The Boy With The Strawberry Birthmark

By Nosmo Kingsly

This is a fictionalized story of youthful adventures—based on reality during life-threatening WW2 chaos, schooling, bullying, self-defence, animal birthing/care, business development and real estate sales in England; travels to and in Africa as a shipping company neophyte, and ‘wannabe’ mountaineer—all while conflicted by well meaning but often incompatible guidance from family, friends, mentors, peers, etc. Who to believe and trust?
Characters depicted are based on real people, but names have been modified to safeguard their personal information and privacy.
Adventure for many is the spice of life and, to others; life without it might seem humdrum or unchallenging. At the other extreme, it can become terrifying to the point of life threatening. Without doubt, to many—the greatest life adventure is learning about and thriving in this incredible universe we all share.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nosmo Kingsly
• Release date: Aug 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311460202

Nosmo Kingsly

Nosmo Kingsly is the Nom-de-Plume of a retired, Professional Engineer (P.Eng) now living in Toronto, Canada. He has travelled much of the world several times (England, Scandinavia, France, Italy, Germany, Yugoslavia, Canada, North America, Caribbean Islands, South Africa, Australia, New Zealand, Japan and Pacific Rim countries) representing large Electrical Engineering Companies. His expertise covers Radar, Sonar, Military communications, Police Communications, Air Traffic Control, Ballistic Missile Defense, Geosynchronous Satellite Communications, and Project Management, etc. Hence much of his writing has been technical but his experiences highly adventurous and often dangerous.He also holds a Black Belt (1st Dan) in Judo—awarded by the Kodokan, in Tokyo, Japan and has trained men, women and children in the noble art—one up to Olympic standards.

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THE BOY WITH THE

STRAWBERRY BIRTHMARK

Published by Author

NOSMO KINGSLY

Copyright 2015 Nosmo Kingsly

Front cover art and design by Terry Cluley

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

About the Author

Nosmo Kingsly is the Nom-de-Plume of a retired, Professional Engineer (P.Eng) now living in Toronto, Canada. He has travelled much of the world several times (England, Scandinavia, France, Italy, Germany, North America, South Africa, Australia, New Zealand, Japan and Pacific Rim countries) representing large Electrical Engineering Companies. His expertise covers Radar, Sonar, Military communications, Air Traffic Control, Ballistic Missile Defense, Geosynchronous Satellite Communications, and Project Management, etc. Hence much of his writing has been technical but his experiences highly adventurous and often dangerous.

He also holds a Black Belt (1st Dan) in Judo—awarded by the Kodokan, in Tokyo, Japan and has trained men, women and children in the noble art—one up to Olympic standards.

This novel developed from the urgings of several enthusiasts, including the authors’ wife, who entreated him to write about his capers rather than just yap about it. Enjoy.

Target Audience

is pre-teens, teens and young adults (particularly parents)—and just about anybody facing myriad uncertainties with the problems of navigating the minefield of growing up, taking a mature stance and assuming the awesome load of associated responsibilities.

Yester-years’ words of wisdom from well meaning family, school teachers, friends and associates—may not cut it in a tumultuous world where drastic minute-by-minute change has become the new norm’ and rapid, instinctive, rational response the necessity.

The capers described herein were based on just such problems as described above; but best of all—the reluctant hero survived to tell the tale and prospered.

