For Fawkes Sake

Last thursday evening I stood briefly in the hallway of the birthplace of Guy Fawkes in York.

I was not on a pilgrimage or following in the footsteps of the cult hero and stylish beard wearer but stepped inside because it was a cold night and the building has for many years operated as a bar and eatery and was warm and inviting.

A good proportion of those shopping, posing or just wandering about the historic city seemed to have the same destination because there was no available seating, hardly any standing room and certainly no prospect of getting served at the bar, already four deep with persons, each trying to persuade the single indifferently cool barman that their displayed and waved banknotes were any more acceptable as legal tender.

Just resting the back of my legs on a scorchingly hot radiator for a few minutes was as much a reviver as a stiff drink and so much less of an outgoing.

I was in a good position to just gaze casually around. Perhaps the place had not really changed all that much since Mr Fawkes had lived there and the decor, shabby chic, suggested a fairly minimal amount of cash had been spent internally, but why should it be necessary given the pedigree and provenance of such a place. The wood panelling was stained black which accentuated its old age although there was some suggestion of charring and scoring from fire damage which I speculated may have been from some early-years arsonist tendencies from the former celebrity resident.

My visit to High Petergate was five days before Guy Fawkes Night or just Bonfire Night as it is referred to in non-contentious, neutral political and inoffensive speak. Already and every night for some preceding days there had been regular jarring disturbance from exploding fireworks of every conceivable tone and reverberation as mischievous youths and anarchic adults could not wait for the actual night of commemoration/celebration.

I had noticed that this year there was no problem whatsoever in tracking down a supply of fireworks with seemingly every sales outlet offering discount prices and special offers. The austerity and, until last week officially, recessionary conditions affecting the UK economy seem to have by passed the fireworks industry. There remains and contrary to all trends and frugality a willingness of the general public to spend their hard earned cash in large amounts  on items that explode and disappear in a puff of smoke and possibly not as satisfyingly loud a bang as you might have hoped for ,given the outlay.

The purchase of fireworks represents a great opportunity for one-upmanship, unfortunately an extension of other but less noisy forms of competition in everyday life. It also represents the highest form of rebellion without usually incurring the attention of the law or other Civil sanctions. As a means of acting in an anti social manner in the setting afire of things, bombarding the neighbours, terrorising local animals and handling explosives it cannot be rivalled. I speak from personal experience as a red blooded male with very few activities left available for misbehaving and acting my shoe size (Imperial not Continental Sizing).

The actual reason for 5th November clouds into insignificance amongst the commercial hype and merchandising.

The date in 1605 represented a difficult period in the history of this Nation and although it is one of those stock dates firmly entrenched in memory from schooldays I would challenge many of the current population to providing a reasonable explanation of why it was significant enough to have lasted beyond such comparable events as (in no particular order) , 'Canutes wet sock day', 'Alfred burn the cakes day', 'King John's Lost Treasure Day', 'Is that something in your eye, Harold day',' Queen Victoria's not very amused day' and other historical milestones.

I am not trying to appear superior in my knowledge of the Gunpowder Plot but wasn't it just an amazing coincidence that Guy Fawkes' fellow conspirators were called Billy Bonfire, Freddie Firework and Robbie Rocket.

A History of a Family- Part 6- Marmite

 The BBC recently ran a radio series with the help of the British Museum on 100 objects that shaped or contributed to the history of the world. These ranged from statues to coins and from toys to modern technology. I have tried to achieve the same sense of significance but in relation to our family for a few objects lying around the house currently or remembered from growing up.

Part 6. Marmite

After my comments in a previous blog about the origins of one of the ingredients for fruit gums from the leather tanning process you may be entirely justified in expressing surprise that the subject of my last family history series is another substance dredged out of an industrial process.

Although often associated with a meaty and beefy taste this is as far from the actuality as could be imagined. Marmite is a yeast extract. The original producers, long since absorbed by an American Corporation were based in Burton upon Trent, logically and logistically the ideal location just downwind in terms of proximity to the large commercial breweries that provided considerable employment, wealth and celebrity to the town. As a student, when it was not practical to otherwise cycle from Nottingham to home, some 90 miles or so, I would take the train and the line ran through and paralell to the huge operational plants. The hop silos, stainless steel vat and pipes proudly bore such British institutional brand names as Carling, Worthington and Bass and later Marstons and Coors. I was always aware of the approach to Burton upon Trent because it was soon in view  after passing through Tamworth where the Reliant car factory was and in the open ground close to the lines it was always interesting to see the fibre glass shells of the three wheeler Robins but incongruously next to the aggressive and quite well regarded Scimitar sports coupe.

The success of Marmite, also the french name for a large cooking pot as depicted on the classic label, also launched the Bovril product. In my mind it is an insult to Marmite to include that other stuff in the same breath and sentence. I had a bad experience with Bovril whilst holding a jar above head to try to see how much was left. The same exercise with Marmite holds no hazards but I did not allow for the looser, runnier composition also encouraged by inappropriate storage in a warm pantry cupboard and the grainy, bovine
derivative took some effort to wash out.

