ANNIE (a daughter, wife and mother)

By Richard Banks

Annie Eliza was born out of wedlock in 1841, the first child of George Smith and Ruth Chapman. Her father was a soldier in the 2^nd Regiment of the Queen’s Life Guards, stationed at Regents Park Barracks. The Regiment provided the mounted guard for ceremonial parades and processions in London, such as those for Queen Victoria’s coronation and marriage. Ruth, had come to London from Sussex to work as a domestic servant. George would, no doubt, have cut a dashing figure on horseback and Ruth was one of many young women exposed ‘to the all powerful redcoat’ and ‘succumbing to Scarlet Fever’.       

         Although the army actively discouraged marriage for enlisted men George and Ruth were given permission to marry a year after Annie’s birth enabling the three of them to live together in barracks and later in lodgings. One of the benefits of George’s employment was that Annie would have been educated at the Regimental School well before the introduction of mandatory schooling. The school sought to instil notions of discipline, duty and respect in line with military ideals as well as teaching practical skills that would have equipped their pupils for future employment. By the standards of the time the children also received a good academic education, including spelling, reading, writing, diction, grammar, English history, geography, arithmetic and algebra. George would have been paid two-pence a month for Annie to attend and one penny for each of his children that came after her.  

         Growing up in salubrious areas such as Knightsbridge and Windsor put Annie in close proximity to a world of privilege and wealth seldom glimpsed by other working class children. From a young age Annie would have learned to take a pride in her father’s position and espouse regimental values of honour and dignity. How she spoke and comported herself would have conveyed the impression, even in later life, that she was from a good family. 

         By 1854 Anne had been joined by five siblings. The family was living in lodgings near to barracks when epidemics of scarlet fever and typhus arrived in London. Within weeks four of Annie’s siblings died, sparing only herself and one sister, Emily. Despite the trauma of these deaths family life continued and George and Ruth had several more children, including a son named Fountaine. By now Anne was in her teens and almost ready to begin working life. 

         At the time of the 1861 census she was working as a housemaid in the Westminster home of an architect; a few doors away was living Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Her duties as a maid of all work were many and involved long hours. The pay was poor and it is unlikely she had very much free time. However, for the first time in her life she had her own room. 

         In 1862 tragedy again entered her life when her father, now in civilian life, working as valet to a former officer, committed suicide by cutting his throat. The reason or reasons why he did so are unclear but since leaving the army it appears he had become a heavy drinker. 

         In 1869 Annie’s life took an upward turn when she married John Chapman, a lodger at her mother’s house. He was a private coachman, a job that put him near the top of the hierarchy of servants. They lived reasonably well by working class standards of the time. Indeed it was observed that many coachmen and their wives harboured delusions of grandeur, especially those who, like John, worked in the West End of London. In 1870 Annie’s first child was born to be followed by seven more. 

         In 1879 John became head coachman to Francis Tress Barry, a man of considerable wealth with a country estate, St Leonards Hill, near Windsor.  John’s duties now extended to the supervision of the estate’s stable block. The family’s accommodation in the coachman’s house would have been a significant improvement on previous lodgings and Annie may well have employed a charwoman or day maid. 

         Barry’s house was only four miles from Ascot racecourse and in 1881 was visited by the Prince and Princess of Wales, plus other royals, attending the races. They were often to return for dinners and shooting parties. Living close to high society, and benefiting from John’s well paid employment, the family had all but become middle class – what could possibly go wrong? 

         The answer is to be found in a letter written in 1889 to the Pall Mall Gazette by Annie’s younger sister, Miriam. She wrote: ‘Just before I was six years old, my father cut his throat, leaving my mother with five children, three girls older, and one younger than myself.’

         All, she wrote, had signed the abstinence pledge to forgo ‘fermented spirits’ but her eldest sister [Annie] was unable to adhere to this commitment. ‘We tried to persuade the one given to drink to give it up. She was married and in a good position. Over and over again she signed the pledge and tried to keep it. Over and over again she was tempted and fell.’ Annie’s struggle, according to Miriam, had been a lifelong one and that she had inherited ’the curse’ of alcoholism from their father.          

         Her letter further states that of Anne’s eight children, ‘six of these have been victims of the curse.’ Indeed, all died within days or weeks of being born or suffered medical conditions likely to have been a consequence of Annie’s addiction. In 1882 after her eldest child, Emily Rose, had died of meningitis Annie began to acquire a reputation for public drunkenness. In the December of that year she was persuaded by her sisters to enter a sanatorium in Spelthorne, West London. One year later she was discharged and according to Miriam, ‘came out a sober wife and mother’.

         However, after a year of abstinence she was again observed wandering the St Leonards Estate the worse for wear. John was presented with an ultimatum by his employer, either to remove her from his estate or face dismissal. With two surviving children to consider, including one who was severely disabled, John and Annie agreed too separate. It was agreed that John pay her 10/-s a week maintenance and that she return to the family home in Knightsbridge. With the help and support of her mother and sisters there was still hope she could overcome her addiction, but within weeks Annie’s inability to stop drinking caused her to leave the home of her pledge adhering family. 

         It is likely she relocated to Notting Hill, a poor working class area, where she met a Jack Sievey and the two of them became a pair, probably on account of their mutual love of alcohol. In 1884 they moved to Whitechapel in search of work. Known as Mrs Sievey she was described by a friend as a respectable woman, never using bad language, clever, and industrious when sober. They lived in Dorset Street, a road the social reformer, Charles Booth, described a few years later as ‘the worst I have seen,’ on account of its poverty, misery and criminality. As Annie and Jack almost certainly had enough money between them to afford better lodgings it would seem that most of what they had was spent on alcohol. 

         In December 1886 her situation worsened when John’s maintenance payments ceased. Learning that he was gravely ill Annie set-off to walk the twenty-five miles to Windsor where John, now retired from Barry’s service, had taken a house. Their reunion was a brief one, John dying on Christmas Day. Back in Whitechapel she seemed genuinely remorseful although her grief may have had more to do with the loss of her maintenance money. Early the following year Jack Sievey deserted her, leaving Annie without a protector, imperative in a neighbourhood renown for its criminality. 

         Annie’s life became increasingly affected by drink, despondency and ill health that included tuberculosis. Nevertheless she attempted to earn money by selling matches, flowers and her own crochet work. Occasionally, she would return to her family who would give her clothes and, in Miriam’s words try to, ‘win her back, for she was a mere beggar’. Annie’s brother, now resident in Clerkenwell, was also approached for help and likely gave her money as well as buying her the occasional drink. Like Annie he was an alcoholic whose addiction later led him to steal from his employers. 

         In 1888 Annie began to spend her weekends at the Dorset Street lodging house of Crossinghams in the company of Edward Stanley, a brewery worker, who paid for their accommodation from Saturday through to Monday morning, also paying for Annie to stay there a night or two more. Their relationship appears to have been an exclusive one and Annie, trying to affect an appearance of marital respectability, purchased and wore rings which Stanley described as a wedding ring and keeper, ie an engagement ring.

         On 7 September 1888 Annie’s friend Amelia Palmer saw her lingering on Dorset Street looking unwell and apparently penniless. Asked if she would be going to Stratford Market to sell her crochet work Annie replied, ‘I am too ill to do anything’ and then, ten minutes later, when their paths crossed again, ‘I must pull myself together and get some money or I shall have no lodgings.’ By this time she may well have been sleeping rough on some of the nights she was not with Stanley. 

         On the evening of 7^th September Annie appeared at Crossinghams having apparently begged five pence. By 1.45 am when the kitchen was cleared of those unable to pay for a bed her money had largely been spent on alcohol and a meal of potatoes. With insufficient money to pay for a bed Annie wandered out into the night with no other option but to sleep rough. 

         Her murder in the early hours of 8 September 1888 was the second of five thought to have been committed by the serial killer, Jack the Ripper.   

        

                                                    ***** 

         It was generally assumed in 1888 that the Ripper’s five victims were prostitutes. That belief has persisted into modern times. The available evidence indicates that only one was. All had problems with alcohol which for four of them wrecked stable relationships contributing to their slide into desperate poverty. Sadly nothing of Annie’s tragic life would be remembered today had it not been for her brutal murder.

[Bibliography: ‘The Five. The untold lives of the women killed by Jack the Ripper.’ A book written by Halle Rubenhold and published by Transworld Publishers (part of Penguin Random House UK group of companies.]