Table of Contents

Foreword

Chapter 1: WW2—Blitzkrieg, Midlands of England, autumn 1940

Chapter 2: Evacuation—18 miles from Birmingham, autumn 1940

Chapter 3: Business opportunities—Romsley, autumn 1940

Chapter 4: A Calving experience—Romsley, autumn 1940

Chapter 5: Journal, Business, Poetry—Romsley, 1940/41

Chapter 6: Schooling, Bullying—Romsley, 1940/41

Chapter 7: Bullying Exposée—Romsley, 1940/41

Chapter 8: Schooling Hiatus—Romsley, 1940/417

Chapter 9: Schooling Resumption—Romsley, 1940/41

Chapter 10: Secondary Grammar School—Birmingham, 1943-45

Chapter 11: Seaside Hotels—Kent, Southern England, 1945-48

Chapter 12: Real Estate—Kent, Southern England, 1945-48

Chapter 13: the White Elephant—Kent, Southern England, 1945-48

Chapter 14: At Sea—enroute to South Africa, 1948

Chapter 15: Capetown, South Africa—June, 1948

Chapter 16: Notes on Judaism while in South Africa

Chapter 17: Living, Working and Playing in South Africa

Forthcoming Volume 2—Excerpt

Foreword

This is a fictionalized story of youthful adventures—based on reality during life-threatening WW2 chaos, schooling, bullying, self-defence, animal birthing/care, business development and real estate sales in England; travels to and in Africa as a shipping company neophyte, and ‘wannabe’ mountaineer—all while conflicted by well meaning but often incompatible guidance from family, friends, mentors, peers, etc. Who to believe and trust?

Characters depicted are based on real people, but names have been modified to safeguard their personal information and privacy.

Adventure for many is the spice of life and, to others; life without it might seem humdrum or unchallenging. At the other extreme, it can become terrifying to the point of life threatening. Without doubt, to many—the greatest life adventure is learning about and thriving in this incredible universe we all share.

To have survived such exposure to risk of harm during personal development might be considered just plain luck or—strong character building! Whatever, without experience, and mistakes made, there is no benefit of lessons learned—only vaguely formed idle opinion!

Often, we as unique individuals, are driven by some inexplicable internal force(s) to surmount seemingly impossible obstacles with little or no chance of success—why?

In short, one particular quotation, attributed to the Bishop of Hippo during the 4th century AD with modern day modifiers] could easily become a core belief.

". . . If by abyss one understands a great depth, is not man’s [women’s] heart an abyss? For is there not in man [woman] a deep so profound as to be hidden even from him [her] in whom it is."

More plainly expressed: do we really know what turns us on and motivates our efforts? If we are the aggregate sum of our day to day influences—good and not so good—then any missteps will be a part of the developmental learning theme; judiciously make ‘em and move on!

Jet Bannister, is an imaginary character whose exploits in this fictionalized memoir of early adventures are loosely based on a selection of the author’s real life experiences.

Jet’s birth certificate indicated a distinguishing mark naevus right lumbar which his mother claimed was in the form of a strawberry and highly unusual. She also thought this strawberry birthmark had some other magical significance which might lead to greatness and universal acclaim—Jet, semi-believing this while growing up, felt that it strongly influenced his life endeavors. A kind of intermittent good luck charm so to speak.

Other recurring principal characters are key players in the theme running through this narrative—a brief description of them is felt to be pertinent if only to explain some aspects of Jet’s underlying and deeply ingrained belief system.

Jet’s parents—‘the Bannisters’—were ideally suited to each other and worked long hard hours both together and as individuals. In the early years, his father, big Ted, was a city policeman—colloquially known as a ‘Bobby’, ‘Rozzer’ or ‘Peeler’ ¹—in the British industrial midlands and often told fantastic stories about the criminal element and the amazing capers they got up to.

More than 6 ft tall he cut an impressive figure in his uniform and ‘Custodian helmet’, with raised metal rose on top but what impressed Jet most was his memory for the three R’s—his mental arithmetic and crossword puzzle acumen was nothing short of phenomenal. It was said by his contempories that ‘he knew stuff’’ and he did.

Jet’s mother, Alice, was equally impressive but for far different reasons—a short 5½ ft determined blonde, strong willed, tenacious beyond measure and willing to stick at gargantuan tasks long after others had fallen by the wayside. She was also something of a psychic believer.

But what impressed people most was her serendipity—or the happy knack of stumbling onto solutions to insoluble problems without full knowledge of the how, when, where or why. Her inimitable attitude was full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes—just do it!

Jet’s grandparents figured heavily in his early formative years—‘Gramps’ particularly, was a wiry 5’-10" bald-headed, dynamic bundle of energy with a wit that was both acerbic and piercing. His memory for technical details, people and their idiosyncrasies was little short of incredible. Grandma, on the other hand, was about as tall as him but with a full crown of thick grey hair and coke-bottle-bottom spectacles—but as soft as he was hard. Her culinary skills were a practiced art and internationally acclaimed. She was both loving and loved by all.

