A Favourite Film - Goodnight, Mr Tom

 A favourite film is a tough choice to make. I’ve picked a few. I think they started as books, with the exception of ‘Grease’, where if I remember correctly, the book came later, and ‘The Holiday’, which doesn’t have a book. Please put me right, if I’m wrong.

‘Grease’, the sound of 1978 and there’s a familiar song in my head as I type. It’s got to be my favourite musical of my generation. A sing-a-long, feel good factor romance. What’s not to like? Ok, stop and wait, there was another that year with great songs, ‘Saturday Night Fever’ with exceptional dancing and a serious storyline.

I don't like romantic comedy, generally, but I make an exception with 'The Holiday'. I like the story, the characters are believable and it isn't too sweet. The cottage is appealing, too.

The 1939 black and white version of ‘Wuthering Heights’ was my introduction to Laurence Olivier when I was eleven or twelve and of course, I fell in love with him. The film only told half the story, but that was Hollywood. Cathy’s death broke my heart.

1939 was the year for ‘Gone with the Wind’, another beloved book and film starring Vivienne Leigh who was about to marry Laurence Olivier, but we won’t dwell on that and it happened way before I was born, anyway.

I’ve got to include the original, 1940 ‘Rebecca’ whilst I’m held captive by Olivier’s gaze and Daphne du Maurier’s writing.

During my childhood and particularly around the age of eleven to thirteen, I watched lots of films with my mum, from Hollywood musicals to Hammer Horrors, but the one I associate with her the most is ‘A Taste of Honey’. This was not a film we watched together sharing chocolate and enjoying mummy and daughter time. This was my forbidden fruit when I was told not to watch it. Too late, the beginning had already got me spellbound, but she sent me to bed saying it wasn’t suitable for me. I think I was eleven at the time, very much a child, still played with dolls and very different to modern day eleven year olds. I knew better than to argue or make that annoying, disapproving ‘arr’ sound. My mum was going downstairs to work in our pub, so I listened out for her leaving. Seconds later I was leaning on the lounge door frame with the door to our flat slightly open so I would hear if she came back up. I was rooted to the spot and loved every second of that film. Whatever my mum was protecting me from went right over my head. I was just disappointed that Jo’s sailor didn’t come back. As an adult I consider ‘A Taste of Honey’ to be Shelagh Delaney’s stroke of genius. Perhaps my mum wanted to avoid awkward questions from me. I’ve worked it all out since.

I was a fan of John Thaw ever since Phyllis Bentley’s ‘Inheritance’ was serialised on tv. To me, he was what made ‘The Sweeney’ and he was born to be ‘Morse’. I wasn’t sure about this completely different character as Tom Oakley in ‘Goodnight, Mr Tom’. Silly me to have such doubts. Not only was he perfect as the character, and the rest of the cast were equally excellent, the film, which was a tv adaptation of Michelle Magorian’s novel completely overwhelmed me. I cried so many times, full of sadness for what was being endured by this young boy, a war time evacuee. There are many twists and turns in the story and as it ends with an agreeable conclusion, fresh tears from me, happy ones this time. It really is that good. I think my eldest grandson might like to watch it with me.

My poem:

William Beech

Authority’s persuasion,
Tom Oakley’s reluctance,
Zach’s hand of boyhood friendship,
William’s acceptance.

My tears, they are relentless
For Will, where has he been?
Tom Oakley stopped complaining,
Taking in what he had seen.

William, shirtless when he saw
The scars left by the belt,
Sickened beyond all words by
The pain he must have felt.

I wish I knew Zach’s poem,
Verses of hope and home,
Safe in William’s pocket
From what life might become.

I love a happy ending,

It’s ‘Dad!’ I hear Will call
At the end of fear and doubt,
As even more tears fall.

PMW 2025

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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The Greatest Dancer - It Isn't Me!

Sunday afternoons in the winter, watching the ‘Hollywood Musical’ at the home of my school-friend, Lorna, were very happy times. It was cosy, relaxing in front of the coal fire, drinking tea or sometimes hot chocolate while Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire had us mesmerised. It didn’t matter which musical was on, there was dancing and Lorna, her mum and I wished we could do it. Sometimes we would try to spin each other round or make a few steps up – not much space in the living room – we would lose balance and end up in a heap of laughter. It was simple pleasures for two fourteen year olds sharing an interest. Not surprisingly, neither of us became dancers, apart from a few twirls round our handbags when we were older. Great memories. R.I.P., Lorna.

