Four and a half

I was born aged 41/2. My birth certificate says otherwise. The
family photo album shows embarrassing pictures of me sitting on a mat
wearing nothing but a hat. I'm sure I would have objected to this pose
had I been old enough to do so. So I can only assume my infant protests
were put down to baby gurglings.
However, I am convinced that my life started at 41/2, I can even
remember the day that it started. I was with my mum and dad as they
negotiated the rent with the sitting tenant in a house opposite the
Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, Gwent. The tenant's name was Mrs
Tarry. She was a tiny, friendly lady who spoke with a Yorkshire accent
that enveloped me with the richness of a Pontefract cake. It was
breathtaking.
We moved into the upstairs part of the house. It consisted of a lounge,
3 bedrooms, a toilet, kitchen and bathroom. No, it wasn't a separate
kitchen and bathroom. The large, enamel bath had a large, wooden lid
and stood like a hygienic Dracula's coffin next to the gas cooker. The
family's modesty was usually maintained and it was only a desperately
parched throat or rumbling stomach that forced an invasion of one's
privacy. I, being the youngest in the family, was not always afforded
this courtesy. "After all, you've got nothing to hide, son. Blimey, you
can't even find it never mind flaunt it!"
Often, it was like being the star attraction in an aquarium with people
walking back and for. I can even remember having a bath with my boat,
rubber duck and a sandwich. Cleanliness was next to the bread bin in
our house.
I have fond memories of that place except for the evil, black witch who
lived in a small cupboard over the stairs. She always appeared in
nightmarish dreams and took great delight in capturing me. She would
simply touch me under the chin and I would be struck dumb. It was
impossible to cry for help and escape was futile. Funnily enough, I
have met several witches since that time and a few of them have had the
same effect.

41/2 also meant first steps to school. Everything about the place was
grey. It was built in 1896 and was shrouded in the stark, austere
morality of its era. I shuddered every time I entered the gates. There
was always an atmosphere of gloom and a sense of childhood misery. The
headmistress was a large, formidable creature who always seemed to be
dressed in grey. She would suddenly loom forward straight out of the
brickwork and always managed to scare me to death. She was probably the
sweetest thing on God's earth but my memory of her is very
selective.
Friday afternoon always brought a glorious end to the school week. It
not only meant freedom for a few days but brought the opportunity to
walk home with my dad. He worked just around the corner and usually
finished early on a Friday. It always filled me with great anticipation
and excitement when I spotted his handsome, gentle face waiting at the
end of the road. He celebrated his hard earned wages with a feast of
chocolate and goodies for all the family and I would eagerly accept my
gift as I took my place at his side. He had been wounded in the War
and, consequently, walked with a limp. I was quite proud to fall into
step and limp alongside him. I never did quite understand the clip
around the ear when he discovered I copied him.
I remember he died on a Friday. "He just came out of work and
collapsed." That's what his workmate said as he broke the news to my
mother. I wasn't supposed to hear it but I did and the image of my
father's death is still the clearest picture that has ever entered my
mind. Strangely, the image is neither sad nor horrific, simply etched
with an intense clarity. I will always remember him with warmth,
humour, pride and love - aged 41/2