Memory

The Hobsons' house today. The market gardening business was at the rear. The 

houses to the right stand on what was once our recreation ground.

(courtesy of Google Streetview)

Here's a true tale from my childhood that involves a dastardly insult. I previously alluded to this memory eight years ago.

In the East Yorkshire village where I was born and raised, there were five significant roads. At "The Hare and Hounds" pub, four of those roads met. They were North Street, South Street, West Street and East Street. Pretty imaginative, huh?

The fifth major road was called High Stile. At the bottom of South Street by "The New Inn", it headed off in a north easterly direction, meeting up with East Street after a quarter of a mile. This meant that in the heart of the village there was a large triangle of land - about ten acres all told.

Near the angle of East Street and High Stile there was a recreation ground with a large butter-coloured tin hut known as the recreation hall and beside that a precious grassy area  where village lads were allowed to play football. We did this incessantly at weekends and and on dry summer evenings.

Next to the recreation ground there was a house that had a small market garden business behind it with a high brick wall extending northwards from the house. I have racked my brains to remember the real surname of the married couple who lived there but over time that name has evaporated and so I shall refer to them pseudonymously as   Mr and Mrs Hobson.

One summer evening, there were about ten of us playing football. I guess I was nine years old. We were having a fine old time until somebody booted the ball over Mr and Mrs Hobson's wall. It didn't land anywhere near the big greenhouse they had at the back of the property.

Mrs Hobson had revealed her unsunny character before so the boy who had kicked the ball over was very reluctant to retrieve it. It was decided that I should be the one to go round and I felt slightly apprehensive but very capable of fulfilling that task.

Nervously, I went round and I could see our ball in the potato patch but I didn't want to risk just grabbing the ball and running back to our football game so I knocked on the kitchen door.

Mrs Hobson opened that door after a few minutes - wearing her floral housecoat.

"Yes. What do you want?" she asked.

"Excuse me Mrs Hobson. Somebody kicked our ball over the wall. May I get it please?"

"Where is it?" 

"It's there in the potato patch."

She came out of the house in her slippers and walked up the garden path to retrieve the ball. However, when she returned to her kitchen door she kept the ball. I was open-mouthed.

"You're not having it!" she snapped.

"What? You are keeping our ball?"

"Yes!"

I was infuriated and though I knew some proper swear words by that age I had never used them so instead, I said, "Well I think you're a... you're a damned rotter!"

"What did you say?" 

She had raised her voice . She grabbed by arm and dragged me into her kitchen where she said she would telephone my father and then asked for our phone number which  consisted of just three memorable digits - 272.

Dad arrived after what seemed like an age and Mrs Hobson recounted the incident, possibly expecting me to be later clouted like a disobedient dog. But I was not afraid of my father. I loved him as he loved me. He led me away, holding the lost ball.

The other boys were still in the recreation ground wondering what had taken me so long. Dad tossed them the ball  and advised them to keep it down but for appearance's sake he led me away - back down High Stile to "The New Inn" and then right up South Street to the schoolhouse.

Years later, he recalled the incident with amusement and agreed, "She was a damned rotter!" It was the kind of remark that Billy Bunter might have made or Lord Snooty in "The Beano".

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"Enough hate - can you have a post of words that are compliments?"

That is what Ellen from Illinois wrote after yesterday's blogpost. I am happy to oblige - after all this is Valentine's Day, so here we go. Please feel free to refer to this short lexicon before addressing or describing your most loved ones...

paramour, darling, sweetheart, beloved, charming, courteous, affectionate, dependable, principled, loyal, sweeting, dillydown, magnificent, beautiful, handsome, treasure, truelove, light of my life, cherub, epitome, paradigm...

I feel sure that Ellen from Illinois will have heard all of these words before - wafted in her direction. But I do take her point. In these times of anger, division, misunderstanding and anxiety about the future - it would serve us well to take frequent pauses, reflecting on what is good and what is positive about "Life on Earth 2025" - including the very words we use.