Читать книгу Chas and Dave - Chas Hodges - Страница 10

Us kids, like kids do, adapted quickly once more to North London life. Mum earned money to keep us by playing piano in the pubs and clubs. Nan and Grandad helped bring us up while Great-grandfather Shaw, who was nearly ninety years old then, sort of acted the part of comic relief. He was a good old boy, five foot four inches tall and full of life.

He lived in the boxroom which had a smell of old stale pipes which I quite liked. He was music mad. He played clarinet in his younger days and would go out busking with my Mum on harmonium. I never heard him play clarinet, although he was supposed to have been quite good. I only heard him play the whistle which he played day and night, whatever the hour. I’d get private recitals in his room. He’d show me the scales, or play his latest piece that had just come through the door from Keith Prowse. Grandfather would be off, stopping every now and again to repeat a passage he felt needed improvement.

I loved every minute. When it was time for a break, he’d light up his old pipe and go into a story. Most times it would be about music. A brass band he’d seen years ago. He’d describe all the sounds and what they played. I could hear that band as clearly as if I’d been there. Then he’d ask me what I was up to, what new toys had I got? ‘New toy car? Let’s have a look.’ I’d go and get it. Grandfather would inspect it with wonder. Try it out with glee! Sometimes I’d say, ‘You can borrow it for a while if you want, Grandfather.’ ‘Thanks boy. Thanks very much. I’ll take care of it.’ He didn’t get on with his son-in-law too well, though (Mum’s Dad).

There was a thing in my house that was as important as the teapot or the gas stove or other household necessities.

It was the piss-pail.

He had one in his room. Nan and Grandad had one and me and my brother had one. We never had china piss-pots – didn’t hold enough. We had galvanised piss-pails. Great-grandfather and Grandad would argue never-ending over who’d got whose piss-pail.

‘You’ve got my piss-pail.’

‘No I ain’t, you silly old bastard!’

‘Daisy!’ Grandfather would shout to his daughter (Daisy was my Nan’s name, too). ‘Tell him he’s got my piss-pail!’ And so it would go on.

We kids had a white enamel piss-pail. It had a lid with holes on it. You could use it without taking the lid off, although I never owned up. My brother used to suss it when the lid felt warm, and I’d get a clump. I couldn’t see the sense in takin’ the lid off, as it all went in anyway.

The nearest school to me was Eldon Road School. I started there shortly after I was four years old. My brother Dave, nearly three years older than me, was already at the school, and I couldn’t wait to get there too. I begged my Mum to get me there as soon as possible. It must have been the glamour of it, big brother and all that, goin’ off to school with all the lads. The morning I started I did just that. Went to school with all the lads. Now big brother, who was supposed to be lookin’ after me, decided before we got close to Eldon Road that I was a bit of a nuisance and I was left to fend for myself. I’d got this Victoria plum my Mum had given me to take to school, and I decided to sit down against this wall outside the school gates to eat it. Some ol’ gels (who were jawing on their front door steps) every now and then looked over at me.

‘They’ve gone in, yer know,’ they’d say, and then get back to their jawing. I never took no notice and carried on eating me plum.

To me the novelty had gone. I’d been to school with the boys but I didn’t want to go in, and that was that. Sitting up against the wall eating my Victoria plum and thinking about goin’ to school was heaven. Goin’ to school was great, but now I’d been. Now I wanted to go home, and I did. Those questions about ‘Do you like goin’ to school?’ made sense. I did. I liked comin’ home from school too. But goin’ in to school was a different matter. Do you want to go to school? – that was all I was asked.

My Mum decided I wasn’t ready to attend school and I was kept home ’til I was five. Try again. I wasn’t mad on it though I got to like it. When I started going to Eldon (and going in as well) I thought it was alright. Some teachers I didn’t like, some I liked. My first teacher was an old Victorian trained lady named Miss Dames.

