Home Alone

I am only nine-years-old, but Papa tells me that I am a big enough girl to manage on my own after school until Mama returns from work at the Thermos factory. It is the Autumn of 1972 and I have just moved up to the nearby Junction Road County Juniors School from the even closer Crescent Roads Infants school (see posts  Peas And Poverty and Hot Pants). During this time alone, I am to promise to be careful at all times and under no circumstances to do either of the following; one is to leave the house, and two is to never ever touch the gas cooker. Papa has taken an extended tea-break to pick me up from school after my school day is over, and as we walk the short journey to our home at 51 Crescent Road, I solemnly promise to do neither. But as soon as Papa leaves to return to work at Warley Hospital it dawns on me that he has suggested two marvellous extra-curricular activities to fill up the empty hours alone at home, and it does not take me long to break the first commandment.

Our home has a meter for the electricity, this means that it periodically runs out and when this happens you need to put a coin in the slot to restore the flow. When I am home alone after school, Mama always makes sure to leave me a ten-pence coin to make sure that I never run out of electricity. She also leaves me a small snack for after school which is ravenously devoured as soon as I arrive home. After a while I become newly-hungry, what to do? I think to myself. The ten-pence coin gleaming on the kitchen table next to my empty plate of sandwiches soon resolves my dilemma. I pick up the coin and resolutely walk with it to the local store at the end of the road, where I proceed to exchange it for a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and a heavenly melt-in-the-mouth chocolate bar called a Mars. 


My treasure trove has cost me all of five-pence and I am now in food paradise. But now I have no intact coin for the meter, and if the supply runs out I will have to spend the rest of the afternoon at home with no electricity, and even worse, with no television. What have I done? This awful realisation is however soon discarded, the taste of the sumptuous Mars Bar delicately melting in my mouth is appropriately distracting, and as I turn the key in the lock I logically reason that neither Mama or Papa are at home and with a bit of luck no-one will simply ever find out. I have already broken Papa's first rule with impunity, it will not take me long to break the second.

During these long solitary afternoons at home after school, the television set becomes my trusted companion, and from it emanates the most marvellous new world of captivating activities; one of them is called baking. In the school books that I read, the two main characters called Janet and John get to bake cakes with their Mama, and I decide that this is exactly what I want to do. But my own Mama is not at home, she is working at the Thermos factory assembling flasks day in and day out; in any case, her presence is irrelevant, even if she were home she would not know what to do for she has never baked a cake in her life and neither has her own Mama before her. Following in my Spanish Grandma's footsteps, Mama uses the oven at our home in 51, Crescent Road for the general storage of pots and pans and not much more. 


Luckily for me, there are things on the television called cooking programs to teach me how to bake such a thing, so Mama's skills will not be needed. I am transfixed as I watch the presenter converting a bunch of ingredients into a shiny batter, transferring this to a nearby cake tin, sliding the contents into the oven, and hey-presto, after a short while a delicious cake appears for the viewers to drool over. It clearly seems so simple that I reason no Mama's assistance will be needed. I am perfectly capable of this procedure all on my own and rush into the kitchen to create my own little peice of culinary heaven. Whilst doing this, I conveniently forget all about Papa's second command; never to use the gas cooker. In any case, Papa's instructions were not that explicit I reason to myself, he forbid me to use the gas cooker, no mention was made of an oven.

I raid the larder and fridge for the same baking ingredients that the presenter on the television program has just used, find a bowl and in it enthusiastically mix together liberal amounts of the same flour, sugar, milk, egg, butter until it also becomes a glossy batter. This mixture is then poured into the nearest thing I can find resembling a cake tin; It's not really a cake tin, rather it is a square metallic dish that Mama uses for heating food in the oven, but I can find nothing else so it will have to do. I then slide the cake tin into the oven, switch the gas dial onto mark four, sit back and await with excitement for the appearance of my own exquisite creation. After a suitable amount of time has elapsed I grab a towel and open the over door to retrieve what I am certain will be the most marvellous cake. I am disappointed. Residing in the square cake tin is still the same glossy batter that I put into the oven just a short while earlier, it's just hotter.

