Adventures of a Ginger Kid

By Fiona Ritchie

Quite a few families have more than one child. George and Mary Ritchie were lulled into a false sense of security with their firstborn, naively believing that their son was just the start of a peaceful, joyous life that could only be enhanced with another sibling. So, when a ginger-haired, podgy-pink kid with hiccups arrived on a bitterly cold December morning, they were beginning to think changes might be afoot. The new parents had no idea a child could be born with a hand on their hip…but their adventure had only just started…and their new daughter would be the greatest birth control for the future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jan 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781528961974

Fiona Ritchie

Fiona Ritchie MBE is the founder, producer, and host of National Public Radio's The Thistle & Shamrock and an inductee into the Folk DJ Hall of Fame. Her books include The NPR Curious Listener's Guide to Celtic Music and Wayfaring Strangers: The Musical Voyage from Scotland and Ulster to Appalachia.

Book preview

Adventures of a Ginger Kid

Fiona Ritchie

Austin Macauley Publishers

Adventures of a Ginger Kid

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Acknowledgment

Almost at the Beginning

Infants School

A Greenstick Facture in the Junior School

Sports Day at Infants School

Nativity at the Infants School

The Corner Shop

Walking to School

Telegraph Poles

The Train Journey

Grandma Knows Best

Learning to Swim

Jigsaws

What Is Mrs Brown Doing to Nathaniel?

Tying Shoelaces

Nursery

Birthday Party

The Two Peters

Broken Leg (Someone Else’s)

Ballet, Tap, Brownies and All Things After School

Bruce and the Suitcase

Priory Park

Trustee Savings Bank

Fanny by Gaslight

All Sorts of Anomalies

Shopping with Grandma

By the Seaside

Independence Day in Boots

Left and Right

Bangers and Mash

More Big Knickers

About the Author

Life in Cornwall was pretty good for the Ritchie family. The parents had a beautiful and well-behaved baby boy who giggled his way through bath time and slept through the night at eight weeks of age. The fearsome trio were kind, considerate, popular and genuinely happy for three and a half years, and then Fiona came along.

Dedication

Mum, Bruce and Dad.

Copyright Information ©

Fiona Ritchie (2020)

The right of Fiona Ritchie to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528917643 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528961974 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2020)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgment

With thanks to the love, patience and ongoing ‘putting up’ with me. Without my family, there would be no book to giggle over and share with.

Almost at the Beginning

‘I can’t hear you if you’re whining,’ my mother stated to me – her five-year-old daughter, after I sulkily asked for an ice cream.

‘Mummy, please may I have an ice cream?’ I asked in a clear bright voice.

‘No.’

I don’t recall crying because the shock stopped me.

I am the younger of two siblings, sister to my big brother Bruce, who luckily for Mum was never a verbose son, so I more than made up for the chatter in the house.

My parents both had dark hair and blue eyes, so things were looking good when my brother was born. He had a mass of blonde curls and blue eyes. He was so stunning my father would carry him on his arm knowing how passers-by would coo, spoil and fuss. Being a June baby, this was a feasible mode of transport.

My face had been squashed in the womb so when I made my appearance, I had no nose in profile, just a red splat in the middle of my head which over a few days sorted itself out. I was also born hiccupping and with a shock of ginger hair. My father was eternally grateful that I arrived in December so he didn’t feel obliged to carry me around.

People would approach Mum as she pushed her new born in the handed-down silver cross pram expecting to see another stunner. One glance in to see the red mass they would politely pass comments like, ‘Oh! You’ve had a…um…baby – it is a baby, isn’t it?’ or ‘It’s a girl?’ And for further consolation would add, ‘At least you’ve got a son.’

Infants School

Some children are born with a silver spoon in their mouth but I was born with a clipboard. From the moment I could stand, I could organise. On the rare occasions my parents had friends around for a party, I was the one handing out broken biscuits on a doily-covered plate. Mum never knew she even had doilies and it amazed her what I used to come up with for the sake of making a nicer presentation.

Bruce was three and a half years older than me. Mum would walk him and describe nature as the seasons changed. She would point to trees in the local park and say things like, ‘This one is an oak tree – look at the shape of the leaves and see the acorns!’ adding, ‘And this is a silver birch, an elm, a string of plane trees and an ash – and look, these flowers are daisies – lean forward so you can smell the freesias, roses, honeysuckle, cowslips, daffodils and foxgloves.’

After a brief pause, Mum would look around the bushes and ground and say to Bruce, ‘And look over there! See the robin red breast, the thrush, black bird, blue tit and woodpecker!’

By the time I was at that age, Mum would simply point and say, ‘Look Fiona – tree, flower, bird.’

I was a pretty solid kid and Mum would describe me as a block on a block. I was constantly stating, ‘IT’S NOT FAIR’ (which to this day Mum says will be inscribed on my epitaph) and would relish telling her every detail for that day when I wasn’t in her company. I usually spoke in long sentences without taking a breath to ensure everything that needed to be said was said.

Something as innocent as ‘How was your day then?’ was usually backed up with my mother wincing as she braced herself for an onslaught…

‘Well…going up the Crinnicks Hill I caught up with Sarah who wasn’t wearing a balaclava even though you said that everyone was and it would keep me warm but Sarah said her head was warm anyway and she had a pretty pink hat on with a teddy on the side and then we met up with Robert and Sharon and they didn’t have balaclavas either and when they were walking behind me, I know they were making fun of me but it didn’t matter because I know I can run faster than them and anyway Robert forgot his plimsolls and it was too late for him to go back and I said to Miss that I was red because I was hot and that I was probably the hottest one because no one else had to wear a balaclava – except my brother Bruce but he was in the bigger school so no one saw him and he doesn’t like having to walk with me anyway and what’s for tea?’

There was no point in trying to get away because I simply followed my victims around. Mum would often prepare a three-course meal while I gabbled on, often handing me things to hold like wool knowing I would stay still long enough to finish a school pullover or balaclava without a hole in the front. Or back.

On the first day at infants’ school, I can remember children crying as their mothers/fathers abandoned them to their fate. Lots of gnashing of teeth, clutching of legs and pleading from the parents, but once they’d gone, things settled down and the routine seemed to be the removal of outer coats and shoes, putting on of overalls and plimsolls and going to the lavatory.

I couldn’t understand why my classmates were crying; I figured if I helped them get organised, they’d be distracted enough to shut up. The class teacher couldn’t believe her eyes as I organised children according to greater urgency of needing to pee and height order if all else failed. They all queued as I bundled them into the next available cubicle. On the odd occasion, I went in too, but only if the child didn’t understand the concept of what they were there for or what to do. I didn’t ask the teacher if I could help, I merely took it upon myself to get my classmates organised and ready for a bit of colouring in (or whatever we were meant to be doing there).

You can pity the poor souls that didn’t want to go to the lavatory, and those so scared of me by the time they got to the front of the queue they couldn’t pee for the life of them. But pee they did, and once we had all reassembled in the classroom, a highly amused Mrs Green asked me if all was going well.

‘No,’ I said in a humpy tone.

‘Whatever is the matter, Fiona?’

‘The toilet paper was too hard.’

I had never experienced something to wipe bums with that didn’t absorb. What was the point? Newspaper would have been less messy and more porous and you had the benefit of having something to read while you waited.

Apparently, you can still buy this dreadful stuff and the guise they have to lure purchases is that it is medicated.

I’m not convinced this is the same as prevents cancer but it ought to have something extremely special going for it to motivate sales.

Mum taught my brother and I to be polite and thoughtful, think of others