With minimal formal education ‘Gramps’ rose to become a leading figure in the artificial silk manufacturing industry in Japan and, later, in France—he tried what others were afraid to try sometimes with quite unexpected results. Also with canny perseverance, he played the stock market and was able to retire back in his native England at the incredibly surprising age of 47 years. What role models, both of them—more of this later.

Together these family members, with little formal training or experience, had operated a series of small businesses in England while learning on the job and made a success of each despite adversities brought on by WW2 (bombs, bullets, rationing and life threatening uncertainty).

This novel attempts to use both the lens of magic realism as well as stream of consciousness or interior monologue to explore character sense-perceptions directly and more fully than just the spoken word—a kaleidoscopic blending of the verbal and cerebral so to speak.

The use of magic realism may tend to stretch readers’ credulity. The amalgamation of the mysterious elements of Astral Projection/Travel with the better known pragmatism of everyday experience is presented. Make no mistake—it works!—but, best with a strawberry birthmark.

For those sans strawberry birthmark, it is hoped you will find something of value to shoe horn into your own personal belief system—if not, then just enjoy following Jet’s stumbles and fumbles and marvel how, by luck or by Paddy McGuinty’s goat, he managed to survive and thrive. Good Luck to you—Author.

English (UK) is the preferred dictionary in this novel, in order to maximise and preserve the quality of linguistic humour presented.

Techtip—hovering over a reference symbol[xx] in text reveals a pop-up explanatory information.

Chapter 1: WW2—Blitzkrieg, Midlands of England, autumn 1940

This epic starts in the centre of Birmingham city’s multi-story brick and stone buildings which once were stately and revered although smoke begrimed; some dating back to the mid 1700’s. The Nazi blitzkrieg of 1940 was reducing many of them to gargantuan piles of rubble and wreckage, exposed roof trusses and shattered priceless stained glass mementos—their irreplaceable historic grandeur belching fire, smoke and noxious fumes.

Vehicles, once proudly tended by their owners, were strewn everywhere—flattened, overturned, just abandoned or gutted by fire. A deserted double-decker Midland Red bus leaned crazily against one building as though to directly chute-off-load passengers at destination.

Zut-zut-zut-wowowowow-whe-e-e-e-e-e-e-crump-crump-ding-aling-aling was indicative of the alarming sounds heard during the blitzkrieg many nights and days in England’s industrial midlands. Such alarming sounds were persistent, cacophonous and nerve-shattering.

Often from a sky as dark as pitch, except where illuminated by criss-crossing searchlight beams, streams of menacing shapes crawled along invisible pathways, raining down incendiary, landmine and high explosive bombs. Such obscenely violent attacks materialised with little or no warning, lasted too long and seemed inexorable.

Although there was a rat-tat-tat-tat-crack-crack-boom-boom of gunfire from ground and air defence forces filling the sky with dazzlingly blinding flashes, while trying to ward of such attacks, their location and effectiveness was not always clear to civilian collateral fallout victims. All too often the panic-stricken thought was—‘Why me and mine?’

The acrid smell of burning and the intense heat was barely tolerable. Where once-loved homes had proudly stood—often a bare chimney breast stack remained as a stark and forlorn marker. One such marker held a still-chiming clock presented for long time service recognition.

Bright red fire engines were being used to hose the flames, unintentionally creating smelly rivers of blood streaked sludge. Everywhere fear-crazed men, women and children, clutching their hastily snatched up prized possessions, scrambled chaotically with no apparent end goal—except, hopefully, an escape to relative safety.

Many of the women and children were frantically screaming and crying; some had lost most of their long head hair—to fire! They were left with, excruciatingly painful face/scalp blisters, and large patches of seared flesh visible for all to see through their torn and burned clothing. It was sickening, unnerving and grotesque; they urgently needed specialist help—not just our pitiful first aid kits containing band-aids, aspirins and ‘pink pills for pale people’!

So, how and where to find sanctuary from the terror?—that too often was the unanswered question. Police, Firemen and Air Raid Wardens were valiantly trying to shepherd the shocked and exhausted victims to overcrowded but relative safety—underground. Ambulances, en-route to hospitals, picked up those who couldn’t pick themselves up—many with severed or mangled limbs, also lacerated backs and blooded faces, their eyes staring blankly into unfathomable space.