The art of baking has eluded me. It's clearly not as simple as it looks on the television, because the runny gooey mess in front of me bears absolutely no resemblance to the delicate work of art turned out by the presenter on his cooking show. On top of this runny mess in the place of a delicious cake, I am also faced with an additional dilemma; the electricity has just run out. The ten-pence coin that Mama left me for putting into the meter when this happens has long ago been traded in for a delicious Mars Bar and packet of salt and vinegar crisps, so I am in a bit of a quandary. Now I have no television, no heat from the electric fire in the corner of the living room providing the only source of warmth in the entire house, and soon it will start to become dark. What will I tell Mama? Of course, I will have to lie. When Mama returns home from work later that evening with Sis in tow, she finds me huddled in my coat and sitting in a semi-darkened room. I tell her that the electricity has just run out literally minutes before her arrival.

Mama is not stupid, she takes one look around the room and informs me that the house is stone cold, clearly the electricity has run out ages ago so I may as well own up and tell her what I have done with the money. Now I am all of nine-years-old and mature enough to reason that if you are caught out lying you may as well come clean, so I tell Mama about the delicious Mars Bar and packet of salt and vinegar crisps that I traded the money in for. Just like me, she too adores chocolate bars so will surely understand why I caved into temptation. Mama does not disappoint and I am not scolded. Next time I am left alone after school, a heavenly Mars Bar and packet of salt and vinegar crisps miraculously appear besides my plate of sandwiches and next to the usual ten-pence coin for the electricity metre. Mama has understood my needs beautifully, I think to myself as I happily munch my goodies. 

When the afternoons are sunny, I sometimes forget about television and baking and then wander into in the back garden and peek into the hutch to look at Papa's ever-expanding rabbit family (see post Hot Pants). After a while the glamour and aura of baking subsides; I am becoming despondent from continuously turning out one gooey mess after another with no hint of a cake in sight and decide to put baking aside for the time being. I have yet to realise that you cannot just randomly mix ingredients and slide them into an equally randomly heated oven, rather you must follow a precise set of instructions using something called a recipe. I am done with baking, it's time for a change of direction and I correspondingly direct my culinary skills to the top part of the cooker: I am going to try my hand at frying! In doing so, I will break Papa's most insistent rule; never, ever to use the gas cooker when I am home alone. This blatant disodience will bring with it serious consequences.

To be continued...

Next post: 5th November: English Breakfast


Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some additions from private family archives.

Hot Pants

It's September 1972, summer has already given way to autumn and within weeks I will be nine-years-old. The academic year once more resumes and along with it I am delivered a new school; The Junction Road Juniors School. My former school, Crescent Road Infants School was just on the other side of the road from our home at 51 Crescent Road, this new school is a short ten-minute walk away at the top of the next road intersection, Junction Road. Along with other eight-year-olds, I begin my school year in the second year and completely skip the first class. My English has clearly been deemed sufficient enough to join the children of my own age and it feels good. Now, I no longer stand out as a giant surrounded by class mates clearly a whole year younger than me (see post Peas And Poverty).  

Papa is no longer working on the pig farm, rather now he has found a new job as a Nursing Assistant at a nearby Psychiatric and Geriatric Hospital known as Warley Hospital. I don't really understand what the words Psychiatric and Geriatric mean so ask Papa to explain and he tells me that it basically means a hospital for the old and the mad in reverse order and sometimes even both together. Mama meanwhile has also found work in a local factory called Thermos, and her job is on the production line assembling thermos flasks. Day in day out, Mama puts flask together, and day in day out, Papa looks after the old, the mad and maybe even both together. And while they both do that I go to my new school, the third one of my life in this strange new country, and Sis is found a place in day-care near to the Thermos factory.

Today is the first day of the school year and Mama is not working at the Thermos factory so she can walk me to the school gates. We get up early and I dress with a new outfit that Mama and I carefully picked out from the shops just last week. The first day of a new school always merits new clothes, Mama tell me and today will be no exception. At home Mama takes meticulous care brushing my long black hair until it shines like ebony and she then ties it into two tidy pony tails. I proudly don my new outfit along with coat, and then alongside Mama and Sis who is sitting dutifully in her push chair, we set off for the short walk to school. But when we arrive at the school gate I notice that the other girls are wearing tidy dresses or skirts, topped off with demure coloured jumpers or cardigans and I am most certainly not. 