 

Copyright Richard Banks

SALVATION

By Richard Banks                                   

 

If I had one wish it would be to declare all wishes null and void. Call me cynical, a spoilsport, anything you like but if you had my job you'd be wanting the same. Right now you're thinking about all the good I'm doing, how I help to transform people's lives; lives full of hardship that without me and the wishes would be as grey and cheerless as the never changing sky. Well, what can I say? With three million viewers I must be doing something right; if I don't bring them pleasure then why do they watch? For thirty minutes each month on ‘UK Plus’ they get to hope that they will be chosen, one of ten people randomly selected by computer to have their wishes made reality. The real winners are those who lose. For them there is still hope. OK, they say, so I didn't win this time but there's always next week and, if that doesn't happen, there's the week after and the week after that. Someone's got to win, why not me? In a world where deaths outnumber live births by ten to one their chances of winning constantly increase.

         My sympathy goes to the chosen ones, the poor mutts who think that all their troubles are over, then they find out about the rules, the unpublished small print that no one thought to tell them about. Cash prizes are limited to 50,000 credits, enough to buy an apartment in a domed village but nothing left to pay the bills; and if you don't live in a domed village there's no shortage of desperadoes who will cut your throat for what you have got and they want. Happy days! Then there's the crazy people who think miracles can be done. Cure me of the sickness they say, I want to live in a warm place where the sun still shines, take me back in time, I know you can do it!

         But we can't. This is reality, it's all we have. Choose what you want but prepare to be disappointed. The lucky ones are those who make only moderate demands and having only moderate expectations are moderately satisfied. A man who wanted to see the sun was taken to a mountain top above the cloud bank. A woman who wanted to make love with Brad Pitt junior, was granted half an hour of his time, and went home more satisfied than most. The winner who came out best was the guy who wanted a litre of Ginsplash every day for the rest of his life. As he was on the wrong side of forty this was considered a reasonable request. He's the happiest drunk you'll ever meet. For him the world is a great place, it exists at the bottom of a glass.

         Most of our winners aren't that fortunate. All suffer from the same disadvantage, that having won they are no longer eligible for further wishes. For most of them no wishes, no prospect of wishes, equals no hope. No wonder that the suicide rate for winners is three times higher than for the rest of us. By now you're thinking I don't get much job satisfaction. I don't, but at least I get to live in a domed village. Life in the bubble may not be normal but if normal is what we once had, normal no longer exists. At least we're alive. In the combat zones no one lives, twenty million deaths for every second of war. But not here, not on this sceptred isle. We were spared, no rockets, no bombs, not a single casualty, not a single building destroyed. Then the clouds rolled in. We thought they would pass, that it was just a matter of time before we woke up one morning to see a blue sky. Thirty years on we know that’s not going to happen, not for us, not for many generations to come. Our world is a twilight place where few crops grow and those that do are contaminated with the same sickness that's in all living things. We that were once sixty million are now down to four, but we cling on. Food is grown in factories, electricity generated, new buildings constructed. We have adapted, we continue to adapt. Every year some small progress is made but as yet there is no cure for the sickness. In the accountancy of human life if we do not balance the books in twenty years mankind will be extinct. We are on the edge, but not done yet. The newborns contain less radiation than their parents. For most the difference is not significant, in some it is. These fortunate few are nurtured within the benign environment of a dome. In time they will be paired with others of their kind. In them is our salvation.

         For now, we must take consolation in the few pleasures that remain. Our lives are short, fifty years for those in domes, thirty-five for the rest. What would we do without the wishes? On TV screens crackling with radiation those who watch dare to dream and believe in the possibility of better. For a short while behind drawn curtains the world is out of sight and the things that remain seem more precious than those lost. It could be worse, they say. While there are life and wishes there is also hope.

         Important people also get wishes. For them there is no need for random selection. They are chosen as a reward for services rendered, members of the ruling council, district marshals and occasionally TV personalities like myself. Yes, I too have a wish. Having observed the shortcomings in other people's wishes I have been careful not to waste mine. I have chosen psycho-stasis, ten days in an induced coma where I can be in an ideal world of my own construction. I tell the therapist precisely what I want and she programmes my mind like others programme computers. For ten days I can be anyone I want, do anything I want, in any place or time. It's a fantasy world in which the mind moves but the body doesn't. For some it's more real than reality.

         Sometimes things go wrong, but not often. The nurse assures me that their success rate is 98%. She attaches electrodes to my head and chest, explains the procedure yet again and punctures my arm with a needle. Have a good trip she says. I close my eyes knowing that the next time I open them I will be in the south of France, circa 2001. The programme downloads and I slip into unconsciousness.

                                                       *****       

         I awake in a pleasant enough room that has floral wallpaper, a cupboard, and a media viewer. It's morning on day one. I get out of bed and cross the room towards the window. My legs are unsteady but this is to be expected; it will, I'm told, soon pass. I draw back the curtains and stare out at a landscape that's definitely not the south of France. This is England, the way it used to me. It's a sunny, windswept day, the radiator beneath the window is cooling but still warm. My disappointment is eclipsed by the sight of the sun and the blue sky that surrounds it. I shower, select some clothes from the cupboard and go exploring. The building I am in is a large one, evidently a hotel. There is food cooking, a full English breakfast. The smell of bacon mingles with that of sausage, mushrooms and coffee.

         At the end of a corridor is a staircase. I follow my nose and descend two flights to a dining room where the food is set out in metal bowls within a long wooden cabinet that separates the kitchen from the dining area. I help myself. A jolly woman in white overalls asks me whether I want tea or coffee. I ask if I can have both. She laughs, says I will need a tray, finds one and, when my hands shake, she takes my breakfast to a table where the cutlery is already set out. Other people enter the room, but little is said. They choose their meals, sit down and eat. There are no children. I wonder why, surely there must be children.

         I’m drinking the last of the coffee when a woman, a youngish sort of woman, asks if she might join me.  It sounds like an old joke. Am I falling apart is the standard response. Instead I gesture politely towards an empty chair. Her name is Lyn. Lyn is pleasant, informal, but businesslike. She says I am her ten o'clock. I wonder if she is the escort I requested.

         “Why don't we go through to the conservatory,” she says, “it will be quieter there.” It is. 

We sit by the French windows in the full glow of the sun. Outside, in the garden the rhododendrons are almost in bloom. It’s Spring.

         “How goes it?” she asks.

         I nearly say that it is not what I asked for, but this would be absurd. The woman exists only in my imagination. How can she explain the malfunction in my programming?

         “I'm fine.”

         She smiles. “How is your room?”

         “It has a nice view,” I say, “the sun shines in.”

         “Yes, we thought you would like that. It's east facing. There's nothing better than waking in a sunlit room. Don't you agree?”

         I do. She knows I do.

         She smiles, changes the subject. “Your publisher's been in touch. He sends his best wishes.”

         I suppress my annoyance. I speak quietly, but firmly. “I'm Gerry Donovan, the TV presenter, I don't have a publisher.”

         “What about the other Gerry?” she asks.

         “Which Gerry is that?”

         “This Gerry.” She hands me a book. “Give it a read. I'll be interested to know what you make of it. No hurry. We'll talk again tomorrow. Until then, make yourself at home.”

         She terminates our meeting with yet another smile. Her smile is irritating, affected. It seems to be saying that she knows things that I don't. I decide that if she wants me to read the book that's a good reason for not doing so. I take a walk in the garden but it's still cold so I come back in. The book lies on the table where I left it. I pick it up. It's an hour and a half until lunch and there's nothing else to do. I turn to chapter one. I start reading, get to page twenty-two and stop. This is a narrative I know only too well. It's about me, Gerry Donovan, a TV presenter in the year 2050 granting wishes to the poor wretches that have survived the apocalypse. Someone has been observing me, writing down the minutia of my life for an unsanctioned biography that reads like fiction. It's an outrage! Who has done this? I turn back to the inside flap of the cover where there is a short biography of the author. His name is Gerry Baker. His life is summed up in three short paragraphs. Beneath them is his picture; it’s a picture of me.