To an impressionable 8-year old boy stumbling along through this scenario it was at the same time both exhilarating and horrifying. Jet Bannister, gasping for breath, his face contorted by wild-eyed escalating shock and fear, clutched his father’s big strong hand for guidance and comfort. Irrationally, he thought—my magic strawberry’s not working!

"Oi, you two" a stentorian bellow came from a grim-faced figure with badly dented steel helmet and shoulder-slung gas mask case—striding urgently toward them with hunched shoulders and elbows akimbo. Where d’ya you think you’re going?

The father calmly, turning toward the source—a dust laden and blood spattered policeman, responded with "Good evening constable, we’re homebound from the Bull Ring Fish Market with supplies for our Fish and Chip shop in Nechells. We stopped the car because my son had a call of nature.

The policeman heaving a sigh of exasperation said . . . "You must know there’s an air raid on and the all-clear hasn’t been sounded yet? You should be safely in a shelter . . . we’ve got ‘em you know".

Calmly again, the father offered, I’ve lived here many years and I know this city like the back of my hand. I can drive out of the danger zone very quickly. But thanks for your concern.

Pulling out his duty notebook, the policeman requested Name please?

Again calmly, the answer came back I’m Ted Bannister . . . but before he could say more, the boy interrupted with . . . and I’m his son Jet Bannister, adding proudly, bet you don’t know my dad was a policeman himself once?

Sceptical, the policeman queried Oh, when and where?

Again calmly, the answer came back until almost two years ago, Netherton, Dudley Constabulary, rank of acting sergeant (retired)—and can I also know your name?

Almost coming to attention, the policeman responded with Chris Matthews, Birmingham City Police, rank of constable—what can I do for you Sarg’?

"Just Ted will do thanks Chris came the response but can you watch me as I back out of the alley we’re parked in—it’s a bit tight?"

Minutes later the Bannisters were again enroute through the bedlam toward their Nechells Fish and Chip shop with Jet chortling mightily at the recent verbal exchange. His crazed reaction stemmed from the release of emotional stress he’d been under for the last few weeks and the atrocious sights of human misery he had witnessed.

Giggle while you can, offered his father not unkindly, the next hurdle we’ll be facing is your Mother’s questioning—she’s tougher by far.

Jet lapsed into a troubled silence with a frown on his face at this observation. He enjoyed accompanying his father to the Bull Ring Fish Market with its smells and friendly sales banter, but getting caught in a big city air raid just might lead to severe maternal restrictions on him.

However, long before that a far more pressing problem loomed up. Yet another policeman, struggling to maintain order and discipline stepped into their war-torn cratered path homeward with raised hand urgently signalling—stop!

Lowering his car window, Jet’s father enquired What’s the problem constable?

Unexploded bomb just ahead of you sir, not to mention dirty great big craters in the road,—you’ll have to turn around and go back the way you came.

OK, will do" was the laconic reply from Bannister senior.

Driving back along the route just travelled was a nightmare of crazy obstacles, and yet another policeman stepped out of nowhere indicating with imperiously raised hand—stop!

Again lowering the car window, Bannister senior asked unexploded bomb?

Yes sir was the retort "I’m afraid you’re snookered ²—you can’t go forward or back. Your best bet is to find a shelter and stay there until things quieten down a bit."

Bannister senior, ever decisive, said then we’ll go off this main street on foot— through alleyways and any wreckage temporarily abandoning the car right here—OK constable? Later when things settle down we’ll come back and reclaim the car.

Somewhat dubiously, the constable offered "I suppose so—but what about the ‘nipper’?

Jet, pulling his head almost up to his father’s chest height and with righteous indignation piped up offering, I’m not a nipper I’m almost eight and a half years old.

Both men exchanged knowing looks and an unspoken tacit agreement between them had been established. Each went their own way.