One day she was teaching us a poem about a ‘Teeny Tiny Key’ – ‘I know a little cupboard with a teeny, tiny key, and in there are cakes for me, me, me.’ I can’t remember the rest. We all had to recite this poem together. As the class was reciting I remember feeling a pain in my stomach, something I’d probably ate, and I shit myself. It crept round my trousers all sort of warm. It wasn’t lumpy and none dropped out, so I thought I’d be able to keep it a secret ’till I got home. It was four o’clock and the bell went at five past four. Now whether I had a funny look on my face or just chance I don’t know, but Miss Dames said:

‘Now before we all go home, children, Charles Hodges will come out and recite the poem to you all on his own.’ I went out all caked in shit, but it clung there, not showing itself as I went into ‘I know a little cupboard with a teeny, tiny key.’ I did it all through, word perfect. The bell went and I was off home. I run indoors and all I could say was, ‘I couldn’t help it, I couldn’t help it!’

‘What couldn’t you help?’ said Mum. ‘What’s the matter? Tell me, tell me!’ The ‘couldn’t help it’ bit came about ‘cos I’d gone home from school once laughing about a school mate who’d been in the same predicament. ‘Ahh, he probably couldn’t help it,’ Mum had said, and I had latched onto that.

So after a bit she found out (it didn’t take long!) that I’d shit myself. My Nan promptly took my trousers and pants off and put me outside on the toilet. What’s she done that for? I thought. I’ve already done it! I sat there on the bog-hole. I decided I’d never laugh at my mates again. It could well have been apples. Too many of ’em, I was mad on apples.

One day Mum and Nan decided to take me and my brother to Southend for the day. Grandad said, ‘Take this bag of apples with yer, give some to the kids and give the rest away when you get down to Southend.’

It wasn’t a bag, it was a sackful! We had to catch the train at Lower Edmonton station, but the train was late. Me and my brother played up and down the station and I nicked an apple every time I got near the sack. Finally the train came along (the sack half empty by now) and off we went.

As we neared Southend, a thunderstorm started and, on top of that, so did one in my belly. Mum told my brother to take me to the toilet. He did, reluctantly. Boy, did I have the shits! My belly was aching like hell. I really thought I was gonna die. My brother Dave reported back to me Mum and then forgot what toilet he’d put me in. I could hear him shouting ‘Chas!’ underneath the toilet doors miles away. I was answering feebly. He found me in the end. When I recovered we spent the rest of the day under a shelter away from the storm. But that wasn’t all. I got me fingers shut in the train door on the way home! I’ve still got the scars to prove it. Some yobs, running down the platform, slammed our carriage door shut and my fingers were in the hinges. Nan sorted them out though, and gave their earholes a walloping to go home with.

Now you’d think from that first experience I’d hate the place. But I grew to love it. A trip to Southend was second only to Christmas Day. My favourite pastime down Southend was crabbing, in the boating pool. A bit of string with a piece of cockle or mussel tied to the other end, drop it in the pool, wait for a tug, and slowly pull it up. Sure enough there’d be a crab. Years later when I took my own kids down Southend I tried the same thing in the same pool (the one near the pier). I got the same results. Kids watching at first thought I was mad. Crabs in the boating pool? But they were away after bits of string and cockles and mussels before you knew it! Try it yourself, when you’re next down Southend. (Note, 2008. It ain’t there no more)

Harton Road was a typical London street of terraced houses. Small front garden with evergreens. Downstairs was the front room (most people didn’t use theirs and kept it as ‘best’ but we had to use ours), the kitchen (with the old black leaded stove), scullery, or ‘washus’ as it was called, back yard about thirty foot long by twenty foot wide, outside toilet and old dug-up Anderson shelter at the end, which became Grandad’s shed. There were three rooms upstairs and eleven stairs. I know, I counted ’em ’cos my ambition at the time was to jump all eleven stairs in one go.

I worked my way up, first one, then two etc, until the day came to attempt the lot. I’d done ten stairs, one more to go. My Nan would shout, ‘You’ll jump your legs in.’ I never knew what she was talking about but I presumed she meant I’d end up a midget. I remember poising myself at the very top, waiting for the right moment (like a footballer does when he’s taking a penalty) to do what I had to do. It came. I took a flyin’ leap, eyes fixed on the landing strip (the passage floor). I would have done it too if it hadn’t been for the floor of the upstairs landing. I had to jump that bit higher to make the eleven stairs. Whack! My head hit the landing floor that jutted out above me, and I landed in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs. I never attempted it again. I stuck at ten.

