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'The privileged ride the Highway of Life, while others trudge the Path of Fate.' Watson Theway 1935
The Path of Fate Paved with Gold! by
The
TaleWagger
I will always remember the day that I struck gold. Well actually, it was cupro-nickel and silver but it had the same effect. I was seven years old, living in Southeast England and the day had started like most of the recent days in my life. My mother had held my hand as we walked down the peaceful, bendy road from our semi-detached bungalow in a small Sussex village. As usual, we walked to my school taking the shortcut; a well-trodden lane that skirted a large apple orchard, then cut across a recreation ground, and finally through two short roads. We arrived at my school in less than twenty minutes and nothing special had happened. Nothing special, that is, to those now used to living in the middle of a World War and who consider that all things are relative to the circumstances of the time. Being the summer of 1943 it was common-place to see soldiers manning anti-aircraft guns in the orchard and airforce personnel standing around winches connected to barrage balloons. For me, they had been there for all of my schooling and had become the norm; to have not seen them would have been abnormal. As we approached the playground I hastily said the daily farewell to my mother and dashed towards my friends. They had gathered by one of the many corrugated Nissen huts, which littered the area previously used by luckier generations of children for their joyous, noisy games. As they awaited the tolling of the school bell, the signal to enter the inner sanctum of the Halls of Learning, they jostled, shouted and laughed as children of their age have always done, oblivious to the deadly difference between War and Peace. Of course, entering the sturdy brick-built school was subject to the air-raid siren not blasting out its eerie wail, which had the effect of sending us scurrying into the dark, musty sanctuary of the huts. These flimsy structures were made of sandbags, corrugated sheetmetal, and covered with turves of grass. They were blanked at one end, while the entrance was covered by a tattered piece of hessian, which presumably had mystical bombproof powers. Now that the Luftwaffe had intensified their attacks, learning by candlelight was fast becoming a regular twice-a-day experience. Being stuck in cramped humid conditions, while the sun blazed down on a softened-asphalt playground, was not a pleasant way of enjoying your childhood. The attacks always took place just before each of our break-times and finished at either lunchtime or going-home time. It soon became obvious to us that the raids had been scheduled by the teachers: teachers who were undercover spies for the Third Reich. My mates and I could never understand why our parents disagreed; such, so we thought, was the sweet innocence of old age! The children of the village quickly accepted the circumstances carried on playing the games that had always been played but adapting where appropriate to include their version of the war. Personally I little memory of anything other than playing sport and getting a large splinter of wood in my backside, from the old slide on the Village Green. The memories that have stayed fresh with me are all of specific instances, the first of which is about the day that I learned the importance of regularly attending religious classes on a Sunday morning. It was the general practice, at that time, for children to attend the Sunday school classes of their chosen Christian faith every week. I found out later that it was less to do with parents wishing them to have a religious upbringing and more to do with the sexual needs of their parents, who worked long hours each day for six days a week! Consequently, my mother soon had me making my own way to a 9am start at the Church of England hall. After a few weeks of reluctant attendance I discovered exactly how much time I needed to take to arrive without a moment to spare and dallied on the way as young children do. Then, one Sunday as I dallied, doing things I should not have done but at the same time making sure that I did not get too dirty, something happened that changed my Sunday into a day of joy and something to look forward to; I discovered the Canadian effect! Each Sunday I had to pass by the Manor Inn, a public house with a car park though which I made a detour in order to kick or collect the metal beer-bottle tops that littered the area after a busy Saturday night. On this paticular Sunday, I noticed something more; in fact, there were several of them. Amonst the gravel and litter were coins! Lovely coins, I did not care it if they were shiny or dirty; here was wealth beyond my widest dreams. Some of it was in little untidy piles, most of it was scattered but most of all some of it was silver! I quickly gathered it up then searched among the bushes and shrubs for more and, sure enough, there was some although not as much as I had already found but sufficient in its own right to please me. I now realise that this princely sum, the result of less than 15 minutes of searching and sifting, would have been almost the as much as my father earned in a twelve-hour day! However, the delay made me late for my religious education and as we I left I was forced to take a note home to my parents informing them of this. The resultant threat by my mother that she would take me herself if I was ever late again had, so she thought, the right effect. From then on, every Sunday morning I left home early and I was never late again. In truth, I was anxious to search for my treasure trove before anybody else found it. For several weeks, maybe for more than a year, this was my only income. My parents thought I was a 'good little boy' as I never worried them for money and seemed to be satisfied with the odd things that they gave me. A couple of weeks after my initial 'find' a Canadian soldier was billeted with us and I soon discovered that he and the other members of his regiment 'relaxing' at the pub each Saturday night were my 'donors'. They were well paid and, in a small village with very little to do and nothing else to buy, alcohol from the local pub was virtually their only option. Thank you, the Canadian Army! I must admit that the choice was not that much greater for me but my requirements were simpler. I would like to be able to add that I spent the money wisely, on wine, women, and some of the other essential friviolities of life but none of these were available to someone of my age, especially during a war. I do not even have the satisfaction of remembering that I gave any of it to my parents, as it was at this time that I bought the most precious materialistic thing of my early childhood, my first car. One of my friends had been given three Dinky toys, a delivery van, and two cars by an aunt. They were not new but the van and one of the cars were complete, while the other had a bent rear axle and was missing its tyres. To my unbelievable joy, he sold me the damaged one! My parents were not poor, in fact, they were quite well-off, but toys were exceedingly scarce, as every manufacturer was involved in making items necessary for the War Effort. A memorable Christmas present, about this time, was a plane made, by my father, from wood and Klingerite, an industrial gasket material used at the power station where he worked. I played with it day after day, until it could no longer be repaired. However, it never matched the affection in my heart that I had for my first car. It was tyreless and missing some paint but, in my eyes, it was priceless. Although never again reaching the amount of the first time, those many weeks of religiously collecting my donations gave me very profitable compensation for having to attend Sunday school. However all good things finally come to an end and the Canadian Army moved on. After this, the Manor Inn car parking area lost its importance in my life and it returned to being just a place for kicking bottle-tops.
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