Half an hour later, weary and dishevelled, the Bannisters having stumbled and clambered through alleys, back yards, broken fences and still burning buildings, emerged several cross streets over in a comparative oasis of calm in a small cul-de-sac. ³

Although the discordant sounds of war were still close—the immediate impact was not on their doorstep, so to speak. But Jet still flinched and his face grimaced at each new explosion. There was no let up to his tension, as his constantly hunched shoulders bore testimony.

A six unit terrace of 3-story homes, in the cul-de-sac, had been wiped out earlier but the fires in them had mostly been extinguished, leaving smouldering and smoke blackened relics. Survivors, if any, would have been evacuated to safety they surmised.

The shortest path onwards was to cut directly through the wrecked terrace—even though the interiors were discouraging and poorly lit. ⁴ Clearly, this was not a safe thing to do. Gut instinct said—No! —don’t do it. But, sometimes in the turmoil of a world gone berserk—we clutch at any straw and strive to survive. They did it!

This unplanned expedition involved a hazardous trek through gapingly holed walls and over floor debris liberally strewn with shards of broken glass. Everywhere great slabs of ceiling were sagging down perilously overhead, as well some floors had been pierced by large chunks of falling masonry, to expose the spaces below.

They painstakingly aimed to skirt these potential death traps—each step carefully negotiated for least risk with the pernickety precision of hypersensitive cats—that is except for the one hole that, unexpectedly, was opened up by Bannister senior’s extra weight. This one quite abruptly yawned open further allowing the space below to invite them into its’ cavernous maw.

Big Ted nimbly skipped aside, narrowly avoiding a 9 ft drop into whatever lay below. His son, Jet, following closely behind, was not so alert or fortunate—he took the precipitous fall into a cellar below, miraculously landing on cushioning cardboard boxes and soft rolled carpets. Although only his pride was hurt, the abruptness of the descent ‘knocked the stuffing out of him’ leaving him gasping for air and dazed.

I’m OK Dad he blurted out . . . give me a moment?

Viscerally upset by his inattention to his son’s safety, the Father instructed Stay put son. . . . Wait until you get your breath back . . . I’ll look for a way to get you back up.

OK fearless leader. was the cheerfully forced response.

Jet looked around in his darkened surroundings, but could see little. Noises of war were damped down here, but there were all kinds of unfamiliar smells. With his heart racing and all systems alert, he moved cautiously forward until he came up against what seemed like a long tubular boiler casing impossibly canted over as though it had fallen off its mountings.

He walked its length, as his Dad had taught him—Hmn?—16-½ paces. He tapped it gently—Hmn?—didn’t sound empty? What could it contain he thought? He tried to walk around it but was obstructed by debris. He put his ear to it and listened. . . Was that a Tick-tick-tick-tick he heard? He listened again . . . and yes! . . . It was Tick-tick-tick-tick, an alarm clock perhaps? . . . Or? . . . No? . . . Can it be? . . . An unexploded bomb?

. . ."D-a-a-a-d!" Jet, with his heart in his mouth, hoarsely whispered.

No answer. . . ‘OMG’ he thought . . . ‘what now?’

. . . Then, with a little more, oomph. . . "D-a-a-a-d!" Jet wheezed.

. . . Still no answer . . . I’m gonna’ croak he mumbled through clenched teeth.

His Dad wasn’t sure if Jet had been injured in the fall and was urgently searching around for a ladder, rope or other help to get his son rescued from the cellar.

Some minutes later, Bannister senior shouted down "Jet, are you OK? I’ve found help and a rope to get you up!" Accompanying him was a completely kitted out burly Fireman with smoke begrimed face. He’d just come off a full shift, was work-worn, tired and hungry but, hearing about Jets’ plight, he managed to summon up new strength from somewhere deep within.

Dad . . . thank goodness you’re back . . . erm . . . I think we have a bit of a problem down here . . . just maybe . . . a live b-b-o-o-o-m-b!, Jet stammered. "I think I can hear it ticking? It’s 16-½ paces long and more than my height across and shaped like a small boiler casing."

The accompanying rescuer answered, Alright young man . . . my name is Frank and I’m a Fireman . . . that was a very useful description. Can you move about OK?

Yes, sir

"Then don’t . . . OK? . . ."

"This is Frank the fireman to help you. I want you to listen very carefully, alright? Any movement could easily set off a big unexploded bomb ⁵ and then we’d all be done for . . . Do you understand me?"

