Читать книгу The Songaminute Man: How music brought my father home again - Simon McDermott, Simon McDermott - Страница 7

Chapter 1

Wednesbury is a small town right between Birmingham and Wolverhampton. It’s part of the Black Country – so-called, according to Ted, by Queen Victoria in the 1800s. The story goes that Victoria was on a train being driven around the country when she looked out of the window to see the air thick with smoke from the many thousands of factories. ‘This is such a black country,’ she said, and the name stuck.

Ted McDermott was born in Wednesbury on 14 August 1936 to Hilda and Maurice McDermott. He was the first of fourteen children and a cheeky, chatty kid who wasn’t afraid to talk to anyone. You could say his childhood was unremarkable in many ways, although, despite being punctuated by war and hardship, it was loving, with a strong sense of family and a determination to make the best of what they had.

Back in the Thirties, Wednesbury was a junction of goods yards, railways and factories. In the evening, the glow from the metal manufacturing lit up the sky for miles around. During the Industrial Revolution, hundreds of Irish settlers arrived in Wednesbury to do the digging – new roads, new railways, new everything.

The McDermotts were such settlers – the majority coming from Sligo on the west coast of Ireland. Legend has it that Dermot was one of the kings of Ireland before it was taken over by the English. Years later, Ted would sit and reimagine this history, telling his son that Dermot was merely the poet to the King of Ireland. ‘You’re from a family of poets!’ he would say.

It was against this industrial backdrop that Ted’s parents were born and raised. Ted’s mum, Hilda Carter, was born with warm red hair and a personality to match. Ted’s father, Maurice McDermott, worked in the forge most of his life. He was a quiet, small, thickset Black Country man, but he lacked the strong accent of his friends and colleagues. He worked hard during the day, and would sing down the local pubs at the weekends whenever he could, often wearing a suit, like most of the other men on the estate. It was clear where Ted inherited his love of singing.

Like most young couples of the time, Hilda and Maurice met locally and married quickly. Ted, their first child, was born soon after, followed with precise regularity by Maurice, Ernie, Fred and Colin. The young family were growing fast and in 1942 they all moved across town to the newly built 18 Kent Road in Friar Park – a council estate to the east of Wednesbury. It was the first time that a generation of McDermotts had moved away from Brickkiln Street, where Maurice had been brought up.

There was nothing lavish or luxurious about Maurice and Hilda’s new house – it was small and red brick with a tiny garden at the front and a back kitchen leading out on to a simple back garden. It was spartan inside but the young couple soon made it their own, relying on hand-me-downs from family members and Hilda’s thrifty eye. She could spot a good piece of material at 50 yards, barter over the price until it was within the weekly budget, and then manage to knock together two sets of curtains. No one had a clue how she could make so little stretch so far, but it was just as well given how many mouths there would eventually be to feed.

Hilda’s shrewd money skills really came into their own during the war – while the McDermotts were entitled to more rationing coupons than most because of their swelling numbers, Hilda cut herself deals with the smaller, richer families, who would pay extra for the food the McDermotts got for less. Mrs Cook, who lived up the road and was a keen baker, would take Hilda’s butter vouchers and happily give her back double the amount of margarine. Even without the food that was traded away, Hilda knew how to feed a family of sixteen and would always have a pot on the go in the kitchen. She was friendly with all the local milkmen, bread men and grocers, doing deals with everyone and swapping her ration coupons like a pro.

The house changed very little over the years: there were three bedrooms upstairs – one master bedroom, a smaller back bedroom and a tiny single bedroom to the side. The toilet was out the back, to the side of the kitchen. The house might have been small, but it was their home and Hilda kept it as clean as she could. She was bright and entrepreneurial, and poured all of that skill into running a house and large family like clockwork.

It was the same routine every day, beginning with making sure Maurice had a proper breakfast to set him up for his day as a drop forger at the forge – a job he kept most of his life. Once he had gone to work, Hilda would turn her attention to the house and family. The kids were washed and fed, then she would prepare a pot of food for lunch and dinner, empty the fireplace of embers and re-lay it with sticks collected from the garden and coal pushed up the road in a wheelbarrow. Then followed the endless dusting with a dustpan and brush, bed-making, mending and knitting. Hilda went about these chores with her old apron tied around her waist and a cloth covering her hair.

Washdays meant boiling water on the gas stove before carrying it into the yard, where she washed and mangled sheets, clothes and nappies. Depending on the weather, these were hung out to dry either in the yard or in front of the fireplace, although they were always tidied away from view if Hilda received a visitor.

This is the backdrop to Ted’s growing up.