Copyright Richard Banks

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE OLD BOOK OF SPELLS (Part 2 & Last)

 THE OLD BOOK OF SPELLS (Part 2 & Last) 

By Richard Banks  

At 2 pm I set out and by evening I’m crossing the Tamar Bridge into Cornwall. The campsite’s near Bodmin, but it’s not open until the morning, so I pull up in a lay-by on the A38 and spend the night there. Come morning I buy a tent in Liskeard and drive the rest of the way to the campsite. It’s in a field, next to an old manor house where the local toffs live. Buy a ticket at the gate and join the early arrivals at a fast food van that’s serving breakfast.

Nothing to do now but put up the tent and suss out the new arrivals. There’s a girl called Lorinda in the next tent who’s came with her best friend, Trish, and Trish’s boyfriend. She’s not best pleased with the arrangement and spends most of her time outside the tent, while Trish and boyfriend cavort energetically inside. 

When it starts raining I invite her in for a coffee. Ask her what she knows about The Anointed Order, but she’s never heard of it. Says she’s only come for the drugs and the chance to get her kit off during the maypole dancing, or whatever it is they do here. She says the organisers of the other events she’s been to are always on the look out for handmaidens and they get given the most incredible psychedelic drugs that you can’t get anywhere else - at least not in the club she goes to. She asks if I’ve got any drugs. I say no, but when the festival drug dealer turns up I buy a few spiffs, and arrange to meet Lorinda in the evening. 

Meanwhile, the site is filling-up with people and tents, but no one resembling the collector is among them. People are also arriving at the house, mainly in expensive cars. According to a guy who’s been here before they are the High Priests, who only come down to the site for special events. No one knows who they are because they keep their faces covered and have made up names like Incubus and Belias. As well as the usual guys on security they also have their own minders, and no one who hasn’t been invited gets inside the house. 

This isn’t good news. If the collector is a priest or a minder getting near him is going to be one big problem. But maybe he isn’t, so I spend the rest of the day by the way in, watching the latest arrivals. Come evening I still haven’t seen him and when Security close the gates for the night I go back to the tent. It’s not long before Lorinda joins me and we start chatting about all the things she’s been doing since we last met; the main news being that this guy from the house has asked her to be a handmaiden for a big ceremony they’re having there at midnight. 

It’s too good a chance to miss, so I tell her about the murder I didn’t do and how I need to get inside the house to see if the collector’s there. She thinks all this is terribly exciting and can’t wait to help me, especially if I let her have one of the spiffs I bought. Two spiffs later and we’ve hit on this plan, where she lets me in through this window on the first floor. I don’t know what I’m going to do once I’m inside, but if this pans out anything like the last film I saw I will not only prove my innocence but get back the book as well. 

The first part of the plan goes like clockwork. Lorinda goes into the house and ten minutes later she’s opening the window so I can climb in from this tree outside. The ceremony’s taking place in a courtyard in the centre of the house and I can see it all from another window on the first floor. Any hope I have of spotting the collector, however, is dead in the water; everyone, except for the handmaidens, is decked out like the Ku Klux Clan, in white robes that cover their faces. The handmaidens seem to be there mainly for decoration, but Lorinda has a starring role. She gets to lie on this marble table and writhe around, while the head priest anoints her from head to foot with linseed oil. Then he picks up a ceremonial sword and pretends to run her through with it, while she throws out her arms and does this cute little scream that’s probably not in the script. All this time the other priests are chanting ‘Comius, Comius, Prince of Darkness’ but he don’t come and after a while they give up and have a prayer instead. 

While all this is very interesting I’m no further forward than before. I get out of the same window I came in by and go back to the tent. Half an hour later Lorinda arrives back in her ceremonial robe, looking like she’s just drunk a brewery dry. Instead of the night of passion we were planning she falls down outside the tent and I have to haul her in. 

I figure it’s best to let her sleep it off, but midway through the night she has a dream in which she’s an oven ready chicken being chased across Bodmin Moor by a fox that sometimes turns into a fire breathing goat. Up she gets and races off, like she’s been shot out of a rocket. I go after her and when she trips over a power cable I grab her and, despite the fact that she’s as slippery as a bar of soap, drag her back to the tent. 

The disturbance, however, hasn’t escaped the notice of Security, and, by following the strong aroma of linseed oil, their man has no trouble in finding us. At first he’s going to throw us off the site but then we realise we know each other. It’s Ernie, who I shared a cell with for six months. I pump him for information about who's staying in the house, but he doesn’t have their names. All he knows is that their car numbers are cross referenced to their room numbers. But, as he says, if I can find out which room my man is staying in I can use the car number to hack into the DVLA’s internet site. I bung him twenty quid for his trouble and he says for another twenty he can let me have a ceremonial robe for wearing inside the house. I agree, and when everyone on site are back sleeping, he brings it along to the tent. 

In the morning, just before brunch, Lorinda wakes up, and I tell her what’s happened and that we have to get back in the house as soon as possible. She says that’s no problem because there’s another ceremony in the evening, after which the Order are having a slap up dinner. The significance of the dinner is that they have to take off their hoods to eat it, so I will be able to ID the Collector and follow him back to his room. What’s more, the priest who was rubbing her down with oil was also reciting stuff from a book that could be the one that belonged to uncle George.

At last everything’s going my way and I can’t wait for the off. But wait I have to because the ceremony doesn’t start until 8 pm. Lorinda’s got the same job as before, except that she’s been told to cut out the ad-libs. Anyway, she goes into the house about 7:30 and I follow her in, ten minutes later, dressed up in the ceremonial robe that Ernie flogged me. 

The sun is setting and when it’s nearly dark the ceremony begins. It’s the same old business as the night before, but this time there’s a thunder storm rumbling overhead. If ever the Order is going to conjure up the Dark Prince this is the night, except that when they get to the Comius, Comius bit a bolt of lightening comes down, strikes one of the minders and fuses all the lights. Needless to say this causes quite a stir, but once the lights come back on and the priests work out that the minder is still the minder and not the Prince, they all troop off to dinner, except the minder, who’s carted off to hospital. 

Sure enough, once everyone’s in the dining hall, the priests take off their hoods and park them on the floor under their seats. At first I don’t see the Collector, or anyone like him. Then he looks round at a waiter and I spot him. All I got to do is sit tight until the dinner’s finished and follow him back to his room. It should be a doddle, but it ain’t. After the cheese and biscuits, the Head Priest says something in Latin and everyone gets up and puts their hoods back on.

Keeping my eyes on the Collector is worse than the three card trick. Far worse! There must be at least fifty guys in robes and they’re all on their feet, going every which way. I’m trying hard not to take my eyes off him, but the hood I’m wearing isn’t helping because the eye holes are too far apart. However, once he’s out of the dining hall there’s less people, and by the time I follow him up three flights of stairs he’s on his own. Half way along a corridor he stops and gets out the key to his room, but, like me, he’s having trouble seeing, so he takes off his hood. Whoever this guy is he ain’t the collector. As if things can’t get any worse he susses out that I’ve been following him and asks me what my priestly name is. 

The game’s up, so I do a runner back down the corridor, hoping I can make it to the ground floor and duck out, through the back door, with the hired help. By the time I make the stairs, the security alarm is ringing, and the word is out that there’s an unwelcome visitor in the house. If the heavies get me I’m toast - the collector may not be the only one who wants me dead. Down below, two minders are running up the stairs towards me. There’s no way I’m going to get past them, so it’s right turn at the next landing, and along a corridor on the first floor. In addition to the guys behind, there’s another one running towards me. I put my head down and crash into him. He hits the floor but I’m still going. Ten yards on I see the window through which I came the previous night and climb out onto the tree. It’s dark and I can hardly see the ground, but the minders are almost at the window, so I take a chance and jump. I think I’m going to break an ankle but the ground’s soft and although I take a tumble there’s no damage done.

I need to disappear into the night but the robe I’m wearing is almost glowing, so I stop behind a bush and tear it off. My lungs are bursting, but stopping ain't an option, so I run hard towards the camp site. I’m nearly there when someone comes straight at me and shines a torch in my face. I zig-zag round him, nearly collide with a tree, and tumble down an embankment that slopes down to the camp site. By now I can hear dogs barking and they don’t sound like they’re going to lick my face. As they can run faster than me, I'm guessing it won't be long before they catch up. 

