son who worked in a mews at the back of Kennington Road. They weretravelling toy-makers who came from Glasgow, making toys and selling them as they wandered from town to town. They were free and unencumbered and I envied them. Their profession needed little capital. With as small an investment as a shilling they could start in business. They would collect shoe-boxes, which every shoe-shop was only too pleased to give them, and cork sawdust in which grapes were packed which they also got gratis. Their initial outlay consisted only in the purchase of a pennyworth of glue, a pennyworth of wood, twopence worth of twine, a pennyworth of Christmas coloured paper and three twopenny balls of coloured tinsel. For a shilling they could make seven dozen boats and sell them for a penny apiece. The sides were cut from shoe-boxes and were sewn on to a cardboard base, the smooth surface was covered with glue, then poured over with cork sawdust. The masts were rigged with coloured tinsel, and blue, yellow and red flags were stuck on the topmast and on the end of the booms, fore and aft. A hundred or more of these little toy boats, with their coloured tinsel and flags, was a gay and festive sight that attracted customers, and they were easy to sell.
As a result of our acquaintance I began helping them to make boats, and very soon I was familiar with their craft. When they left our neighbourhood I went into business for myself. With a limited capital of sixpence, and at the cost of blistered hands through cutting up cardboard, I was able to turn out three dozen boats within a week.
But there was not enough space in our garret for Mother’s work and my boat-making. Besides, Mother complained of the odour of boiling glue, and that the glue pot was a constant menace to her linen blouses, which, incidentally, crowded most of the space in the room. As my contribution was less than Mother’s, her work took precedence and my craft was abandoned.
We had seen little of Grandfather during this time. For the past year he had not been doing too well. His hands were swollen with gout, which made it difficult for him to work at his shoe-repairing. In the past he had helped Mother when he could afford with a couple of bob or so. Sometimes he would cook dinner for us, a wonderful bargoo stew composed of Quaker Oats and onions boiled in milk with salt and pepper. On a wintry night it was our constitutional base to withstand the cold.
As a boy I thought Grandpa a dour, fractious old man who was always correcting me either about my manners or my grammar. Because of these small encounters, I had grown to dislike him. Now he was in the infirmary with rheumatism, and Mother would go every visiting day to see him. These visits were profitable, because she usually returned with a bag full of fresh eggs, quite a luxury in our recessional period. When unable to go herself, she would send me. I was always surprised when I found Grandpa most agreeable and happy to see me. He was quite a favourite with the nurses. He told me in later life that he would joke with them, saying that in spite of his crippling rheumatism not all his machinery was impaired. This sort of rodomontade amused the nurses. When his rheumatism allowed him, he worked in the kitchen, whence came our eggs. On visiting days, he was usually in bed, and from his bedside cabinet would surreptitiously hand me a large bag of them, which I quickly stowed in my sailor’s tunic before departing.
For weeks we lived on eggs, dished up in every form, boiled, fried and custardized. In spite of Grandpa’s assurance that the nurses were his friends and knew more or less what was going on, I was always apprehensive when leaving the hospital ward with those eggs, terrified of slipping on the beeswax polished floor, or that my tumorous bulk would be apprehended. Curiously enough, when I was ready to leave, the nurses were always conspicuous by their absence. It was a sorry day for us when Grandpa was rid of his
As a result of our acquaintance I began helping them to make boats, and very soon I was familiar with their craft. When they left our neighbourhood I went into business for myself. With a limited capital of sixpence, and at the cost of blistered hands through cutting up cardboard, I was able to turn out three dozen boats within a week.
But there was not enough space in our garret for Mother’s work and my boat-making. Besides, Mother complained of the odour of boiling glue, and that the glue pot was a constant menace to her linen blouses, which, incidentally, crowded most of the space in the room. As my contribution was less than Mother’s, her work took precedence and my craft was abandoned.
We had seen little of Grandfather during this time. For the past year he had not been doing too well. His hands were swollen with gout, which made it difficult for him to work at his shoe-repairing. In the past he had helped Mother when he could afford with a couple of bob or so. Sometimes he would cook dinner for us, a wonderful bargoo stew composed of Quaker Oats and onions boiled in milk with salt and pepper. On a wintry night it was our constitutional base to withstand the cold.
As a boy I thought Grandpa a dour, fractious old man who was always correcting me either about my manners or my grammar. Because of these small encounters, I had grown to dislike him. Now he was in the infirmary with rheumatism, and Mother would go every visiting day to see him. These visits were profitable, because she usually returned with a bag full of fresh eggs, quite a luxury in our recessional period. When unable to go herself, she would send me. I was always surprised when I found Grandpa most agreeable and happy to see me. He was quite a favourite with the nurses. He told me in later life that he would joke with them, saying that in spite of his crippling rheumatism not all his machinery was impaired. This sort of rodomontade amused the nurses. When his rheumatism allowed him, he worked in the kitchen, whence came our eggs. On visiting days, he was usually in bed, and from his bedside cabinet would surreptitiously hand me a large bag of them, which I quickly stowed in my sailor’s tunic before departing.
For weeks we lived on eggs, dished up in every form, boiled, fried and custardized. In spite of Grandpa’s assurance that the nurses were his friends and knew more or less what was going on, I was always apprehensive when leaving the hospital ward with those eggs, terrified of slipping on the beeswax polished floor, or that my tumorous bulk would be apprehended. Curiously enough, when I was ready to leave, the nurses were always conspicuous by their absence. It was a sorry day for us when Grandpa was rid of his
Similar Books