The characters down our road were unique. Next door to us lived a gypsy family, who had mad kids. They had bows and arrows with real dart-heads screwed onto the arrows. They let their little sisters out of upstairs windows, cowboy-style, with ropes tied round their middles and all that. If you went in for a cup o’ tea, you’d get it in a jam jar. Which, I gotta be honest, seemed a good idea. Why buy cups when you get jam jars for nothing? Though jam jars were handy too, when the roundabout man came round. For a jam jar you could get a ride on the roundabout. It was a small round wooden thing with sticks sticking out that the big kids grabbed hold of and pushed. The roundabout whizzed round full of little kids. We’d all get off feeling sick. But it was an occasion. This red, white, blue and green wooden roundabout thing turning up at the end of the street. Well, you had to have a go!

Mrs Barlow lived the other side. I played John Bunyan in the school play once and she lent me her long drawers. I played the part with, I thought, the dignity which it deserved. I couldn’t make out why everyone was laughin’.

A woman who lived down the road really was mad. She was always on about spacemen and Mars and that. My Great-grandfather didn’t know about this ’cos he was as deaf as a post. I remember one conversation I overheard that went, ‘Where you goin’ for your holidays?’ Woman: ‘I’m goin’ to Mars.’ Grandfather: ‘I don’t like them seaside places.’

Not everybody was mad in Harton Road though. Well, if you class being mad on music as bein’ mad then perhaps a lot of ’em were. Music played a big part in our household. Mum played the piano which she taught herself, with the aid of Nan who had a great ear for music. ‘Get your vamps right,’ she’d say. She wasn’t interested in the twiddly bits up the top, like most self-taught pianists played, with anything for the left hand. With her, the chords had to be right. She had the right idea. Mum learnt the hard way by just sloggin’ at it ’till it was right. She had no teacher who knew how to play, only Nan who knew when it was wrong. Mum ended up with a unique style that was admired by many, me included. I could never figure out her chord shapes or exactly what she was doin’ but it sounded great.

Nan did play a bit of mouth organ though. She was a great critic too. Later on when I began to make records she always had something constructive to say and would come out with good ideas. Grandad (Mum’s Dad) was the only unmusical one. He’d just sit back with his pint and enjoy the racket. He did sing now and again though. I learnt ‘Not me’ from Grandad, which we put on our first ‘Jamboree Bag’ album.

Grandad took over when Dad died. He was great, he loved an outing. Southend for the day, fishin’ off the pier or just fishin’ in the Lea down at Broxbourne. Grandad enjoyed it as much as us kids.

Mum often said to me at the time, ‘Why don’t you take up the piano? You’ve got a good ear.’ But I didn’t want to know. I loved music but I also loved fishing and football, and playing in the street. It wasn’t until the guitar became popular that I wanted to play. But that was later. There was too much goin’ on at the time for me to actually sit down and learn to play an instrument. My every spare moment was spent in the open air. If I wasn’t over the Lea fishing or just messing about, I was out in the street playin’ games like ‘runouts’, ‘end to the football’, or ‘Jimmy Knacker’.

Around 1953 when I was nearly ten I remember there were two gangs down our street. There was Lenny Macey’s gang with Nobby Brook as his right-hand man. In our book they were the trouble-makers. The other gang was led by my brother Dave with me as his right-hand man (at least I thought so!). We were the peacemakers, but ready to fight for peace! Lenny Macey, a couple of years older than my brother, was talked about as being the best fighter in the street. When he spoke, everybody jumped, but not us. ‘My brother could beat him any day,’ I’d pipe up. ‘Oh Yer?’ would say his gang. ‘Yer’, I’d say. And so on.

One day, me, my brother and our gang were out in the street playin’ a game like ‘Kingy’ or something. Anyway, Lenny Macey and his mob decided they’d join in, uninvited. Brother Dave and Lenny Macey got into an argument that developed into a fight that we all knew was inevitable sooner or later. Not only us kids but the grown-ups knew about the rivalry. One by one they came out of their front doors to watch the fight. They weren’t about to stop it. They knew it had to happen. Soon almost the whole of the street were out watching. Nobody cheered or booed or nothing. They were there to witness a fair fight. Which it was. It seemed to go on for hours though it probably lasted more like about half an hour. They fought from one end of the street to the other. Finally Lenny Macey held up his hands. He was beaten. Brother Dave was champ!