I’m in a panic. If I have a guardian angel this is the time for it to come to my rescue. Then it appears, except that it’s not an angel, it’s Lorinda. She’s packed a bag with all the money we’re got and on the assumption that a speedy exit is the order of the day, is haring off towards a hole in the perimeter fence that she nearly fell through the previous night. I follow on and we scramble through it and onto an unlit road that’s darker than the average coal cellar. We start running again but there’s no need. The dogs haven’t left the campsite and if their pitiful whimpering is anything to go by they’re not liking the pungent smell of linseed oil still wafting from our tent. We slow down, get our bearings and figure out our next move. 

What happens next is the arrival of the number ten bus to Plymouth. As get away vehicles go it’s not the fastest, but at ten pounds a head it’s definitely the cheapest. An hour later we’re in Plymouth and an hour after that we’re on an overnight coach to Poole. 

Why Poole? you’re thinking. The answer is logical, if not obvious. Lorinda knows a man there who owes another man a favour, and the last named man is Lorinda’s dad. What’s more, the man in Poole owns a yacht, and that’s our ticket out of the country, away from the Anointed Order, the police and everyone else that will do us down. And the good news doesn’t stop there, for Lorinda's old man owns a casino on the Costa del Sol, where he launders money for the same mob I used to work for. It’s a safe haven that might well have a need for my professional services.  

                                                            ********** 

So, it’s all ended well you’re thinking. Okay, so he didn’t prove his innocence to the police, get back uncle George’s book, or get even with the collector, but he’s met this really fun chick and now they’re going to get it together in a warm, sunny place that’s a distinct improvement on north London. While it’s better than a goalless draw at the Emirates I’m not sure how I should be feeling. Had it been down to Tom Cruise everything would have been sorted inside three hours, but real life ain’t like that. 

In real life there’s only so much a guy can do – sometimes, whatever you do ain’t enough - but a guy and a girl together, that’s different. Right from the start it felt different, the proof that it was came on the motorway, south of Exeter. That’s when Lorinda remembers she has something for me. She unzips her bag and rummages through it like she can’t find what she’s searching for, which is odd, because what finally comes out is nearly as big as the bag - it’s a book. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. “Is this the one you’re looking for?” she says, and sure enough it is. 

It turns out that when the lightning came down and the lights went out, my quick fingered little magician takes the book off the High Priest’s lectern and drops it down behind the table she’s lying on. It’s like taking candy from a baby. While everyone’s attention is focused on the stricken bouncer she gets off the table, slips the book into her bag, and as the Anointed Order go off to dinner she exits the house with the other handmaidens.

What happens after that you already know, so I guess this really is the end of the story. Lorinda says that it has more ups and downs than the Himalayas and that if I don’t finish it now while we’re on an up I will only have myself to blame. I take her point. What happens next I don’t know, but it’s a new start, a new story. The old one's over; there’s only one thing left to say - The End.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

THE OLD BOOK OF SPELLS (Part 1 of 2)

 THE OLD BOOK OF SPELLS (Part 1 of 2) 

By Richard Banks

When I first heard the news about uncle George I was sad. Not that I was ever close to the old boy, only met him three or four times, but he was family, Dad’s brother, the last of his generation. Then I got the letter from his solicitor and I felt a whole lot better. Turns out I was his nearest living relative and sole beneficiary. Thought I had won the lottery without buying a ticket. How big the jackpot was I didn’t know, but as Uncle George lived in a three storey house on the Caledonian Road I figured it was the nearest thing to a fortune I would ever see. 

After three years in Pentonville, and one on the dole, my lucky star was shining like never before. Then the clouds started rolling in and not even the sun was getting through. Should have known it was too good to be true. Uncle George hadn’t left me the house, it wasn’t his to leave; he only lived on the ground floor and that was rented. All I had was the stuff inside it and a bill for last month’s rent. Decided that the best thing to do was clear the flat before another month's rent was due and sell anything likely to fetch a price. With a bit of luck I could pay off his debts and still make a few quid. 

Wasn’t thinking that for long. One look around his pad was enough to tell me that there was better stuff on the local tip. Even then I thought there might be some money hidden away. Old people do that, especially when they don’t have bank accounts - whole wads of notes at the back of drawers or on top of cupboards. That’s when I found the shilling piece, and an old book of spells. At least I think that’s what it was. The old time writing didn’t make much sense, but the pictures were clear enough. It wasn’t no bible book, that’s for sure. 

I remember Mum saying that uncle George had a dark side, now I knew what it was. In the same cupboard I found his ceremonial robe and a certificate saying that he was member one hundred and thirty four of the Anointed Order of Gehenna. It didn’t seem right to take them down to the tip where they might get noticed, so I burned them in the back garden. Almost burned the book too, then thought better of it. Why not take it to that second hand bookshop in Camden Town, I thought; anything that old must surely be worth a fiver, so that’s what I did. 

As soon as I walk through the door I know I'm in the right place. This isn’t any old book shop, it's the Psychic Antiquarian Resource Gallery; the resource being books and magazines on every weird notion and religion that’s ever been invented. The guy behind the counter looks surprisingly sane. If he has a ceremonial robe at least he isn't wearing it. In fact he's better turned out than uncle George’s solicitor. What’s more he’s a real charmer. This is a man who can really close a deal, a born salesman, but I'm not buying, and at first neither is he.

He takes one look at the split in the binding and almost pushes the book back at me across the counter. Then something gets his attention and he opens it up. The guy would make a good poker player, but for a split second he lets down his guard and I can see he’s interested, really interested. Then he’s back to his poker face, sighs, says what a pity it isn’t in better condition, points out a creased page and a dark stain on another. Sighs again. I’m thinking that he’s going to offer me a fiver when it’s worth a pony or maybe fifty quid. Instead, he quotes me the full fifty. So how much is it really worth? I don’t trust him, so I say I’m not sure, that I think it might be worth more. He shakes his head, almost winces as he finds another stain in the margin of a picture; then his attention switches to the picture itself. It’s Old Nick himself, eyes glowing like they’re going to jump off the page. The guy can’t help himself, he’s almost drawling. Ups his offer to eighty quid, but by now he knows I’m on to him, that I’m going to say no and move on to other book shops.

When I do say no, he shrugs his shoulders like he’s none too bothered, but he knows a private collector who might pay more. If I leave my card maybe he will get in touch. I don’t have a card, so I write down my address and telephone number on a piece of paper he gives me. He smiles, wishes me luck and we say goodbye.

It’s 4:30, too late to find another book shop, so I head home. Figure if this book is as hot as I think it is then the collector will be on the phone before morning. I’m not disappointed, except that it’s not the telephone that rings, it’s the door bell. I open up to find this guy on the doorstep. His name is Mackenzie. He says he’s come about the book. I invite him in. This is dangerous, but he looks okay so I take a chance. It’s a chance too many. 

Not sure when he hit me, probably the first time I turned my back on him. All I know is that when I come round I’m lying on the parlour floor, staring up at Mrs B from the next door flat. Turns out that when I hit the deck, the old dear hears the bang and starts hammering on the wall like she does when she wants me to turn down the radio. Except that this time I don’t shout back, so she comes out her front door and finds mine open. 

Luckily for her, my visitor has grabbed what he came for and legged it out of the building. She wants to call the police, but the police and me don’t get along, so I say I’ll do it when I know what’s missing. What’s missing, of course, is the book, nothing else, just the book, and now I’m certain it’s worth serious money. I want it back and my devious little friend in the bookshop is just the man to help me find it. 

Next morning I’m there bright and early, half expecting the shop to be shut, but the sign in the window says ‘Open’, so I go in. It’s quiet, even quieter than a bookshop ought to be. Right away I’m smelling trouble and it ain’t long in coming. The door into the office is open and there’s books and magazines all over the floor. I ring the bell on the counter and, when no one comes out, I go in. 

At first I don’t see him, then I look behind his desk and there he is, flat out, with his head bashed in. He’s not breathing, and, unless his name is Lazarus, he won’t be getting up again. Cut and run, I’m thinking. You’re an ex-con with form for GBH. If the police find you here they won’t be looking for anyone else. Then I see this poster in his hand. It’s like he’s trying to give it to me; it’s stupid, but it makes sense. He’s holding the poster because it’s important, because it has something to do with the man who killed him - the same man who, but for Mrs B, would have done the same to me. This is all about the book and if I want to see it again the poster is my only chance. I take it from him and go back into the shop. There’s nobody there, or in the street outside. I slip out of the front door and walk back to my car several streets away. I mustn’t do anything to attract attention, and I don’t. 