A lot was expected of everyone and life wasn’t comfortable compared to today’s standards, especially when the other children – Mary, Jane, John, Chris, Marilyn, Joyce, Malcolm, Gerry and Karen – arrived. Hilda and Maurice slept in the tiny single bedroom at the back. The girls took the second smaller bedroom and the boys top-to-tailed in the larger master bedroom. Ted, being the eldest, had the single bed, while the rest of the boys slept in the two double beds. Each bedroom had a small window covered with Hilda’s handmade curtains, and minimal furniture to make the most of the space. There were extra blankets for the really cold winter nights – not that they were often needed with everyone crammed side by side in the tiny rooms.

By modern standards, the house was cluttered – not in the sense that it was untidy or uncared for, but simply due to the number of young kids running about. The front door was always open, with Hilda’s neighbours and friends either popping by to say hello or catch up on the local gossip.

Bedtime could often be chaos, with Hilda dealing with the girls and then impatiently shouting the boys up to their room. Once everyone was in bed, she would close the door and the boys would be quiet until she went downstairs. The minute they heard the front-room door shut and knew the coast was clear, there would be a scramble for an extra jumper for warmth or a spare coat to use as a pillow.

It was often said that Ted was blessed with his father’s caring nature, and growing up in such a tight-knit family meant that from an early age he developed a strong sense of responsibility towards the family. Some of Ted’s earliest memories were of watching his father get ready for work every morning, and perhaps, on some level, the importance of providing for your family was impressed on him from a young age.

There were no holidays and very little spare money for treats, apart from on Sundays when Maurice would bring back a bag of sweets for the kids. Although Ted’s early years were hand-to-mouth, they were also spent finding fun outdoors. Come rain or shine, he and his friends could uncover adventure right on their doorstep. Behind the house outside the back garden was the Bluebell Wood. It had two ponds and was teeming with wildlife. Walking through the wood took you to the old sewage beds, where the treated sewage was dumped and in the summer months methane would heat up the ground and steam pour out. It was a very particular and overwhelming smell that could linger for a long time, often clinging to the hair and clothes of those who walked near it. Further on there were football pitches and ‘The Jungle’ – overgrown land full of silver birch trees. Ted, his siblings and friends from the estate would often play on this land in the summer, building dens, making mischief and hiding out. It would be the first place that Hilda would look when calling the children for their tea, coaxing them in with promises they could return as soon as it was light the next day – they would have slept there all night if they could.

In those pre-television days, the young Ted was fascinated by nature. This was something encouraged by Hilda, particularly if he took some of his younger brothers and sisters outside with him to give her some peace and quiet. Hilda liked that Ted could sense she had more than enough to worry about with the feeding and raising of so many children and, as a result, he soon developed a fantastic knack of knowing when to disappear. As a young child, Hilda would often give the young Ted a spare slice of bread, telling him to go and sit in the garden and whistle for the birds to come. Sitting there, on the low stone wall, the birds would slowly but surely fly down out of the trees, pecking up the bread that Ted had scattered around him. If he didn’t have school, Ted could sit there for hours waiting to feed those birds.

Although life had a quiet pace, there were plenty of local characters around to provide drama – the main culprit being the local farmer, Mr Rumble, who owned Grumbles Farm. It was surrounded by cornfields, with small barns full of chickens and some pigs. All the neighbourhood kids were scared of Rumble – or Grumble as he became known – and they dared each other to get anywhere near the farm. There were lots of rumours that Mr Rumble didn’t like children, especially those who trespassed on his land. He would chase any intruders away, no matter what their age, cursing and swearing as much as he could.

At the back of the farm ran the railway marshalling yard. Hundreds of steam trains would park there overnight, and coal, which was being mined in the local pits, would be shipped around the country from the yard, while metals and goods that had been made at the factories nearby would be held in huge stores waiting to be transported. It was at the yard that all the big steam engines were repaired before they went back into service, and the railway line that passed through the town was the link connecting Wednesbury to the rest of the country – from Crewe further north to London down south. You could smell the oil before even setting foot in the yard – it was always in the air whatever time of year, but the scent was even stronger in the summer heat. All the carriage repairs took place at night and the tinkering of machinery and testing of engines could be heard long after the residents nearby had gone to bed. It became the reassuring sound that signalled bedtime for Ted and his brothers and sisters.

Maurice was close to all of his children, but he also worked long days, accepting all the work he was offered so that he could bring home as much extra cash as possible. It was Hilda who ran the household. Every Friday, Maurice would bring home a small brown envelope containing his wages and Hilda would take out what she needed to keep the house going, giving him back whatever was left for spending money that week. Maurice wasn’t a big drinker, but he’d often let off steam down the local pubs, getting up and singing whenever he could.