From that day on I’d have no talk about Lenny Macey being the best fighter in the Street. I had proof and so did the rest. Nobby Brook, though, never let up. Now my brother had sorted out Lenny Macey, I decided it was my duty to sort out Nobby Brook. As I have said, I was ten and Nobby Brook was about thirteen, although we were roughly the same size. But Nobby Brook had a temper and when he lost it he really lost it!

I can’t remember how it started, but shortly after my brother’s fight with Lenny Macey, me and Nobby Brook got into a scuffle in the street. He was stronger than me so I wasn’t gonna let the fight go on for hours. I knew I’d get beat. We were in a clinch in the middle of the road and I was going under. I reached out in desperation more than anything and my hand fell upon half a house-brick. Wallop! I hit him right on top of the head with it. He went mad and I mean mad! I was up and running and he was close behind me screamin’ with rage! I had half the length of the road to run to reach my front door. I glanced behind to see Nobby Brook grab a school railing that we’d been playing javelin throwing with. He meant business so I hoped and prayed that the ‘string’ was in the door. This string came through a hole in the front door and was attached to the lock. A quick pull and the front door was open. It was! I grabbed the string, was in like a shot and slammed the door just in time. The school railing that was meant for me ended up embedded in the front door! Thank gawd the string was in.

There was always something going on in that street. If it wasn’t a fight, (dog fights too), it was a party. Anybody who played an instrument down the street was well respected and sought after on such occasions. Mum was the best piano player down the street. If you got ‘Daisy’ to play piano at your party you knew it was gonna be a good one. In fact she was the best piano player for miles around. Everyone knew Daisy in and around Edmonton. The street was proud of her.

Music played a big part in that road. Johnny Wright (who taught me a few chords later on) played banjo. He still comes to see us now and is a good friend. There was Bob Weston over the road who played guitar, and his brother Tony. Before I started playin’ people down the street would say to me, ‘What do you play?’ I didn’t play anything! They were amazed. They knew about me Mum, Nan and Great-grandfather. ‘You ought to, then,’ they’d say. Perhaps the combination of my family’s and the street’s encouragement got me goin’. Who knows? It must have helped.

Coronation Day was a great occasion. Everybody did their bit only too willingly. A real excuse for a party! Let’s go! A stage was built outside Huffys, the local shop. A piano was got from somewhere, beer arrived like magic and away they went. Every night for a week the whole street had a great time. I enjoyed every minute of it. The grown-ups looked happy and we kids stayed up late.

‘You love music,’ Mum would say. ‘Why don’t you learn to play something?’ But life was too full up for me to take time out to sit down and learn to play an instrument. My hours and weeks and months were crowded. If I wasn’t fishing down Picketts Lock I’d be train spotting or goin’ up the Spurs with my brother, or playing football wishin’ I was as good as my brother. He played for Edmonton. Too much was goin’ on.

About that time, Great-grandfather married his sixth wife, who left him a week later. Him and his mate ‘Scally’ (they were both in their nineties) met two birds and decided they would get married. They did, and both moved up to Grimsby. A week later, Great-grandfather arrived back at 11, Harton Road with a bag of dirty washing.

‘She’s thrown me out, Daisy’ he said to Nan. Great-grandfather was back in the fold. ‘She wouldn’t wash my dirty pants,’ he said, and that was that. Scally came home shortly after. He’d got thrown out too. I remember Grandfather and Scally discussing their wives in Grandfather’s room. Both of them were stone deaf. Entertaining!

In the meantime Mum married her second husband, Larry.

I wasn’t mad on him, he didn’t fit in. He didn’t last either, and buggered off leaving Mum pregnant. ‘The only good thing he ever done,’ said Mum. She wanted a daughter and she had one. My half-sister Jean.

My Mum’s next husband was Irish John. She met him while playing at the Exhibition pub in Edmonton. I was eleven.