By the time I get back home I’m thinking that the book is the least of my problems. I might have got out of the shop without anyone seeing me but my fingerprints are all over the counter and maybe some in the office. It won’t be long before the police find them and make the match with the ones I gave them four years ago. It’s not enough for a conviction, but if I’ve also been seen on CCTV then I’m definitely in the shit. What’s more the poster I took from the book guy also connects me to the shop and who’s to say his DNA isn’t all over it. Whatever else I do today, I need to burn it before the police find it. 

I take it out of my jacket pocket and go into the kitchen, intending to incinerate it in a saucepan. Then I think, no, slow down, if the book guy thought this important then it’s important enough to read. So I do. It’s about some sort of hippy gathering that’s taking place in Cornwall, 'The Festival of Gehenna and the Awakening Lights'.

Straightaway my mind goes back to Uncle George and the Anointed Order of Gehenna. Are they connected, I’m thinking, and sure enough they are; in the small print there’s an address, the same one that was on uncle George’s certificate. My mind’s working overtime and everything’s making sense. By holding on to the poster, the book guy was saying that his killer and the festival are connected, ‘go to the festival and there you will find him, book and all.’

And do I want to go? You bet I do. This guy is my get out of jail card. If I can find him, get his name and address, I might just be able to convince the police that it’s him, not me they should be looking for. But that’s a conversation for another day. Right now I’m wanting to avoid the police, and a festival campsite, in the middle of nowhere, seems like the perfect spot. 

There’s no time to lose. I change the plates on my car and get money from the bank. I also need a change of image. Appearances are important and I don’t want to be recognised, so I shave my head, wear a new age shirt I should have thrown out years ago and put on a big pair of shades. 

 (To be Continued)

Copyright Richard Banks

 A SUMMER WOOING                                     

By Richard Banks                    

The seven-fifteen from platform two was leaving the station, slowly gathering speed as it turned the bend in the track that pointed it towards Bransford. The last passenger to board the train took her seat in the half empty carriage and observed the streets and houses of the town give way to a field of barley. She recalled the winter months when the field was nothing more than dark clods of mud and the trees beyond it leafless skeletons. In a week or two the field would be harvested, the first step back into winter. She repressed a shiver and consoled herself that it was only August and that September days were sometimes the warmest of the year.

         What was it that Granny used to say when summer lingered on into autumn? It was an old expression not much heard now; something about India. Yes, that was it, an Indian Summer. When July or August were cool and wet, Granny always held out the prospect of an Indian summer just like those she claimed to remember from her youth: “September days so warm you could have fried an egg on the pavement.” The woman smiled, but Granny sometimes got it right. September when it came could be warm, a golden month made precious by the knowledge that summer dresses must soon give way to warmer clothes.

         The woman unfastened her handbag and extracted a compact which opened to reveal a mirror. She anxiously studied her face counting the lines that radiated from the corner of her eyes. There were three on either side of her face, the same as yesterday, the same as four weeks ago when she first noticed them. Was the middle one slightly longer? She wasn't sure. For now the application of a little cream would render them invisible. But first there was mascara to apply.

         Gerry liked girls who took trouble with their appearance. She knew this, he had a roving eye and a wagging tongue like other guys in the office. From their conversations she learned that Gerry liked brunets with shoulder length hair, slim girls with made-up faces and long legs, fashionable girls in silk blouses and pleated skirts that terminated several inches above their knees. Gerry seemed to have an obsession with pleated skirts which was weird she thought because no one made them now except that Romanian firm on the net which she had found after several long hours of searching.

         Now that she had changed, morphed into Gerry's perfect girl it was only a matter of time before he realised what she already knew, that they were a perfect match. For now, the focus of his attention was Cloey but this was ridiculous and could never be. Cloey was far too young and flighty for Gerry. He needed an older woman in the summer of her life, not a spring chicken with a voice to match. Why could Gerry not see this? The poor man was forever attracting unsuitable women. First there was Janey who fell off the stepladder while putting up the Christmas decorations. Didn't look so cute with her neck in a brace; no wonder Gerry dumped her. By the time she was back from sick leave Gerry had moved on to Deborah, that snotty girl in Personnel who didn't like being called Debby. But Deborah was just using him, stringing him along and when she sent that text to Janey detailing the deficiencies of Gerry's 'little acorn', Janey inflicted her come-uppance by copying it to everyone in the office.

         Poor Gerry, how humiliating for him. Who could blame him for complaining to his head of section and having them both sacked? That's when he needed the affection of an older, more mature woman, one who truly loved him. While the other girls were still sniggering she was his rock, at first his only true friend and then, gradually, almost without him noticing, a closer attachment began to form.

         It was going so well, then Cloey arrived, Deborah's replacement, and Gerry's wandering eyes began wandering all over her hour glass figure. He should have realised his mistake when she fell over drunk in the Kings Head that lunchtime and was unwell on the carpet. Instead he picked her up, plied her with coffee and saw her onto her train at Charing Cross. Since then their 'by chance' meetings about the office had become too frequent to ignore. Even more worrying was the rumour that they had been seen together in the Memphis Grill. Then she saw them for herself, together on that park bench, snogging like it was an Olympic event. She turned back on her heels and found a bench of her own where her tears might also have set new records. It was over, she thought. No one could have tried harder, how had she failed?

         The negativity of her thoughts astounded her. She stopped crying and dried her eyes. Emotion was giving way to rational thought. Failure was not an option she told herself. She was a positive person who made things happen, this was no more than a clearing shower. That's what Granny said when dark clouds gathered and the rain set-in driving her and the other children into Grannies scullery. No matter how black the clouds Granny was always adamant that the rain was nothing more than a clearing shower, that within minutes, an hour at most, the sun would be back out, a yellow blaze in a deep blue sky. Not for the first time the memory of Granny's boundless optimism brought a smile to her face; there would, she resolved, be no more rainy days in her life.

         The train pulled into Bransford. The woman returned her mirror and lipstick to her handbag and observed the City bound commuters hurry into the carriage and occupy the remaining seats. Her make-up completed, her mind was fully focussed on what must be done at the next station. Up to now she had been merely mischievous: the tilting of the ladder on which Janey was standing, the sending of that text on Deborah's unattended mobile – what a wheeze that had been – and finally the Mickey Finn in Cloey's drink. The present situation, however, called for something more serious, anything less would not be enough. Her plan was simple, high risk, but the stakes were high. She told herself that desperate times required desperate measures, but that once done, all would be well. She drank from a flask; the liquid reinforced her resolve, gave her confidence, repressed those what if doubts. But what if she did nothing and let things be? No, nothing could be worse than that.

         Not a moment too soon the train arrived at Milstead Junction. The woman alighted and made her way to the coffee bar on the London bound platform. This was where Cloey stopped for a cappuccino and croissant on her way to the office. The woman knew this because Cloey had told her so, “her life saver” she called it, her reward for dragging herself out of bed at seven a.m. It was not long before she made her entrance.

         The woman attracted her attention and beckoned at the empty seat beside her from which she had removed her handbag. Cloey looked surprised, then nervous, but was reassured by the woman's friendly expression. It was not difficult to switch the paper cups on the table in front of them, the same unsampled coffees filled close to the brim. They talked like the friends they were not, silly girlish stuff that the woman had outgrown but still remembered. Cloey yawned, her eyes struggling to stay open; the pills in her cup were taking effect. Timing now was everything. The woman put on her white sun hat with the wide, floppy brim that might have dipped down over her eyes had it not been for the large frames of her dark glasses. “It's time to go,” she said, “the 7.55 is due.” The woman guided her companion, from the café and stood her on the edge of the platform as their fellow commuters formed irregular lines either side and behind them.

         Only a single, piston-like movement was needed, the firm pressure of an open palm in the small of Cloey's back, too quick, too subtle for TV imaging or human eye. It was said that she fell slowly, arms out wide, her thin cotton dress billowing like a butterfly in an unexpected breeze. The woman closed her eyes and from her darkness heard all: the braking of the train, a juddering thud, the screams and shouts of those whose eyes were open. These 'details' she would banish from her memory, lose in some unacknowledged place along with all she did see: the dark splashes on the track, the ashen face of the driver as he pushed open the door of his cab.

