MY autobiographical book Beef Cubes and Burdock: Memories of a 1950s Country Childhood had lain dormant in my head for far longer than it has actually been in publication.
Family bereavement can bring about huge changes in one’s consciousness. And especially so when a close relative dies, in this case the passing of my father in March 1983.
Yes, death triggers all manner of reactions in people. In my case, a smouldering fuse of misery and regret would detonate a bombshell of grief.
And it was one that exploded in shrapnel bursts of words that flew about as I worked in our small garden in Worcester during that sad and sunless summer. It was my way of coping.
For I had no hesitation in seeking solace in writing. It was my medicine. Talk was fine, but the real therapy lay in putting those feelings down on paper.
The sadness and self-reproach were all-consuming. For many years, the relationship with my father had not been all that good, but thankfully, we had made up – maybe even become pals again – some time before he suffered a massive stroke and died.
Of course, I was racked with the worst guilt of all, that of the ‘what might have been’ variety. And it continues to this day, even though I have for many years acknowledged my own role – and therefore responsibility - for the original estrangement.
Children will always bear grudges against their parents, sometimes with a degree of justification, occasionally for no real, identifiable reason. There is a poem by Coventry’s Philip Larkin which memorably comes straight to the point regarding this scenario. They may not mean to, but they do…
This being the early 80s, just before computers were about to forever change all our lives, meant that an old Remington typewriter would be the vehicle that transported me away from my unease.
In this case the journey would be a return to the fields, brooks and spinneys of a 1950s rural English Midlands that had yet to be urbanised by politicians and their ‘progress’. And so, without further ado, I set to work.
Tap-tap-tap. I write about the passing of the seasons, fishing for sticklebacks in the nearby river, bonfire nights, keeping orphan rooks as pets, working for the local farmers at haymaking and spud-picking time, Christmastime… all human and wildlife is there in this odyssey of a paradise lost.
Tap-tap-tap. The writing becomes the conduit, thanks to a soon-to-be-obsolete mechanical device which enables me to relive the countless memories of childhood and sink into an ever-replenished warm bath of happier times.
Tap-tap-tap. Here am I, a grown-up with a small child not all that far beyond the toddler stage, suddenly regressing and becoming only slightly older, as I revisit glorious summer days when the sun is always high in the heavens, the skies are blue, and there is no such thing as tomorrow, only today.
Then there are the freezing cold winters with endless, abundant snow, when the sledge will need to be removed from its hook in the dusty coal shed and primed for imminent action on that steep hill at the back of the church.
I am the man-child of the neighbourhood, in my early 30s to all who know me, yet secretly aged nine, with a full head of sun-bleached, corn shock fair hair.
Memories become more important than even the present, let alone the future. Tap-tap-tap.
The past is everything, representing all that is pleasurable, free from an adult world of stress, immune from the passages and ravages of time. And all of it goes down on foolscap, courtesy of that old Remington. Tap-tap-tap…
At last. The manuscript is finished, placed in a drawer and eventually forgotten about. It has served its purpose, purged my sorrow, and exorcised those demons of guilt. For that’s what writing always does. In one way or another.
Fast forward several decades. I’m a freelance journalist/writer and have dug out that dusty sheaf and now transferring it to computer.
It’s finished at last. The months go by, and after numerous rejections slips dropping on to the doormat, I have at long last found a publisher….
Beef Cubes and Burdock: Memories of a 1950s Country Childhood came out in May 2018 and, seven years on, has achieved what I might – immodestly, perhaps - claim as being a modest success.
These days, I give talks about the book to various organisations and have recently started taking a guitar along to engagements, as I’ve also written several numbers which punctuate and illustrate the narrative in song.
So, as you can see, writing and completing a book is not the end of the process by any means. And since its publication, I’ve also re-imagined Beef Cubes in my head time and again. Bear with this dear reader, it’s me we’re talking about.
Occasionally, in my mind’s eye the book becomes a hit musical with a 1950s soundtrack, evoking the era of Two-Way Family Favourites, Juke Box Jury, The Billy Cotton Band Show and Sunday Night at the London Palladium.
Winkle-pickered teenage Gene Vincents lurch down the street, all black leather, ice blue jeans and attitude, pausing only to glower at small boys building dams in rain-swollen gutters. The stares are returned. Their time will come.
And during even more febrile imaginings, my home village in north-east Warwickshire becomes a Wild West town.
The Greyhound pub is transformed into a saloon, complete with cowboys whooping it up at the end of their ride. Meanwhile, the town sheriff (village policeman PC Dettmer) must keep order among the rowdy cowpokes, his authority backed up by the menacing barrel of his Colt .45. Yessir, Churchoverville, War-wick county… meanest town west of the Pecos.
The small fields of those days are now endless prairies, the local brook Big Muddy, and the spinneys the dense forests of late 19th century America. Naturally, they are teeming with hostiles and Revenant-intent grizzly bears.
As for the musical’s soundtrack, this will be looted from the countless Western films and early television series that so informed my young life. And of course, all the characters will be played by adults dressed like the children of that post-war decade.
In no particular order, they will be wearing short trousers, long grey socks held up with matching grey elastic, snake belts, windcheaters, bright red sandals, floral frocks and plaits. The ‘boys’ will be toting Lone Star pistols which will be ready - at a split-second’s notice - to be jerked from their holsters with the speed of a Texas rattlesnake strike. Do not forsake me, o my darling, on this our wedding day…
So, as you can see, one doesn’t have to be a Tex Ritter or Gary Cooper to realise that the story is not necessarily the end of the story. Sometimes, you can swap lead as well as words.
Because the account doesn’t have to stay the same, it can become something else entirely, and one day may indeed undergo drastic metamorphosis. What about it, Mr Lloyd-Webber? Hah! In my dreams maybe. Nothing wrong with those, though, are there? For when the dreams die, you know you’re dead, too.
Nevertheless, whatever the future holds for my book, I will aways be grateful that I channelled all that sadness of more than four decades ago into something positive. And I’m sure my father would agree with that. Out of death came life.
Beef Cubes and Burdock: Memories of a 1950s Country Childhood is published by Austin Macauley and can be bought online or from all good bookshops.
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