It’s been a quiet year in South Bridlington.
In March the visitors flocked in to fill the long beaches as soon as we were told not to congregate in our own neighbourhoods. They flocked out again when the instructions became “nor in anyone else’s”. Members of the Anti Motorist Alliance were delighted when you could cycle freely again without fear of being killed before you got back home. Allotment holders found a new purpose in life, shouting cheerily to each other across the wilderness. Wilderness? No more. In ones and twos and then in dozens whole families took over plots long deserted and overgrown. They were serious about their new-found enthusiasm. They brought in farm tractors and mechanical diggers and turned over plots that had not been touched for years. Even the plot holders who had known the old times when you were evicted if you did not keep your plot tidy were impressed. A bit. “It won’t last”. But it did. A bit. Soon the new comers were being offered trays of cabbage plants and pots of courgettes and pumpkins. By the end of May there was not a single plot to be had. Strangers who had moved to Brid from the isolation of London wept with joy at the unaffected friendliness of Bridlington people and the kindness of strangers. Mayfield Rd came into its own as well. Parcels of pies and gooseberries and potatoes and jam and home-made bread appeared on doorsteps unbidden. The warm glow has done us all good.
It’s not been all joy and gladness, though. As I pushed my wheelbarrow through the empty streets one morning in April a police car crossed the road and pulled up. “What are you doing?” “I’ve just been to my allotment”. “I’m not sure that’s in the guidelines”. ”I’ve been exercising well away from anyone else”. “Where are you going?” “Home”. “I’m not sure that’s in the guidelines”. I was on my way to pick up a tray of onion seedlings. The morning was so bright that I couldn’t be bothered to be annoyed.
The Local Authority has been very good. Soon after this incident the phone rang and someone asked whether I was able to manage OK. Us frail elderly people need support some times.
Then came the big surprise of the year. While throwing out junk from the house and the garage I came across 2 “Basildon Bond” boxes. One box contained letters from Judy to me from June 1963 to August 1964. The other contained letters from me to her for the same period. The more alert among you will realise that this was after I had kissed her. The discovery was a bit of a problem. It was likely to be dreadfully embarrassing. I did nothing. Then after 2 days I opened the box of her letters to me. They were wonderful. They were amusing, they were about other people she had to come to terms with, and all their foibles. They were irreverent and witty, and full of mischievous misquotations. Each one was, of course, written with great care. Not a word out of place, not a word too many. Here is an extract from one of them, after she was going to Leeds for the weekend and after having giving her flat mate the heave-ho. Rosemary was desperately in love and wanted to talk about it. Day after day. At length.
When I was getting ready to set off to the station, I was asked by Gordon (the James’ boy) and his friend if I wanted any jobs doing for a bob. I asked them to carry my case to the station. They went with me on the bus, then walked to the station chatting all the way. Little boys are much better company than any sized girls”
Now here’s a surprise – while the letters contained no explicit expressions of endearment, they did begin “My dear David” and ended with x’s.
It was another 2 days before I could bear to read my letters to her. And they in turn were a delight. They also were about other people and surprisingly short of sloppy stuff …
He said he noticed a twinkle in my eye. Had my mother not been there, I would have told him it was a glass one.
It all came back to me – we were light hearted and gay. They were good times. Just one sobering thought – we were recognisably the same people, just as bewildered by other people 54 years later. A sad case of arrested development. We never got the hang of growing up. It was Ken Tidswell (Age shall not mellow him nor the years cheer up) who said in about 1980 “It’s a good job you 2 married each other. It prevented 4 people from being very unhappy”.
Those letters, and the memories they triggered, kept me cheerful throughout the lockdown. There were still lots of people in my head to keep me happy.
The only problem with lockdown has been that I have enjoyed it so much. Now I had been brought up with a fearsome burden of responsibility. If there are problems in the world (and there are) it is our duty to set about fixing them. It does not leave much room for self-indulgence, other than on appointed days of the year – Christmas and birthdays. Now the Greek class was cancelled. The weekly Greek lessons with Alison were ended. I was instructed not to help anyone or to see anyone. This was a huge relief – authorized by no less a moral giant than Boris. After an interim period of idle pleasure I decided to re-read all of Walter Scotts Waverley Novels. These had been challenging the first time round. The dialogue is impenetrable, there are just too many characters in the stories to remember who they all are, and they deal with times and cultures long past. I remembered when I finished them in 2004 thinking “I’ll read them again and try to make more sense of them next time”. Now was the opportunity to start all over again. It was surprising how little memory of any of the plots I retained. They were new every evening, but no less difficult. A lot of them require familiarity with Scottish history, and I was pleased to be able to recall some, but not all, of the stories from History lessons in the 1950’s. They deal with religious conflict and an underlying sense that there’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough hew them how we will. For persons of a certain disposition this is still intriguing. The good news is that in the middle of overwhelming political and nationalist resentment and outrage, real people still find it their hearts to be kind to each other.
For a’ that, for a’ that, a Man’s a Man for a’ that. (Another Scot) (With one t).
jbrip 