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
the only one I
ever knew, that could terrify my cat.