Much of the manual work came from the two huge factories that were the epicentre of manufacturing around Friar Park – Elwell’s and the Deritend. Elwell’s made gardening tools and The Deritend Stamping Company was the forge where Maurice worked, which dated back to 1900. Its creation meant lots of jobs for men like Maurice, who lived locally, but there were also a number of people needing a wage who travelled in from across Wednesbury to work in such a steady environment. It was hard graft, but it was a company known for a dedicated work force, long hours and a strong team spirit. Throughout the day, each time the hammers dropped, the boom could be heard right across Friar Park.

Every Christmas there was a party for all the kids and, when Ted was 5 years old, Hilda took him down to the club to join in the festivities. It was the first time he’d been to such a big party, and Hilda had sewn him a smart suit especially for the occasion. When they got there the room was full of young children running around; Christmas decorations brightened up the usually bleak, grey room and there were tables heaped with sandwiches, cakes and trifles. For Ted, this was heaven and he immediately found a small gang of kids to play with.

‘Our Maurice will pick him up at five,’ said Hilda to some of the women who’d been brought in from the factory floor to organize the party.

‘Behave yourself, Ted,’ she shouted as she left the room.

The whole afternoon went brilliantly. It was something that Ted would remember all his life. There were traditional party games like pass the parcel, musical chairs and pin the tail on the donkey, a visit from Father Christmas, and enough sweets and trifle to sink a ship. At 5 p.m., just after clocking off from work, Maurice picked Ted up from the party. The young boy was tired out, so Maurice carried him all the way home.

As soon as he got through the front door at Kent Road, Ted woke up. ‘It was brilliant, Mom!’ he said the minute his eyes opened, and he went on to excitedly talk about the afternoon he’d had, sparing no detail. Soon after teatime, Ted was fast asleep again, so Hilda carried him upstairs, helped him out of his clothes and tucked him into bed. He was asleep the minute his head hit the pillow and Hilda carried his suit down to the kitchen, ready to wash it. She did the usual check of his pockets.

‘What the hell is this?’ she shouted. Her hands were full of jelly, cream and custard.

The suit was ruined. She was fuming.

‘Have you seen this?’ she shouted at Maurice, as if it was his fault. Maurice shook his head. He had no idea why Ted would do something so daft and he was angry that perfectly good material had been wasted.

The next morning Hilda was waiting in the kitchen when Ted came padding down the stairs, seemingly oblivious to what he’d done. ‘You’ve ruined that suit, you have … putting all that food in there. Didn’t you have enough to eat at the party?’

Ted looked distraught but Hilda suddenly realized what he’d done. ‘I only brought the food home for the others, Mom, so we could all share it because they didn’t get to come to the party.’ Hilda’s heart melted. She gave him a huge hug, explaining to him how he shouldn’t put jelly and custard in his pockets again, no matter how much he wanted to bring it home to share with the others.

The McDermott household was a thrifty one and, like Hilda, Ted was resourceful and would find unusual ways to help out. Sometimes, he and his friends would sneak through the fencing at the back of the house, and past terrifying Grumble, so that he and the other boys from his road could make their way down to the railway marshalling yard and pick coal that had been delivered for the steam engines from the sidings. It was something that would be repeated every winter and, as the boys got older, more and more planning went into it. ‘You could hear them all in the middle of the night,’ says Ted’s younger brother John. ‘Us younger ones would all be tucked up in bed and then you could hear Ted, Dad, Maurice and a couple of their friends going through the fence at the end of the back garden.’ Getting through the fencing was a mission, but once they were in, it was a free-for-all. ‘It’s what got us through those winters,’ says John.

They were canny too: one particular day the lads became aware that there was a copper down the road stopping locals suspected of taking the coal. So they decided to fill up some bags and hide them in the woods until the next morning when one of them could come back to collect them. It was a well-known fact that, if the copper did catch you, he would tell you off and confiscate the coal – before keeping it for himself.

‘There also used to be a big tree at the end of the garden and, one winter, some of the blokes from the street all helped to saw it down,’ says John. ‘The whole street shared that wood for months.’

As they got older, Ted and his gang spent every minute together and as soon as he arrived home from school, he would be straight out the door playing with the other children in the street. The boys were always getting up to mischief and, once they were old enough, the dares and tricks became more challenging. The gang – Joey B, Joey G, Kenny, Walter and Georgie – would head straight for the woods at the back of the garden to build dens or climb their favourite tree. It was thick, old and rotting and, one afternoon, it was decided that the tree was coming down. ‘You got your axe, Kenny?’ Ted shouted at his stocky school buddy striding towards him between the oaks. Kenny grinned, swinging the axe casually, even though it was bigger than him. It was his father’s and he wouldn’t have been too pleased if he’d known his son had taken it. Joey G was with Kenny, his very own axe slung over his shoulder. Joey B was already at the foot of the tree. He was the best climber of the lot of them: ‘Give him a leg-up, Walter.’ Walter dutifully did as he was told and the rest watched as Joey shimmied up to act as lookout.

