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Editor's
note: I've split the Growing Up page into several different chapters
which you can access by clicking on the links in the list below.
Previous "Growing Up" articles which you can access from the panel on the right:
The next update of this page will be in the July issue...
I
was born Paul Edmund Norman on Friday 13th September 1946, at number 72
Boverton Drive, Brockworth, Gloucester in the county of
Gloucestershire. The district nurse who delivered me, at 8lbs, 10
ounces, was Nurse Doyle, and she told my mother that she believed I
might be a German baby, because of my square head. (Germans were known
as "square heads" during WWII because of the shape of the infantrymen's
helmets. Although there were no German prisoners-of-war in Brockworth,
there were Italian prisoners-of-war in a camp of Nissen huts
immediately backing onto our rear garden at number 72, although in the
year I was born, those prisoners-of-war had been released; many went
back to Italy, some remained in Brockworth and elsewhere in Gloucester.
I was anything a genuine English "baby
boomer", probably the result of my parents' celebrations the previous
Christmas...
My
nuclear family at the time of my birth comprised... Mum, Dad,
Sister Jean; Gran (Mum's Mum, Uncle John, Uncle Ernie, Great Uncle
Ernie, Great Aunt Grace, Uncle Bill, Aunt Grace, Cousins Brian and
Peter; Uncle Leslie, Aunt Grace; Uncle Eddie, Aunt Joyce and Aunty
Cicely, Mum's older sister, all living
in Brockworth or other villages nearby in Gloucestershire. In
Hornchurch: Aunty Florrie, Uncle Stan, Cousin Colin; in Rainham: Aunty
Ivy, Uncle George, Cousins Eileen and Sylvia; also in Hornchurch, Uncle
Leopold; in South London somewhere: Aunty Doris, Uncle Ernie. Other
cousins came along at various intervals, but this is the family I was
later made aware of who existed at the time of my birth. For the first
couple of years of my life, obviously, it was just Mum, Dad, Jean,
Gran, Uncle John and Uncle Ernie. London
family members may have visited, but I would not have been aware of
them. It didn't even occur to me then that I had only one Grandma,
Mum's Mum, and no grandfathers. I would later come to regret not
realising this, as I would have asked Dad more questions, certainly;
it's only recently, when we started to compile our family trees, when
all the older members of my family were dead, that I discovered the
truth about my three missing grandparents - of which more later.
My earliest memory is one of terror: I remember standing
up in my cot, I would have been maybe eight or nine months old,
clinging to the rail, and screaming as monkeys climbed the wall on rop
ladders. This may have coincided with my having contracted whooping
cough, an illness that almost did for me; later, I was reliably
informed that in the room in which I slept, there was a wallpaper
frieze depicting various zoological animals, including monkeys.
My
next
most vivid memory is of sitting on the floor in the front room in the
bay window of ouir three-bedroomed, semi-detached house, listening to
the radio (probably Listen with Mother) and
with a picture book, almost certainly one of the titles written and
illustrated by Mable Lucie Attwell. I would have been around three
years old. After that, memories come thick and fast: the terrifying
ride up the road to Cranham Village School on a double decker Bristol
Omnibus, clinging for dear life to one of the vertical poles near the
bus entrance, holding on with the other hand to my sister Jean, five
years older than me, and entrusted with getting me safely to the little
school and its eighteen or so other pupils. I was four and a half years
old
when I started school, and I loved it, but I was terrified of
that bus journey, and always wished we could sit further inside the bus
rather than on the seat that ran lengthways near the entrance. In those
days, 1950, we started off with black slates and chalk to practise our
writing skills. I
survived, so I guess it must have been OK, although I didn't travel
well on longer bus journeys, and often had to get off the bus to be
sick, and then wait for the next bus to come along.
The
Sunday morning walk up Green Lane to Coopers' Hill - I say walk, more
often than not I would be riding my Triang tricycle and Dad would be
pushing me with the handy tubular steel rod that could be attached to
the boot of the trike. In the boot, some sandwiches and a bottle of
Tizer. Once at the top of the hill, Mum and Dad would
point out everything there was to be seen - the Gloster Aircraft
Company factory with its extensive grounds, on which county cricket
matches were often played; our house, clearly visible; the road to
Cheltenham, the road to Painswick, the range of hills that marked the
end of Gloucestershire and the beginnings of the next county to the
north, Worcestershire marked out by the Malvern Hills. There was one
other view that I knew of at that time, one that was marked as a
viewing point, and that was a couple of miles further into the
Cotswolds. Unparalleled. None of this would have meant much to me at
that
time, but I recall the Sunday walks. I recall also being looked after
by my Gran, who lived in an identical house in the next street to ours,
Boverton Avenue, where she lived with two of her seven children, Uncles
John and Ernie. I remember sitting in her dining room, playing, usually
with a toy car, and Uncle John coming home from work (or so I thought
at the
time), at lunchtime, bringing with him the dog from the pub just
down
the road from the Gloster Aircraft Factory, where he worked (or so I
thought at the time). Rego was a massive Alsatian, tan and black, and I
remember sitting under the dining table whilst Uncle John ate his
lunch, and I would play with Rego - he was a gentle giant, and he was
soft, and probably quite ferocious when he was guarding the pub - the
Pine Tree, it was called, and I later found out that Uncle John was
rarely actually at work, but spent most of his time helping out in the
pub. He was a rogue when it came to work, but he was also a war hero,
more so than my other uncles, who also served in the war, but there was
no photo of them looking like Johnny Wingco, my favourite character
from my favourite comic at the time, Knockout.
Uncle John and Uncle Ernie were lovely uncles, always
ready to amuse me and to let me read the cartoon strips in the
newspapers they read (Dad didn't approve of the Daily Mirror, but he
wasn't there, so he couldn't stop me!). I also later found out that
although Dad and Uncle John were best mates - Uncle John was best man
at Mum and Dad's wedding; politically,
they were poles apart. Gran kept house for the two uncles - I was
never sure if it was her house or theirs, but looking back it was
probably hers, as until the middle of WW2, she was married, and I would
have had a granddad, but he was no longer around. I have yet to find
out what happened to him. There was also a seventh child of Gran's
Bertie, but I understand that he died when he was two years old, so I
never got to meet him either. Anyway, Gran and Granddad (both of Mum's
parents) were staunch labour supporters, and held the weekly meetings
of the local labour party in their house in Boverton Avenue. Our house,
and three others, two opposite, one the same side of the road as ours,
formed a circle, with a track going off North, and a similar track
going South, through to the parallel road of Boverton Avenue. All the
houses were identical, all three bedroomed villas with bay windows top
and bottom. They were personalised, of course, with paintwork, and the
gardens were all different. Ours was the biggest in the two roads, a
fact of which I was immensely proud. The northern track went past the
Nissen huts on the left and immediately into open countryside that led,
ultimately, to the village of Churchdown, now the home of GCHQ. The
southern track led ultimately to Ermin Street, the road that led from
the Cotswolds to the city of Gloucester, through the villages of
Hucclecote and Barnwood.
The
small print: Books Monthly, now well
into its 24th
year on the web, is published on or slightly
before the
first day of each month by Paul Norman. You can contact me
here.
If you wish to
submit something for publication in the magazine, let me remind you
there is no payment as I don't make any money from this publication. If
you want to send me something to review, contact me via email at
paulenorman1@gmail.com and I'll let you know where to send it.
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In this issue:
The Front Page
Children's Books
Fiction books
Fantasy & Science Fiction
Nonfiction Books
The Silent Three
The Four Marys
Nostalgia
Pen and Sword Books
The Back Page
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