eight months, and were exploring the countryside. They were smitten with the beauty of the forest. They had climbed the stile and tried the footpath leading from the gate. As one of them said, they realised ‘it was a bad idea’, especially when the little lad lost a wellie to the suction of the mudbath. The men, of course, were both well over six feet and spoke perfect English. Whenever I speak to modern Europeans I feel pleasantly humbled by the fact that they are all likely to speak English. Anne al-Jaf is Belgian, and Burhan Kurdish. When I attended their wedding in Anne’s home town more than twenty years ago now, hosts and guests were from various parts of Europe and Kurdistan. Much of the proceedings were conducted in English, as the most likely common language. I am not certain now, but I may have been the only person of my nationality present.

Kalu (see 28th December 2012) now answers when called by name, and bows on command. More and more he makes me think of Tom Paxton’s song ‘The Marvelous Toy’, which can be heard on youtube.

The freezer was raided for our evening meal, which offered a choice from, in descending order of chilli strength, chilli con carne by Jackie; lamb curry by Jackie; and turkey jalfrezi by Derrick, with Jackie’s pilau rice. This was followed by Jackie’s bread and butter pudding. The only Indian restaurant I’ve ever experienced serving – no doubt catering for the indigenous population – traditional English puddings, is Newark’s Shaan. I had to starve myself all day to stand the slightest chance of eating their steamed sponge puddings after a delicious curry meal. Tiger beer accompanied my meal; Hoegaarden Jackie’s; and Orange juice Flo’s.

Our meal was taken against the backdrop of Kalu’s wandering around the room making interesting sounds each time he came to an obstacle. Should he find himself stuck he would up the tempo and Flo would have to go and rescue him.

Leaving London

Being fortunate enough to start walking before rain set in for the day, I took my usual route to Wimbledon station and boarded a train to Waterloo to meet my friend Tony. A British Gas van in Maycross Avenue reminded us that 2012 was London’s Olympics year. There was another in Wilton Crescent. This was the third time we have hosted these games, and 2012 was a resounding success.

Morden Civic Centre, which Jackie will be leaving on 6th November, in preparation for our move to the mediaeval vllage of Minstead in the heart of the New Forest, towers over Mostyn Gardens. We will finally be departing from London, a journey celebrated in song by Tom Paxton in the 1960s. I once heard him sing ‘Leaving London’ in The Troubador, a Coffee Bar somewhere near Earls Court. As I struggled to remember the name of this establishment I ran the lyrics through in my head, and there it was: ‘Last night The Troubador was so full they barred the door.’ After Jackie and I split up in 1972 I was never able to listen to our favourite singer again, but his words remain fixed in my memory. One of the reasons I have chosen ‘Ramblings’ as the overall title of my blog is in homage to the first time I heard Paxton, having discovered ‘Rambling Boy’ in a record shop in the early ’60s. It is a treasure I have passed on to Holly, who enjoys playing vinyl albums on a turntable. Like ‘Under the Boardwalk’, mentioned yesterday, these gems can be found on youtube.

A plaque in the John Innes garden and recreation ground further down Mostyn Road explains the history of the beautiful eponymous preservation area in which it lies. Whilst seated in this garden writing my notes, I received the following text from Elizabeth:

‘Just sitting in the conservatory being entertained by the activity at bay tree bird station! Magpie and dove out there together for ages not sure if they are playing a game or if the dove smaller of the two birds is just telling the magpie to shove off! The little birds in and out of bird feeders are keeping them both busy with sprinklings. It’s warm and cosy in here………’ (This is presented as I received it. Had Elizabeth known this was going to be published she would most certainly have added the requisite punctuation). The conservatory is decribed as the garden room in the post of 5th October.

On the footpath between Dundonald Road and the railway a small child, at a snail’s pace, was trailing her fingers along the mesh fence which stretched far ahead. When I quipped that this was going to take some time, her mother, slowly pushing a buggy, readily agreed and added: ‘I’ve come prepared for this’.

After my meeting with Tony at The Archduke I returned by train to Wimbledon and, dodging umbrellas, walked back to Links Avenue from there, dripping over the threshold.

I dined alone this evening on Sainsbury’s chicken and ham pie with salad that really needs eating up. That doesn’t sound too appetising, but I enjoyed it. Jackie is out with a friend.