As for the greatest dancer, I think I’ve established that it is certainly not me, but not for the lack of trying. From a young age I pestered to go to dancing class, when I decided that I wanted to be a ballerina, quite a common aspiration for little girls in the 1950s. I remember the disappointment of not being given a frilly tutu but I soon accepted being in the tap class and loved my noisy tap shoes. Apart from loving the sound, I couldn’t get the hang of it. I couldn’t follow instructions, even literally one step at a time. I just wanted to tap my feet but not in any particular order. I was probably too young or awkward, but the teachers didn’t give up on me straight away. They were planning a little concert and chose me to be the Pink Toothbrush and someone else to be the Blue Toothbrush as we did a simple tap dance to Max Bygraves recording of ‘I’m a Pink Toothbrush’. I don’t remember how far we got into it, but it didn’t happen. One of the teachers gave my mum what would be my costume. It was pieces of something pink, later I knew it was seersucker. It had been cut out from a pattern and just needed sewing together, apparently. My mother did many things but sewing dancing costumes was not amongst her skills. Popping a button back on or repairing a hem was about her limit, so she would task the costume to my dressmaking grandmother. Before that happened, dancing class and I parted company as it was decided to be not my forte. Many years later, I was helping my grandmother to sort out my late mother’s things and there, in its paper bag, was the fabric for my dancing costume.

In my teens and still at school, I escaped to London as much as I was allowed during the holidays. An aunt, uncle and cousins lived in Roehampton and were always happy to have me to stay. I usually travelled on my own by train and my aunt would meet me at Euston station. One such visit, I met Kathy, who was the family’s au pair, close in age to me. She was, well, still is, lovely. We are still in touch. Kathy didn’t speak much English then and I didn’t speak German – she’s Swiss-German, but we became friends and managed to communicate well enough. We went to the cinema one evening to see ‘The Boyfriend’. I really liked Twiggy and enjoyed the musical, but it was Christopher Gable who stole the show for me and I couldn’t take my eyes off his dancing. He made it look to easy, like Fred and Ginger did. That was my introduction to the ballet dancer Christopher Gable. He became a director of the Northern Ballet and was involved in ‘A Simple Man’, the ballet about L.S.Lowry. The combination of the greatest dancer and my favourite artist.

My poem,

When I was a child, I longed to dance
And I was given chance after chance
By a kind lady at dancing class,
Who thought I was a sweet little lass.

I was picked to be the ‘Pink Toothbrush’
My mum could make my costume, no rush.
It was all cut out, ready to sew,
Pink seersucker with satin bow.

The teachers had to admit defeat,
I was cute enough, but two left feet.
I tried my best, all the ‘heel and toe’
Tap, tap, tapping, but I had to go.

PMW 2024

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Adolescence - That Difficult Age

 A definition –

‘Adolescence is the phase of life between childhood and adulthood, from ages 10 to 19. It is a unique stage of human development and an important time for laying the foundations of good health. Adolescents experience rapid physical, cognitive and psychosocial growth.’

We all go through it, some better than others, but I think it’s a fair assumption that none of us would like to go through it again. The itchy personal areas sprouting body hair, blushing, sweating, feeling awkward and embarrassed, suffering acne, the onset of menstruation and, if that wasn’t enough, there was the ridicule of peers. We change and grow at the right time for our body clocks, so a twelve year old male or female might already have a mature body and be a fascination to their less developed friends, those later developers came under similar scrutiny. I suppose I was one of the many Miss Averages, but that didn’t mean it was an easy time. I had added problems. My mother always made sure I had a supply of sanitary towels. When she became terminally ill and no longer able to see to me herself, our helper, Auntie Kathy, was tasked with such things and I could bounce all manner of questions off her. My mother passed away when I was thirteen and a half. Auntie Kathy, who wasn’t a real auntie but a member of staff, was my rock. I had my grandmother, too, who was more special than words can say, but she lived away. When my father remarried within months, Auntie Kathy was no longer needed as our housekeeper and left us, but continued to be my saviour for many years. I was a frequent visitor to her home. Sometimes I needed a shoulder to cry on, sometimes a good laugh. She was good at both. All this going on and adolescence, too. Oh, and at school there was a small team of horrid girls who stole sanitary protection by bullying others to hand things over, or steal from their school bags, teasing anyone who didn’t have anything because they hadn’t ‘started’ yet. Children can be cruel.

There was a boy in my high school class who looked the same in the fifth year as he had in the first year, though maybe a bit taller. About ten years after our school days we met by chance at the Derby Baths, of all places. He was in the forces, Army or RAF, doing very well and looking like a blond Adonis, what my dad would have called ‘a fine figure of a man’. He had grown up. I wouldn’t have known him, but he recognised me.

When it came to growing up, adolescence and puberty, I wanted to be the best parent I could possibly be to my children. I’ve always been open and approachable about anything. I attended meetings at school about Personal & Social Education so I would know exactly what was going to be discussed in their lessons and how various questions might be answered. Armed with information and confident to be on the right level I was ready. Our son, having reached a silent or grunty, living in his room stage, coming out to get fed, was fine. Our daughter, starting periods refused to have a conversation with me about it. I respected her wishes and privacy. I made sure she had what she needed and wrote her a letter explaining what I wanted to say. It was ripped up and put in her bin. I felt so hurt at the time. I wasn’t wanted, not allowed to even do this for her. Hormones, from both of us, firing in different directions.

My chosen poem, from Philip Larkin, it just had to be...

This be the Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Philip Larkin 1922 - 1985

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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