Yes Frank, Jet responded in a tremulous voice. We could all be blasted sky-high.

I’m going to shine a light down on you so that we can see what’s what. OK?

Yes Frank.

In the wide torchlight beam, Jet could see both the ‘bomb’—with stencilled markings in what he took to be German military—and also the rest of the storage cellar. The bomb would appear to be blocking the access stairs making them unusable. His stomache lurched involuntarily.

But also, he could now see he was not the only live body in the cellar. He had spotted two wire mesh cages each of which contained a trembling white rabbit with long ears, pink nose and whiskered face—They were terrified, and to prove it, in Jets’ own words, ‘they had poohed their pants which accounted for the pong’. This information he relayed to his Father and Frank.

Stay still Jet . . . while we consider the next action . . . OK?

Wilco Frank Jet responded with a forced bravado he didn’t really feel. He set about reassuring his rabbit ‘comrades in distress’ by giving them names—Bonny and Clyde ⁶ —so that they would know when they were being spoken to. Bonny and Clyde seemed quite willing, without complaint, to be adopted by their two-legged human benefactor.

We’re getting you out first—never mind about the rabbits shouted Frank firmly.

No shouted Jet, equally firmly. Bonny and Clyde go first . . . they can’t fend for themselves! Send down the rope and I’ll tie their cages on. OK? . . . Erm . . . Please . . . Frank?

After a short mutter of voices and exasperated sighs from above, the rope snaked down. Alright Jet, but don’t waste any time, or touch the ‘bomb’, OK?

Jet dragged the two wire mesh cages to position them under the recently made hole in the cellar ceiling, all the while verbally encouraging his new charges to ‘trust Frank the Fireman—he knows what he’s doing’ as he Jet,—the Cub Scout, with a knots’ merit badge—tied on the first load.

Frank quickly hauled up the first rabbit cage—uncertain as to the protocol expected of him following his competency recommendation by a cub scout. ‘War makes for strange roommates, he mused’. The second load also was dealt with equally competently by all concerned.

The third load was attached by Jet using a bowline knot to fasten the rope around himself— ready to be hauled up by Frank.

OK Frank, haul away please Jet requested.

Jet was hoisted up; it seemed, almost as fast as he had come down, but with much less impact, as Frank expertly swung him out of the hole and into his Fathers’ waiting arms. Jet on reaching terra firma, swung around and impulsively also hugged Frank—Oops!

Quickly recovering his young adult poise, he proffered a manly hand-shake. Frank, with a wide friendly grin, took the hand in his big paw, saying . . . "You tie a neat bowline knot, young man!"

Pleased to meet you Sir: . . . erm . . . Frank. Thanks for saving my life.

"Right, let’s get out of here while we’re all still alive and kicking ordered Frank, grabbing for the two cages and rope. Follow me . . . men . . . in single file"

In only just a few short steps more, the three arrived in a different kind of comparative calm right next to a still operational mobile emergency soup kitchen. The smell was delicious.

Just chance? Or did Bannister senior really know this city like the back of his hand?

Three mugs of soup with hunks of bread were devoured with enthusiasm. Milling all around were groups of exhausted and dishevelled emergency relief men and women—‘Brummies’ or citizens of Birmingham—doing much the same. Here the buildings seemed to have escaped immediate damage—truly a veritable oasis of calm in an all-consuming wasteland of slaughter.

Frank the Fireman—also a ‘Brummie’, having finished his soup, made his TTFNs (Tat Ta For Now) farewells and scooping up Bonny and Clyde took off for his fire station via the RSPCA ⁷ shelter —their new refuge for a while. He also relayed a message to the local bomb squad and sign-posted the dangerous unit.

The ‘nipper’ didn’t need much persuading to curl up in a nearby shop doorway to catch forty winks of sleep, while his father did what policemen do all over the world—reconnoiter the area looking for clues to solve unanswered questions.

Another hour passed until the Bannisters had regrouped and carefully retraced their steps back to their semi-abandoned car. Luckily, it was still locked and its contents untouched—the smell of raw fish will always do that. As hoped, the way was now clearer for them to continue the journey home with tomorrow’s supplies for the fish and chip shop. The intensity of the bombing was diminished but not yet stopped completely. They both let out a sigh of relief.