I have turned up at school in the skimpiest micro-shorts of the seventies, otherwise known as hot pants. Now, as far as I am concerned, hot pants are the coolest item of clothing in the England of the 1970's that I land in, and everyone is wearing hot pants; the celebrities, the pop stars, the young girls who want to dress like celebrities and pop stars, and then there are soon-to-be nine-year-old girls like me. However, stood in front of the school gate with Mama, I realise to my horror that school is most certainly not the place for hot pants. What were Mama and I thinking of? How can we have got it so wrong? No-one told us that in England you have to go to school in sensible clothes!

The school bell has already rung, and now it's too late to go back home and change, so there is nothing for me to do but spend the rest of the school day clad in hot pants. The item of clothing which only five minutes earlier exuded within me a feel of luxury and glamour at the school gate, is now a source of deep shame. To mitigate this enormous lack of judgement, I resort to drastic measures and stubbornly refuse to part with my coat in the cloakroom as all the other children tidily place theirs on hooks complete with names. My latest attempt at discreetly fitting into a new school and class has spectacularly backfired, and all because of those dratted hot pants! Now all my class mates want to know why I am wearing a coat indoors, and I tell them that I am feeling rather chilly. I dare not say it is because underneath I am dressed up for a visit to a disco, or the Top Of The Pops TV show and not for an English school day.

My new teacher is called Mrs Bagley and I like her straight away. I think that she likes me back because she welcomes me into the class with beaming smile, even with hot pants underneath my coat, and tells the other children that I am the new girl and that my name is Marie Garrido. Mrs Bagley behaves as if it's the most natural thing in the world to have a girl in the class with her coat on all day, and I am very grateful to her for this. I love my new English first name, its just a shame that Papa made sure that my Spanish surname was not discarded along the way with Maria del Carmen which long ago made way for Marie (see post Girl With Television). Mrs Bagley assigns me a seat next to a nice English girl called Sylvia, and there I spend the rest of my school day, stifling hot with a coat hiding hot pants, but with my dignity intact. After this first school day is over I learn a valuable lesson about how to dress for school in England. Never in hot pants.

After school is over, if Mama is still working at the Thermos factory, Papa obtains permission from his supervisor at Warley Hospital to take an extended tea break so he can meet me at the school gate and then walk me home. I love Mama and Papa, but I feel rather uncomfortable that they speak to me in front of the other children in Spanish and I would much rather walk home alone. That way no-one would hear me speaking Spanish and with a bit of luck no-one would notice that I am not English. But I would never tell Mama and Papa this, I think it would make them feel extremely sad, so I smile warmly when I meet them at the school gate and say nothing. Sometimes Papa is in no huge rush to return to work, so when we return home he looks in on the rabbit family at the end of the garden housed in the wooden hutch that Papa has especially built for them. The only problem is that they are no longer the adorable bunnies from when they were born. Rather now they have grown into enormous specimens and I can see with Papa that they are beginning to outgrow the hutch.

Our elderly next-door neighbour, Mrs McCabe sometimes happens to be in her own back garden when we are in ours. The fence dividing the two garden is very low so you can always see what your neighbour is up to and she sometimes sees Papa fussing over his adorable rabbit family. Mrs McCabe thinks its outright charming that Papa should harbour such a love for pets and animals in general. She tells Papa that it's a very English quality and she can see that Papa is already fitting in well into English society. Very commendable indeed. Papa does not respond to Mrs McCabe's overtures in any way, he is too busy concentrating on the immediate task at hand, the care of his ever-expanding rabbit family. They are growning so fast that soon they will not be able to fit into the hutch that he not so long ago lovingly built for them. What will Papa do with them? I think to myself. It will not take long for Mrs McCabe and myself to find out.


To be continued...

Next post: 22nd October: Home Alone


Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some additions from private family archives.