         The woman withdrew unobtrusively from the platform and completed her journey to work by bus. Later that day or maybe the next, the news of Cloey's death would reach the office. When it did she would express the same sentiments of grief and disbelief as everyone else, but most of all she would be there for Gerry. More than ever he would need that special friend who could be so much more. In time he would realise this, how could he not, and when he did, nothing would ever come between them again.

         There he was at his work station opening his emails. Time to take him his post, to perch herself on the edge of his desk and flirt, tell jokes, laugh when he told his. The dark clouds were gathering but soon the sun would shine.         

                                                                                  Copyright Richard Banks                                                                                                            

TV in the UK ~ (The Early Years)

 TELEVISION IN BRITAIN – THE EARLY YEARS

By Richard Banks

TELEVISION IN THE UK WILL ALWAYS BE ASSOCIATED WITH THE INVENTOR, JOHN LOGIE BAIRD, THE BBC AND THE CORPORATION’S FIRST DIRECTOR GENERAL, JOHN REITH.

BAIRD’S INVOLVEMENT CAME FIRST.  IN THE RACE TO DEVELOP A WORKABLE TV SERVICE HIS MECHANICAL SYSTEM TOOK AN EARLY LEAD WHEN, IN 1926, HE TRANSMITTED MOVING IMAGES TO MEMBERS OF THE ROYAL INSTITUTION AND A REPORTER FROM THE TIMES, AT AN ADDRESS IN FRITH STREET, SOHO. THIS IS GENERALLY CONSIDERED TO BE THE FIRST PUBLIC DEMONSTRATION OF TELEVISION ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD.

BAIRD’S TELEVISION COMPANY HAD BEEN LICENSED BY THE POST OFFICE IN 1925 TO CONDUCT SHORT EXPERIMENTAL TRANSMISSIONS THAT WERE WATCHED BY THE 100 OR SO PERSONS THEN OWNING TV SETS. SELFRIDGE'S WERE THE FIRST STORE TO OFFER THEM FOR SALE.  REALISING THAT HE NEEDED A MORE POWERFUL TRANSMITTER TO BROADCAST HIS PROGRAMMES BAIRD APPROACHED THE BBC TO USE THE ONE THEY HAD FOR RADIO TRANSMISSIONS.  SOMEWHAT RELUCTANTLY THE CORPORATION AGREED ALLOWING BAIRD TO USE IT DURING THE LATE EVENING / EARLY MORNING WHEN NOT NEEDED FOR RADIO. A SECOND TRANSMITTER ACQUIRED SOON AFTER BY THE BBC WAS ALSO USED BY BAIRD. 

BAIRD’S TELEVISION COMPANY AND THE BBC COLLABORATED ON REGULAR TELEVISION BROADCASTS FOR SEVEN YEARS FROM 1929. DURING THIS TIME THE FIRST EVER TV PLAY WAS BROADCAST (‘THE MAN WITH THE FLOWER IN HIS MOUTH’) AS WAS THE DERBY IN 1931 – THE WORLD’S FIRST OUTSIDE TV BROADCAST. 

HOWEVER, THE BBC WAS BECOMING INCREASINGLY SCEPTICAL ABOUT BAIRD’S 32 LINE, MECHANICAL SYSTEM WHICH WAS CUMBERSOME TO OPERATE AND UNLIKELY TO ATTRACT MANY VIEWERS ON ACCOUNT OF ITS POOR PICTURE QUALITY.  A RIVAL ELECTRONIC SYSTEM DEVELOPED BY MARCONI - EMI USING CATHODE-RAY TUBES TRANSMITTED MUCH CLEARER PICTURES MADE-UP OF 405 LINES. 

IN 1934 POLITICS INTERVENED WHEN THE GOVERNMENT SET-UP THE SELSDON COMMITTEE TO CONSIDER THE FUTURE OF TELEVISION BROADCASTING. IT RECOMMENDED THAT TELEVISION BE ESTABLISHED AS A PUBLIC SERVICE AND THAT A REGULAR, HIGH DEFINITION SERVICE BE BROADCAST BY A SINGLE PROVIDER, THE BBC. THE COMMITTEE FURTHER RECOMMENDED THAT THE TWO RIVAL SYSTEMS COMPETE AGAINST EACH OTHER IN A TRIAL TO DECIDE WHICH OF THEM SHOULD BE USED. 

THE CONTEST TOOK PLACE AT THE ALEXANDRA PALACE, THE MAIN BUILDING IN A RUN-DOWN ENTERTAINMENTS’ COMPLEX, PART OF WHICH HAD BEEN LEASED BY THE BBC. THIS WAS THE LONDON STATION FROM WHICH TRANSMISSIONS WERE  MADE. BAIRD IMPROVED HIS 32 LINE SYSTEM TO 240 LINES BUT IT PROVED NO MATCH FOR ITS RIVAL. AFTER ONLY THREE MONTHS OF A SIX MONTH TRIAL EMI – MARCONI WERE DECLARED THE WINNER AND BBC TELEVISION FORMALLY COMMENCED OPERATIONS IN NOVEMBER 1936. 

THE GUIDING PRINCIPLES OF THE NEW SERVICE HAD BEEN ESTABLISHED 14 YEARS EARLIER IN 1922 WHEN THE BRITISH BROADCASTING COMPANY WAS ESTABLISHED BY ROYAL CHARTER TO BE THE NATION’S SOLE BROADCASTER OF RADIO PROGRAMMES. JOHN REITH, A STERN SCOTTISH CALVINIST WAS APPOINTED TO RUN THE NEW SERVICE. HE WAS DETERMINED THAT IT SHOULD NOT FOLLOW IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF AMERICAN RADIO STATIONS WHICH IN PURSUIT OF ADVERTISING REVENUE BROADCAST ONLY POPULAR ENTERTAINMENT. THE BBC,  HE INSISTED,  SHOULD INFORM, EDUCATE AND ENTERTAIN HENCE ESTABLISHING A HIGH MORAL TONE WHICH SET THE STANDARD FOR ALL PUBLIC SERVICE BROADCASTING IN THE UK. LATER HE DECLARED HIS GOAL WAS TO BROADCAST ‘ALL THAT IS BEST IN EVERY DEPARTMENT OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE, ENDEAVOUR AND ACHIEVEMENT’. 

THE BBC’S RELATIONSHIP WITH GOVERNMENT WAS FROM THE BEGINNING AN UNCERTAIN ONE. REITH WANTED THE BBC TO BE INDEPENDENT OF GOVERNMENT BUT DID THIS STRETCH TO ITS REPORTAGE OF NEWS? WAS THE BBC TO BE THE MOUTHPIECE OF GOVERNMENT OR SHOULD IT SEEK TO PROVIDE A BALANCED, UNBIASED VIEW THAT ATTEMPTED TO BE FAIR TO ALL. 

[EXAMPLE OF 1926 GENERAL STRIKE.] 

 IN 1937 THE CORONATION OF GEORGE VI WAS TELEVISED.  IN THE SAME YEAR

 THE WIMBLEDON TENNIS CHAMPIONSHIPS WERE TELEVISED FOR THE FIRST TIME ALONG WITH THE FIRST FOOTBALL MATCH, BETWEEN ARSENAL AND ARSENAL RESERVES. A YEAR LATER BBC’S FOOTBALL COVERAGE MOVED ON TO THE MORE SERIOUS BUSINESS OF A FA CUP FINAL BETWEEN HUDDERSFIELD AND PRESTON NORTH END. THESE TELEVISION FIRSTS WERE WATCHED IN AROUND 20,000 HOUSEHOLDS. 

ON IST SEPTEMBER 1939 TELEVISION IN THE UK WAS SUSPENDED FOR THE DURATION OF WWII. IT RECOMMENCED ON 7 JUNE 1946 WITH A PRE-WAR ANNOUNCER SAYING, “GOOD AFTERNOON EVERYONE. HOW ARE YOU? DO YOU REMEMBER ME, JASMINE BLIGH.”  I, HOWEVER, MISSED THESE WORDS BY FIVE MONTHS NOT BEING BORN UNTIL THE FOLLOWING NOVEMBER. 