Jet and his Dad agreed not to complicate things with stories of rescuing Bonny and Clyde from the predicament they had found themselves in. That could easily lead to other kinds of difficult things to explain away to an anxious and worried Mother.

Got held up by traffic and fish shortages was Ted Bannister’s terse explanation on arrival home—unexploded bombs and the like didn’t seem relevant he thought.

Alice Bannister, his wife, who had been on tenterhooks ⁸ most of the day, heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief at their safe return, hugged her son and accepted the given explanation with a quizzical look but without further. The Nechells Fish and Chip shop had missed the brunt of the bombing again. Sandwiches and tea were ready for a bed time snack and very welcome.

Jet, not making eye contact with his mother, to avoid questions he may not be able to field, scurried around getting cleaned up ready for tomorrow, kissed her good night, and trudged off upstairs to his much needed bed. Night all he shouted down, thinking to himself—All’s well that ends well—or could it be that my magic strawberry is working after all?

Later that night, with Jet tucked safely in bed and sleeping, Alice Bannister looked up from her knitting across to her husband reading the newspaper, commenting "Did you tell me all that delayed you getting home tonight?"

Not quite love responded big Ted. We stopped off at a mobile soup kitchen in Leadenhall Street, you know the one just off Broad Street—the lad was quite peckish and you know how he craves mulligatawny with a hunk of fresh bread. I knew you wouldn’t mind.

Alice nodded knowingly but her look also indicated a sneaking suspicion that there must be more unsaid. She waited patiently . . . but with raised enquiring eyebrows?

I also looked at that brooch you liked so much in the Jewellers, they were still open would you believe, but it’s still beyond our means. Someday soon that’s going to come down to our income level, you mark my words. opined Big Ted, turning back to his newspaper.

Bafflegab! Alice thought. I’m being distracted—but nicely enough and decided to let matters be until another time and place.

The following morning at 6 a.m, Jet was awake and ready for a new day of adventure. This was Saturday, a shop open day for fish and chip sales—an English mealtime staple—two hours at noontime and three more hours in the evening from 5 p.m.

Crowds of local hungry customers would be relying on Bannisters Fish and Chips for a delicious and relatively inexpensive food source treat. Some would have travelled more than an hour early to stand patiently in line for opening time. But first, there was much preparation to be done, and Jet earned most of his pocket money allowance from his contribution to the effort.

Right, said Alice Bannister, assuming command, While the ‘men’ do the potatoes, we ladies will start getting things shipshape.

Jet’s young chest swelled with pride at being grouped with ‘the men’—as his Mother knew it would be.

Alice had a close associate, Mary, as a helper and they set to scrubbing and scraping at surfaces, sweeping and mopping where necessary as well as titivating (whatever that was?) elsewhere until everywhere in the shop looked good, smelled good and was pristine. But ‘the potatoes’ was a designated men’s task—with them dressed in rubberized aprons and wellies ⁹—and was done in a wooden lean-to shed in the shared backyard of the shop rear. The environment was miserable, cold and wet. Big lumpy potatoes with dirty skins and trailing white tubers were transferred into loading buckets.

The filled buckets were then loaded two at a time, one after another, into a noisy machine similar to a small concrete mixer—a bulbous barrel with an inlet at the top and a lidded outlet at the bottom. Inside the barrel was a very rough surface, a motorised turntable and clean targeted water jets to clear out the abraded scrapings. In goes the ugly and out comes the lovely Jet’s dad would say "and then we add the finishing touch—pick and pluck their little black eyes out".

Cleaned, the ‘lovelies’ were dropped into a big storage barrel partly filled with drywite treated water—which smelled like ammonia— to keep them fresh and white until chipping and frying time. This procedure took almost a couple of hours, following which everybody was more than ready for a break—if only to ease their aching backs—and then on with the next job.

Alice Bannister, in anticipation of everybody’s growling tummies, produced deliciously juicy bacon butties and steaming hot mugs of tea. Grub up she called out. Her satisfaction came from watching their faces light up with pleasure as they munched and slurped.

