The One That Got Away

The One That Got Away

By Peter Woodgate

I will always remember the day I let a fortune slip through my fingers.

I remember it as if it were yesterday, which is ironic because had it been yesterday, I would almost certainly have forgotten about it.

It was 1948, sweets and other foodstuffs were on ration.

We had a bath, if we were lucky, on a Sunday. We listened to events such as the Boat Race,

The Grand National and the Cup Final on a radio powered by an accumulator.

We, my Mum and Dad, my brothers Donald and Alan, my sisters Alma and Sheila and I,

lived in the top half of a large house in North West London.

The only mains power supplied was gas which is the reason the radio needed the accumulator. They were basically like a car battery, very heavy and in need, periodically,

to be re-charged. This was my older brother Don’s job. He would take them to a local shop

where, for a few pence, they would be charged. This usually took a couple of days which is why we had three of them ensuring one was connected to the radio at all times.

Like most families, at that time, we struggled to make ends meet and luxuries were almost non-existent. I think our near-poverty was exacerbated by the ongoing need of our parents

to renew the gas mantles required for lighting.

These extremely fragile gauze filaments were regularly destroyed by the over-exuberant games played by my brothers, sisters and I.

With finances in mind, my mother had recently obtained a job in the local Pepsodent factory.

It didn’t mean much at the time but whenever I hear the word Pepsident now, I cannot help

but remember the strange advert played on the television during the early days of ITV. it was a little song that went “you wonder where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent”.

I was very naive at the time and wondered how cleaning your teeth could affect the population explosion that was happening in China and, judging by today’s statistics it appears I was right.

I digress, which seems to happen more frequently these days. Anyway, as now, both my mother and father were working, my oldest sister, Alma, was in charge during school holidays.

It was on one of these non-school days that my brother Donald, my sister Sheila and I had decided to visit one of the many bomb-sites that still littered the landscape of London.

Alma stayed at home to look after my younger brother Alan.

We’d seen many posters that gave warnings about the dangers of these bomb-sites as unexploded detonators were occasionally unearthed. However, to us they remained a constant source of fascination as we sifted through the flotsam found floating on these seas of destruction.

Despite the magnet-like attraction these derelict sites had, we seldom found anything of significance and usually resorted to hurling bricks at the rats that occasionally broke cover to dash across No-Man’s land to vanish down one of the cracks in the concrete.

The day in question was no different and, after a short burst of brick-throwing, we decided to make our way home. It was a route we knew well and we were buoyed with the knowledge, that on the way, we would pass the White Heather laundry.

Not a particularly exciting place, you may think, and you would be correct. It was not the laundry that caused great expectations, it was the hedge that ran along one side of it.

We didn’t know why, but this hedge, in Summer, was always covered with ladybirds. As we neared the hedge we prepared ourselves for a game of “spot the spots” and who could spot the ladybird that had the most? Normally this didn’t last too long as we suffered with “spots before the eyes” and ended up by encouraging some of the beetles to fly home convincing them that their houses were on fire.

On this particular day, we had only just begun spot spotting when my brother gave an almighty whoop!

“Look here”, Donald was extremely excited, “it’s one of those Colorado Beetles, I’ve seen them on the posters outside the police station”.

Don then explained that there was a hefty reward for the capture of one of these beetles.

Apparently, they had been decimating potato crops throughout Europe and the government wanted to ensure they did not spread in the UK.

We looked to where Don was pointing. Sure enough, it was slightly smaller than the normal red and black sort and was yellow with black stripes. Donald was older than Sheila and me so he had to be right, didn’t he?

Well, that was our logic and our heads were immediately filled with dreams of luxuries, like sweets. Yes, sweets were on ration but Ex-Lax and cough candy were considered as medicinal and available and, as far as we were concerned, tasted just as good as sweets.

The after-effects  from Ex-Lax was a small price to pay.

With our heads full of dreams Don gently coaxed the strange-looking beetle into his cupped hands and we set off for home

As we neared our house we suddenly realised that both Mum And Dad were at work. Not having the confidence to go to the police station without an adult, we decided we would ask Auntie Gert. She wasn’t a real auntie but lived just two doors away and had often looked after one or other of us if we had been ill and off school. As was usual we approached Gert’s via the back gate situated in the narrow alley that ran the length of the terraced houses.

The fence and gate were tall and, on this occasion, the gate was bolted from the inside.

“ Don’t worry”, Don had already thought of what to do,” I will lift Sheila up so she can reach over the fence and slide the bolt open, Peter you will have to hold the Colorado Beetle”.

Don then carefully slid the precious cargo into my hands and my knuckles turned white as I enclosed the item of anticipated wealth.

“Look what we’ve found”, Auntie Gert jumped in surprise as we burst through her door, “It’s one of those Colorado Beetles, we’re rich, show her Pete.”

Don couldn’t suppress his excitement as I slowly opened my hands that had now begun to resemble a state of Rigor Mortis.

There was a hush as my hands reached the fully open position revealing . . . nothing

It had gone, the object carrying the dreams of three small children had vanished.

I stood there for a moment, wishing the floor would swallow me up. Suddenly, Auntie Gert started laughing, “cheer up”, she said, “I have just made some rock cakes, they are still warm”.

I have since convinced myself that it was not a Colorado Beetle I let slip but can never be sure.

What I can be sure about is that for years after I was reminded that I had managed to lose a fortune and, whenever there was a shortage of spuds, I got the blame for that too.

Copyright Peter Woodgate