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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Babies - Polly Garter & Jelly Babies

“Me, Polly Garter, under the washing line, giving the breast in the garden to my bonny new baby. Nothing grows in our garden, only washing. And babies. And where’s their fathers live, my love? Over the hills and far away. You’re looking up at me now. I know what you’re thinking, you poor little milky creature. You’re thinking, you’re no better than you should be, Polly, and that’s good enough for me. Oh, isn’t life a terrible thing, thank God?”

From Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas.

If my memory serves me right, we were in the 4th year of secondary school, modern day Year 10, reading Under Milk Wood in English, sort of acting out the play in class, which was really just reading out loud from our desks. I was delighted to be Polly Garter, though I can’t sing and I can’t do a Welsh accent. She’s feisty, flaunty, flighty and a bit naughty, the talk of the wash-house and I love her. It was hard to read aloud, willing myself not to blush at the mention of ‘breast’ while the boys made stifled sniggers and whispered comments. We were that silly age. Well, the boys were. I liked the image of Polly and her babies, though not the absent fathers. I liked the idea of a family full of children.

We get what we’re given and a big family was not on the cards for me. Now, with four grandchildren, the family might be as big as it is going to get until the next generation. I don’t intend to tempt providence here. It’s lovely, and great to have fun times when they are all here together. It can be hard work if they’re squabbling, or if someone needs to be sent out of the room, but that’s kids. They are all wonderful with their own personalities and I love having them around me. Echoes of Polly. Babies arrived close together, which put our travel plans on hold for about four years, then Covid lockdown meant cancelling the booked trip to the Channel Islands. We’ll try again, before we forget what we were doing and old age takes over.

Ah, just to mention Jelly Babies. Nasty things that made one of my children so sick, they can’t look at them even decades later. It’s not an allergy or anything serious, just eaten too many. I don’t know how many packets and they didn’t come from me. I don’t give sweets, only chocolate, and never fizzy drinks. My grandchildren take delight in telling me if they’ve had something on my banned list. Little darlings.

My poem,

The time came to dismantle the cot.
There’s no more babies, I’ve had my lot.
Infant things vanished without a trace,
A three foot single now fills the space.
A house of laughter, a home of joy
For a lovely girl and a cherished boy.
The children took over with their stuff,
Of books and toys, more than enough.
Years come and go as time flies too fast,
A quiet house, empty nest, at last.
Soon, grandchildren filled the vacant spot,
Took turns to sleep in the rebuilt cot.
Gorgeous babies, one, two, three and four,
I think that’s it now, there won’t be more.
The single divan is back in place,
But it is moveable, just in case.

PMW 2024

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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