OUR HOUSEHOLD, A SMALL MAISONETTE IN LEYTON, NOW PART OF THE LONDON BOROUGH OF WALTHAM FOREST, WAS ONE OF THE FIRST TO HAVE A TELEVISION AS PART OF ITS FIXTURES AND FITTINGS. MY FATHER, ON DEMOB FROM THE ROYAL NAVY IN 1945, RECEIVED A CASH PAYMENT OF £83 WHICH HE INVESTED IN A PYE SET WHICH HAD A NINE INCH SCREEN TO WHICH A CONVEX LENS HAD BEEN FITTED ENLARGING THE PICTURE SIZE TO THIRTEEN INCHES. ALTHOUGH BEARING THE PYE NAME IT WAS NOT DISSIMILAR TO A MODEL AVAILABLE FOR SALE IN 1938 (THE MARCONIPHONE MODEL 709). 

THERE WERE A LIMITED NUMBER OF CONTROLS, AN ON/OFF SWITCH, ONES FOR VOLUME, CONTRAST AND BRIGHTNESS AND TWO MORE FOR CORRECTING PICTURE BREAK-UP OR A LOSS OF VERTICAL HOLD WHICH CAUSED THE PICTURE TO WHIZZ ROUND IN A DIZZYING WHIRL. SOMETIMES WHEN THE CONTROLS PROVED NOT ENOUGH MY FATHER WOULD BATTER THE SET INTO SUBMISSION BY POUNDING IT ON THE SIDE WITH A VEHEMENCE SURPRISING IN ONE WHO NEVER LAID A HAND ON HIS CHILDREN OR, TO MY KNOWLEDGE, ANYONE ELSE.  

THE SET GAVE GOOD SERVICE LASTING WELL INTO THE 1950s. HOWEVER IT BECAME INCREASINGLY PRONE TO BREAKDOWN NECESSITATING THE ATTENDANCE OF A TV REPAIR MAN WHO TO MY HORROR, WOULD SOMETIMES TAKE IT BACK TO HIS PREMISES FOR REPAIR. IN 1955 WHEN ITV CAME INTO BEING MANY PEOPLE HAD THEIR SETS CONVERTED SO THEY COULD RECEIVE THE NEW STATION AS WELL AS BBC. WE DIDN’T. WHY? I DON’T RECALL. MAYBE WE WERE PERFECTLY HAPPY WITH THE BBC’S PROGRAMMES OR MAYBE THE SET WAS BECOMING TOO OLD AND UNRELIABLE TO JUSTIFY THE EXPENDITURE.  WHATEVER THE REASON WE PERSISTED WITH THE PYE FOR A FEW MORE YEARS UNTIL BUYING A NEW SET ABLE TO RECEIVE BOTH CHANNELS. THE PYE WAS DEMOTED TO THE COAL CELLAR OF THE FAMILY’S SECOND HOME WHERE IT MAY STILL HAVE BEEN WHEN THE LAST REMAINING BANKS MOVED OUT IN 1980. 

UNTIL 1956 THERE WERE NO PROGRAMMES BETWEEN 6 – 7PM. THIS PAUSE IN PROGRAMMING WAS INTENDED TO FACILITATE THE PUTTING TO BED OF YOUNG CHILDREN AND WAS KNOWN AS THE TODDLERS’ TRUCE. IT ALSO PROVIDED SOME QUIET TIME FOR OLDER CHILDREN TO GET ON WITH THEIR SCHOOL WORK. ON SUNDAYS THERE WERE NO PROGRAMMES BETWEEN 6.15 & 7.25PM SO AS NOT TO INTERFERE WITH CHURCH ATTENDANCE, OTHERWISE BROADCASTING HOURS WERE 9AM – 11PM DURING THE WEEK, THAT IS MONDAYS TO FRIDAYS, BUT ONLY EIGHT HOURS ON SATURDAYS AND 7 HOURS, 15 MINUTES ON SUNDAYS.

THE NUMBER OF VIEWERS STEADILY INCREASED. A BIG BOOST TO TV OWNERSHIP WAS THE CORONATION OF ELIZABETH II IN 1953. HOWEVER, DESPITE THE RUSH TO BUY SETS, ONLY A MINORITY OF HOUSEHOLDS HAD THEM ON THE BIG DAY – 2,142,000, COMPARED TO 1,449,000 IN 1952 - CONSEQUENTLY THE HOMES OF THOSE WITH TVS WERE OFTEN FULL TO THE BRIM WITH FRIENDS AND RELATIVES. THIS WAS CERTAINLY THE CASE IN THE BANKS HOUSEHOLD WHOSE SMALL LOUNGE WAS FILLED TO CAPACITY. I RECALL THAT THE DAY’S EVENTS WENT ON FAR TOO LONG FOR MY SIX AND A HALF YEAR ATTENTION SPAN. I SPENT MUCH OF THE TIME ON A VERY WET DAY PLAYING IN MY BEDROOM WITH THE OTHER CHILDREN THERE GATHERED OCCASIONALLY RUSHING BACK TO THE LOUNGE TO MAKE SURE WE WEREN’T MISSING ANYTHING. NO DOUBT WE WERE AN UTTER PAIN TO THE ASSEMBLED PARENTS, SAT HUDDLED TOGETHER, PEERING AT THE PYE’S SMALL SCREEN.  

DESPITE THE INCREASING POPULARITY OF TV MANY FAMILIES STOPPED SHORT OF BUYING ONE FEARING THAT IT WOULD REDUCE FAMILY INTERACTIONS, DISCOURAGE READING AND CONVERSATION, THEREBY PRODUCING A NATION OF COUCH POTATOES GAZING PASSIVELY INTO THEIR TV SCREENS. WHAT CAN NOT BE DENIED IS THAT THE TV SET TOOK OVER IN MOST HOUSEHOLDS FROM THE HEARTH AS THE MAIN FOCUS OF FAMILY LIFE. 

DESPITE THE HIGH MORAL TONE OF THE BBC THERE WAS ALSO CONCERN ABOUT UNSUITABLE PROGRAMMES BRINGING UNSAVOURY CONTENT INTO THE SANCTUARY OF THE HOME. IN THE 1950s VIEWERS WOULD HAVE FOUND LITTLE TO COMPLAIN ABOUT BUT WITH THE BBC RESPONDING TO THE SOCIAL CHANGES OF THE 60s AND SOMETIMES AHEAD OF MAINSTREAM PUBLIC OPINION A VIEWER BACKLASH WAS NOT LONG IN COMING HEADED BY THE REDOUBTABLE, MARY WHITEHOUSE.  OFTEN DERIDED IN HER LIFETIME SOCIAL HISTORIANS ARE  NOW  SOMETIMES MORE SYMPATHETIC ABOUT HER EFFORTS TO CLEAN-UP THE AIRWAYS - NOT TO MENTION THE THEATRE AND LITERATURE. 

WHATEVER TV’s EFFECT ON FAMILY LIFE THERE CAN BE NO DOUBT THAT IT HAD A SIGNIFICANT IMPACT ON LIFE BEYOND THE HOME. CINEMA  AUDIENCES PLUMMETED AS WELL AS ATTENDANCES AT OTHER EVENING EVENTS. HOWEVER, PUBLIC HOUSES CONTINUED TO DO GOOD BUSINESS AS DID THE NEW PHENOMENON OF BINGO THAT IN THE 1960s TOOK OVER THE PREMISES OF SOME OF THE REDUNDANT CINEMAS.  TV NEWS COVERAGE ADDED TO PEOPLE’S AWARENESS OF CURRENT AFFAIRS, OFTEN FREEING THEM FROM THE POLITICAL BIASES OF DAILY NEWSPAPERS WHILE TV REDUCED LONELINESS IN ONE PERSON HOUSEHOLDS, AS IT STILL DOES.  

IN THE LATE 40s / EARLY 50s THERE WERE FOUR CONTINUITY ANNOUNCERS ON OUR SCREENS. – MARY MALCOLM, SYLVIA PETERS, MCDONALD HOBLEY AND PETER HAIGH. THEIR JOB WAS TO SMOOTHLY ESCORT VIEWERS FROM ONE PROGRAMME TO THE NEXT AND FILL IN THE GAPS WHEN TECHNICAL OR PRODUCTION PROBLEMS DISRUPTED PROGRAMMES. 