The group set to work, taking turns to swing at the trunk. It was a test of pre-pubescent strength as much as it was a shared challenge. Ten minutes in and they were sweating like crazy. This was much harder than any of them had imagined and yet no one wanted to give up. A shout cut through the silence – ‘Copper’s coming!’ – from Joey, their lookout. One second of staring wide-eyed at each other, the next they were scrambling through the undergrowth to get away.

Joey B watched from the top of the tree as his friends scarpered. Where were they going? Oh, hell! He jumped. He heard rather than felt his leg break. The next confused thought – before the agony set in – was that he’d only told them he’d seen their mate Cooper coming. Joey B had no idea how long it took his mates to realize he wasn’t trailing behind them; eventually they came slinking back to find him rolling around on the ground, breathing through the pain and begging to be taken to hospital.

Injuries withstanding, the boys would knock for each other and then go off the beaten track, mostly finding places they shouldn’t be. One day that involved heading to the back of the woods, behind the football pitches, where there was an isolation hospital for people with infectious diseases. Patients with tuberculosis, smallpox and diphtheria were tended to by nuns; all the Wednesbury children were banned by their parents from getting too close. There were even rumours it was haunted. All the more reason to play knock and run … or so thought Ted. Although one of those days he wasn’t quick enough and one of the nuns caught a glimpse of him as they all knocked on the door and sprinted away. She marched to the house and told Hilda everything, meaning that Ted was rewarded for his daring with a smack from his mum and a stern warning of what would happen if he ever did anything like that again.

Smacks weren’t rare: Maurice and Hilda were loving but strict. People sometimes assumed that children from big families could get away with anything, but that wasn’t the case with Ted’s family. His parents were caring of course, but if any of the kids stepped out of line they’d come down on them like a ton of bricks. The kids knew that when they walked out of their front door they were representing the family, so they had to look smart and behave. Some mothers used to say, ‘Wait till your dad gets home!’ – but Hilda wasn’t like that. She’d tell them off there and then and once they were disciplined, that was it; there was no waiting around until Dad got home to give them a hiding.

The first nine years of Ted’s life were set against the threat, and then the reality, of war. The young boys would often hear the distant roar of engines and, a few minutes later, they would look up and see the skies had turned black as the bombers flew across to Germany. When Ted was small, Hilda and Maurice did all they could to keep things normal for the children, but the stark realities were impossible to hide and the constant threat of bombing was the main source of angst for the adults, even if the children enjoyed the drama. At the back of the house a small air-raid shelter had been built with care by Maurice just before the war started. Whenever the air-raid sirens went off, Hilda, Maurice and the elder McDermotts hushed the babies and placed them gently in drawers that they covered with blankets while the rest of the family squeezed into the shelter. As she always did, Hilda would stand on the doorstep shouting for all the kids by name, until every single one of them came running down the street and flying into the shelter. Once they were all safely inside she would get in herself, satisfied that everyone was accounted for.

But life wasn’t always that dramatic and, even if the war did bring stress for the adults, the McDermott household was still one of routine, where everyone was expected to pull their weight. All the children had a job for the week that they needed to finish before playing out. Whether it was helping out Hilda in the kitchen, cleaning the carpets, folding the washing, clearing the garden or doing errands, everyone mucked in and did their part. Ted’s brother Fred remembers that on a Sunday, Maurice would be around to help with Hilda’s chores. His way of distracting himself and the others was to break into song, giving them rendition after rendition of old classics as they mopped, dusted, changed beds and beat rugs. ‘We couldn’t play out with our mates until those chores were done,’ says Fred. ‘You’d either have to take the rug up off the floor, give it a sweep, or clean the kitchen or sweep up outside.’

The eventual arrival of VE Day saw the whole of Friar Park out in the streets in celebration. Ted and the rest of the gang stood in the street as all the adults from the entire neighbourhood brought tables and chairs out for a huge party. Cakes were baked, bonfires were lit and drinks were poured. Ted had never seen anything like it in his life. The atmosphere was electric.

Normal life slowly resumed after 1945 and, to the children for whom air-raids and shelters were the norm, the war and all that came with it suddenly went away. The stories became fewer as people stopped talking about it so much and the old rhythm eventually returned to Wednesbury.