Through my teenage years I began collecting Marmite jars. I should qualify that these were not empty, washed out and clean but still each contained perhaps half a teaspoon. I was sure that yeast extract was indestructible and so with a tightly fitting old style metal lid there were no concerns over the nurture of a globally contagious bio-plague. I proudly had on display in my bedroom a full set of the different sized jars and a good number of spares behind the best example in each category. The collection went everywhere with me at key stages in my life.

Marmite went well with everything. Not just the fundamental toast topping but complientary on top of cheese, with scrambled egg, stirred into gravy or direct into a meat pie. A generous knife edge was required to thickly cover a slice of bread for a packed lunch sandwich and with enough left to be lavishly licked off the blade. I am aware that there are those who may feel a bit nauseous at this stage if they have not been brought up proper to love Marmite.

I was very upset by the sellout of the brand but ultimately reassured by the fact that there is little scope to spoil such a perfect taste. There has been an attempt to broaden the product range by packaging changes and collaboration with other brands. Most ridiculous has been a squeezy tube effect jar- what were they thinking. Most exploitative was the Guinness venture with limited edition production runs with jars traded on E-Bay rather than opened up and spread for enjoyment. Most trendy was its addition as flavouring on rice cakes. The commercial possibilities are potentially endless and no doubt there is a whole department within the Unilever skycraper dedicated to the infiltration of Marmite into the emerging economies. What next- Marmite flavoured rice, poppadoms and noodles? I was amused to hear that Stateside super and hypermarkets stock the product in their ethnic foods section.

My own children are fans of Marmite and the association with our family appears to bode well for continuation of this love affair into the future. My Mother has told me that on our return to the house from a night out on the town, as young adults, she and Father could only really relax and get to sleep in the early hours to the sound of the front door being locked and the noise and smells from the production of cups of tea and marmite on toast permeating up the stairs from the kitchen.

A History of Family -Part 5- Scandinavian Furniture

 The BBC recently ran a radio series with the help of the British Museum on 100 objects that shaped or contributed to the history of the world. These ranged from statues to coins and from toys to modern technology. I have tried to achieve the same sense of significance but in relation to our family for a few objects lying around the house currently or remembered from growing up.

Part 5. Scandinavian Furniture

A few bits of furniture get handed down through the family from one generation to another and between households within the close family and in-laws. It does take a lot of income and effort to fit out a house in order for it to operate as a going and growing concern. We have bought some items at Auction Sales, other second hand outlets and the rest on a cash purchase or interest free schemes from one or more of the out of town centre retail parks.

Not everything has survived but most items have served with distinction bearing the proud scars of shoe buckles, the scorch rings of cups of hot beverages, upended spillages of carbonated and soft drinks, fragments of crisps and random crumbled biscuits, various bodily fluids and age wrinkled leather cushions. The rubber-wood dining table and six chairs is just about holding out but has required some crude patching and bracing repairs using wedges of wood and glue to keep the legs straight and solid. One of the chairs is beyond salvage being very unstable and it is always a last minute manouevre to direct away friends and relatives intent on taking up that place setting in order to avoid injury, embarassment and a civil action.

The childrens bedrooms had started off in a pine furniture theme. The girls shared with matching single beds, heavy pine headboards and large carved acorns and the look was complimented by a large waxed pine wardrobe and chest of drawers. Our son, perhaps ahead of his time, got a metal fabrication of high level bed accessible by a vertical ladder with upholstered sofa bed and a ledge desk below. The altitude at which he slept was quite close to the ceiling and must, on reflection, have been quite a terrifying and lonely experience being so detached from the rest of the household.

The decision was made on practical and stylish grounds to go for the Swedish range through IKEA. A store had opened up beyond Leeds, some distance from home but very easy to get to on the M62 motorway. We had not experienced anything like it before, well not since the Habitat store closed in Hull. The IKEA store was huge. A low, sprawling retail shed painted corporate blue and with flashes of yellow from the National flag and colours.

We were unsure of how to proceed from the wide, bright entrance but were soon swept up in the relentless stream of customers, some determined purchasers and those just out for the day. The children grabbed handfuls of the small unfinished wood pencils and the tape measures and us parents followed shouldering a large in-store shopping bag. Whether very clever marketing or the only way to fit the stock under one roof the progress through the building was tortuous along very winding and quite disorientating pathways. The Scandanavians may well have modelled the store on a typical mythical journey through the mountain passages of their uplands or the densely packed forests of the hinterland. I was getting quite dizzy and woozy under the artificial lighting and atmosphere. Again, very clever or practical is the location of the cafe/restaurant and rest area midway along the quest through the store. A bit like a very welcome leafy glen during an arduous trek.

On first impression the room displays and assembled furniture was very striking. Not altogether surprising for a nation known for its innovative design and flair through such brands as Volvo, Saab, Dime Bars, Abba and pornography. We marked off in our catalogue those pieces that would go well in the childrens rooms. There were cabin beds with clever concealed storage for toys, clothes and bedding. Desks could take a PC and TV and with shelf and drawer space so that the children would not ever have to leave their rooms until for University. We speculated on a large display unit for the dining room. We left that day with nothing apart from countless pencils, tape measures and night lights.