THEY WERE THE FIRST TV CELEBRITIES, ALWAYS IMMACULATELY ATTIRED AND SPEAKING IN POSH, LONDON ACCENTS THAT BECAME KNOWN AS BBC ENGLISH. WHILE MALCOLM AND PETERS ONLY HAD SMALL DRESS ALLOWANCES WITH THE BBC, DEALS WERE STRUCK WITH LONDON FASHION HOUSES AND JEWELLERS WHEREBY THE ANNOUNCERS WERE ABLE TO WEAR THEIR EXPENSIVE WARES WHILE ON AIR. FREE HAIR DRESSING WAS ANOTHER PERK OF THE JOB PAID FOR BY THE BBC IN EXCHANGE FOR THEIR ATTENDANCE AT EVENTS PUBLICISING THE CORPORATION. THEIR MALE COUNTERPARTS, HOBLEY AND HAIGH, WERE EQUALLY RESPLENDENT IN DINNER SUITS AND BOW TIES, NEVER A HAIR OUT OF PLACE

UNBEKNOWN TO MOST PEOPLE IN THE 1950s MARY MALCOLM WAS NOT JUST POSH BUT THE GRAND-DAUGHTER OF EDWARD VII AND LILLY LANGTRY. HER MOTHER, JEANNE-MARIE, WAS THE ONLY ONE OF EDWARD’S ILLEGITIMATE CHILDREN THAT HE PUBLICLY ACKNOWLEDGED. NEVERTHELESS IT WAS LATER CLAIMED THAT JEANNE-MARIE’S FATHER WAS IN FACT PRINCE LOUIS OF BATTENBERG, THE GRANDFATHER OF PRINCE PHILLIP. 

MOST PROGRAMMES WERE BROADCAST LIVE. SUBSEQUENTLY ON-STAGE PROBLEMS ALONG WITH BREAKS IN TRANSMISSION OFTEN BROUGHT PROGRAMMES TO AN ABRUPT HALT. WHEN THIS HAPPENED THE ANNOUNCER’S JOB WAS TO EXPLAIN WHAT WAS HAPPENING AND TO FILL-IN TIME AS BEST THEY COULD. ON ONE OCCASION MALCOLM ADVISED EVERYONE WATCHING TO GO AND MAKE A CUP OF TEA AND SHE WOULD CALL THEM BACK AS AND WHEN SOMETHING HAPPENED. INTERRUPTIONS TO PROGRAMMES COULD SOMETIMES LAST FOR 20 MINUTES OR MORE. TO FILL IN THESE LONGER GAPS A SERIES OF FILMS KNOWN AS INTERLUDES WERE SHOWN UNTIL IT WAS POSSIBLE TO RETURN TO THE SCHEDULED PROGRAMME.  CLEARLY INTENDED TO SOOTH THE FEVERED BROWS OF DISCONTENTED VIEWERS THEY USUALLY SHOWED TRANQUIL SCENES, OFTEN OF COUNTRY LIFE. THERE WAS THE POTTER AT HIS WHEEL CONSTRUCTING A POT, TWO HORSES PLOUGHING A FIELD, A WOMAN AT A SPINNING WHEEL, A WINDMILL TURNING AND KITTENS PLAYING WITH A VARIETY OF PROPS. SOMEWHAT LIVELIER WAS THE LONDON – BRIGHTON TRAIN INTERLUDE SHOWING A SPEEDED-UP FILM OF THE ACTUAL JOURNEY SHOT FROM THE DRIVER’S CABIN. I DON’T RECALL EVER SEEING THE TRAIN ARRIVE BUT OFTEN IT WAS WELL CLEAR OF LONDON BEFORE THE RESUMPTION OF THE SCHEDULED PROGRAMME. 

IN 1955 THE BBC’s MONOPOLY OF TV ENDED WHEN THE GOVERNMENT GAVE THE GREEN LIGHT FOR A SECOND CHANNEL, INDEPENDENT TELEVISION, A PRIVATE SECTOR COMMERCIAL CHANNEL GENERALLY REFERRED TO AS ITV. AS PREVIOUSLY STATED WE CONTINUED FOR A FEW YEARS WITH OUR OLD PYE BEFORE BUYING A  NEW SET THAT SHOWED BOTH CHANNELS. I WAS AN INSTANT FAN OF ITV WHICH FOCUSSED ALMOST ENTIRELY ON POPULAR ENTERTAINMENT, IMPORTING MANY OF ITS PROGRAMMES FROM AMERICA. TO MY GREAT DELIGHT THERE WERE NO END OF COWBOY DRAMAS, PLUS LASSIE, SUPERMAN, AND OTHER ACTION HEROES. IN FAIRNESS TO ITV THEY ALSO MADE OR COMMISSIONED A NUMBER OF HOME GROWN SERIES, SUCH AS ‘THE ADVENTURES OF ROBIN HOOD’, FEATURING RICHARD GREEN IN THE TITLE ROLE ALONG WITH A CAST OF JOLLY OUTLAWS WHO SEEMED TO HAVE BEEN RECRUITED FROM A SQUADRON OF RAF PILOTS. LITTLE JOHN, I RECALL, SPOKE WITH A BROAD SCOTTISH ACCENT WHICH HE MADE NO ATTEMPT TO DISGUISE. ROBERT MOORE GOT A MUCH NEEDED BOOST TO HIS CAREER IN IVANHOE AND ROBERT SHAW BECAME VERY WELL KNOWN FOR HIS PART IN ‘THE BUCCANEERS’. 

GRADUALLY THE DISTINCTION BETWEEN CHILDREN’S PROGRAMMES AND THOSE FOR ADULTS BECAME BLURRED WHEN THE AMERICANS DEVELOPED THE CONCEPT OF ‘ADULT WESTERNS’ WHICH LASTED A FULL HOUR INSTEAD OF THE REGULATION 30 MINUTES. WAGON TRAIN, GUN LAW AND CHEYENNE WERE THREE OF THE MOST POPULAR AMERICAN IMPORTS. ADULT CARTOONS WERE ANOTHER INNOVATION. 

HOWEVER, THE MAIN CHANGE TO PROGRAMMING ON THE NEW CHANNEL WAS THE INTRODUCTION OF COMMERCIAL BREAKS WHICH PRECEDED AND FOLLOWED EACH PROGRAMME AND INTERSECTED THE LONGER ONES. THESE WERE SURPRISINGLY POPULAR AND PREFERRED BY SOME – MAINLY ELDERLY VIEWERS – TO THE ACTUAL PROGRAMMES. WHO CAN FORGET THE NEVER ALONE WITH A STRAND MAN LIGHTING UP HIS CIGARETTE ON A BLEAK, RAIN SWEPT NIGHT IN THE LONDON STREET AFTER WHICH THE CIGARETTE HAD BEEN NAMED. THERE WERE ALSO MURRYMINTS, TOO GOOD TO HURRYMINT, THE SNAP, CRACKLE AND POP OF RICE CRISPIES, THE BROOK BOND TEA CHIMPS AND MANY MORE.

THE ADVERTISING BREAKS BETWEEN PROGRAMMES CLEARLY DEFINED THE ENDING OF ONE PROGRAMME AND THE BEGINNING OF THE NEXT.  THIS ALONG WITH THE INCREASING RELIABILITY OF PROGRAMMES AND TRANSMISSIONS SPELLED THE END FOR CONTINUITY ANNOUNCERS ON BOTH CHANNELS WHO ALMOST ENTIRELY DISAPPEARED FROM PUBLIC VIEW.

ITV, WHILE VERY WELL REGARDED BY MY YOUNG SELF, CAME UNDER HEAVY CRITICISM IN 1962 FROM THE PILKINGTON COMMITTEE FOR ITS LACK OF QUALITY BROADCASTING. CONSEQUENTLY WHEN IT WAS DECIDED TO GO AHEAD WITH A THIRD TV CHANNEL IT WENT TO BBC2. THAT WAS IN 1964. IT WAS THIS CHANNEL THAT BEGAN COLOUR TRANSMISSIONS IN 1967, FOLLOWED, IN 1969, BY ITV AND BBC1 (THE ORIGINAL CHANNEL). 

THE FLEDGLING DAYS OF TELEVISION WERE WELL AND TRULY OVER AND THE BOY IT HAD HELPED NURTURE WAS A YOUNG MAN SIX YEARS OUT OF SCHOOL.                    

Copyright Richard Banks