Rested, the next men’s task was fish preparation—this time cod, whiting and cods’ roe.

Jet thought: cod is an ugly looking brute until skinned, boned, cleaned and filleted, whereas whiting was a more delicate and pricy treat much sought after by fish and chip connoisseurs—just needs a careful hand with the sharp knives involved.

Jet’s dad did the prep’ of cod and whiting, while Jet noted technique for future reference.

What turned Jet on was the preparation of cods’ roe which was nothing more than a sac of female fish eggs—sometimes referred to as the poor man’s caviar. The processing was quite simple but time consuming and considered so delicious as to be well worth the effort.

First, he had to wash and clean the egg sac under running water—taking care not to break the membrane—or veiny skin. Next he carefully lowered the sacs into a pot of salted boiling water letting them simmer for 25 to 30 minutes. When ‘done’ the roe was to be uniformly pink but not scorched. Then after allowing at least a half hour for cooling and firming up, the roe was cut diagonally into ½" thick deliciously smelling slices ready for the final cooking stage later.

Storage was in an ice chest filled with crushed ice—the poor man’s refrigerator.

No scarfing until they’re cooked was demanded by Jet’s mother, you’ll avoid tummy ache that way. Jet did as he was told—w-e-l-l—most of the time.

While the men had been tunelessly whistling throughout their tasks, the women, almost ceaselessly chattering to each other, had been moving mountains of additional chores—all necessary to making things eye-able and ordered. Jet noted the marked difference in gender working styles—both producing very similar end results—but thought how everything looked just grand.

His father put the same good thought into spoken words. The ladies appearing not to hear—visibly redoubled their efforts. Whether he knew it or not, Jet had just been given a subtle lesson in appreciative street smarts.

At long last, came time for the final preparation of the cooking operation prior to shop opening time. Entailed, was the lighting of coke fires at both ends of the cooking range and filling the vats with cooking oil for the frying process. This was a very sensitive task done with great care to avoid ‘flare-ups’. Chipped potatoes were loaded in to the hot oil and battered fish was carefully launched into the second vat. A great sizzle sound was heard accompanied by a heavenly smell and a boisterous cheer was heard from the waiting crowd—feasting was nigh!

Bannisters’ Fish and Chips was a two-story corner brick property not far from the main bus route in Nechells. Queues sometimes almost ranged to the main bus route. The Bannisters’ home was overhead in the same property, so going to work was almost as simple as rolling out of bed at the appropriate times.

Opening was right on the crack of noon and a deluge of hungry customers surged in trying to not look too unruly or impatient. The customer side of the serving counter was fitted with a median barrier which was designed to loop them from the rear and filter them around to the front to be served at the counter and then back out the door they had entered by.

With a chorus of convivial Hello’s, how are things? And Well look whose here—the hustle and bustle of commerce ensued. The clientele were very well known and loyal—many being close neighbours as well as friends.

Ted Bannister, in knee length white apron, was the smiling duty cook, relieved by Alice Bannister (part time) and Mary was the duty server, relieved by Alice (part time). Jet ‘manned’ the cash desk to make change as necessary, relieved (part time) by his mother. Largely because of all this, Big Ted, the crossword puzzle genius described Alice, his wife, as ubiquitous! ¹⁰ She, in turn, had words to describe him—but we won’t go into that here.

What a team thought Jet—proudly watching his parents working side by side. Equally proudly, Jet’s parents kept an eye on their lad at the cash desk. And nothing escaped the good humoured but critical eyes of the customers—after all it was their local ‘chippy’. The all-pervading aroma was tantalising. Jet sometimes felt it was like living in a goldfish bowl—always on stage—as it were. And nothing escaped the good-natured attention of the customers.

Orders were placed, served, salt and vinegared, paid for and wrapped in heat insulating newspapers ¹¹ while the line moved from right to left from the street quick order. A neat trick noticed by Jet was that some customers, wrestling with hunger pangs, poked an exploratory hole through the newspaper wrapping to get a quick taster. Yum, yum!

He, after some initial fumbles, had become quite adept at making change without too many errors.

Within 45 minutes or so, the first rush of customers trickled down to