A few days later I returned in, yes, you guessed it, the Volvo estate car to purchase and collect a long list of furnishings. It was only after struggling to push the largest trolley to the checkout that I realised the potential problem of getting the whole lot into the car. I would have to flatten all the seats and squash my chest cavity to the steering wheel to get maximum load bay depth. I looked at my son who had come along to help and wondered if IKEA had something like an overnight creche. Although all in flat pack boxes some were exceptionally long. It was a bit like a reverse Jenga game to load, unload, re-arrange, swear, load, recover my son from under the packaging, load, move son again and so on until the trolley was empty and the tailgate could very carefully be lowered and pressed shut. My son was somewhere behind the flat passenger seat. If I avoided heavy braking I would get him home in one piece.

The car tyres were, under the laden weight, almost rubbing in the wheel arches. The car was dangerously and recklessly overloaded. Fortunately it was now 9pm on a winters evening and my chances of attracting the attention of the motorway police was much reduced. My vehicle would have warranted a full 30 minute slot on STOP POLICE!. The journey home was very cautious. I averaged 56 mph and the in car computer recorded my best ever fuel economy at 66mpg which was unprecedented.

The assembly from flat packs was equally traumatic. The operation took up a whole room plus overspill. The generation of litter and waste was frightening. Clear and plain English instructions were very helpful and the diagrams easy to follow. Slowly and not altogether surely the 'whatever' would emerge from the one dimension into a full multi dimensional shape. Tricky bits included fitting in the shelves and the flexible sides and backs. As each piece of furniture was assembled and then moved to its resting place I noticed quite a collection of residual bolts, screws, nails, plastic fittings and metal widgets type things. Was this a matter for concern? Eventually all rooms were furnished. The composition was mainly veneer covered chipboard but there was still a very pleasant aroma of freshly cut wood. Eyes closed we could well have been in a forest anywere between Stockholm and Uppsala.

From the first day of use the IKEA furniture started to gradually fall apart.

Last weekend marked the demise of the last stubborn IKEA item. I struggled up the metal steps at the Civic Amenity Site with the violently dismantled parts of the 'Billy Bookcase' before launching them into the huge waste skip. As I glanced into the gloom I was certain that, but in no particular order, the whole of Aisle D section 4 of the Leeds IKEA store had been relocated to the same fate.

A History of a Family-Part 4 Greek Art

 The BBC recently ran a radio series with the help of the British Museum on 100 objects that shaped or contributed to the history of the world. These ranged from statues to coins and from toys to modern technology. I have tried to achieve the same sense of significance but in relation to our family for a few objects lying around the house currently or remembered from growing up.

Part 4- Greek Art

The current austerity measures being endured by the Greek nation are so far detached from our perception of their lifestyle that the impact is very difficult to appreciate. Most Brits, having experienced a summer holiday in Greece, will certainly upon returning to our cold and drudgingly boring shores, not be able to resist a daydream for a moment on the romantic aspects of selling up everything here and starting up a Taverna or Restaurant in the wonderfully warm climate and fantastic scenery of that country. In reality, the only business opportunities may be in the Greek equivalent of Scunthorpe or running a mini-mart, heaven forbid, only frequented by pink skinned English tourists looking to buy McCain oven chips and frozen Goodfellas pizza.

As a family our first foreign holiday involving air travel was to the Ionian Island of Keffalonia. We joked about the name of the place. Why do second hand car salesman like the island?  Because it has only had one careful owner. Boom boom. We were complete novices when it came to foreign travel . The package trip was through one of the main companies and I think we were quite shocked at the cattle market type approach from being herded into the queues at the airport, poked up on to the plane, force fed from a trough type tray and then released, eyes blinking to become accustomed to the glaring sun and initially startling heat at our destination.

We had dressed for the whole journey in what we thought was sensible attire to cope with the dual climate of Manchester and Greece. We had misjudged the whole thing and amongst a plane load of replica football shirted passengers we must have looked like we had got lost on the way to a garden party. The first few hours on Greek soil were a complete blur. We had lost all sense of time after a very early arrival for our flight and some prior days of excitement interrupted sleep. It was about early afternoon as we boarded the coach for the transfer to our accommodation.

The road journey gave a brief glimpse of the island but only about ten feet ether side because of the very narrow lanes and either a precipitous drop to the sea below or a towering rocky cliff above. As our fellow travellers were dropped off in what appeared to be barren locations apart from a gate and steep footpath to whatever they had booked to stay in we became increasingly anxious about where we would be deposited. The brochure photo of our self catering apartment was very vague and blurry, a white rectangle heavily cloaked in foliage with a lawn in front.

The actual place was in fact a white rectangle heavily cloaked in foliage. There were three rooms for the five of us, one being the living area doubling up as a twin room plus folding Z bed for the children. The kitchen was a small galley. The shower room had a dry toilet. This was bemusing and quite frightening for an English family who were experts in flushing lavatories on any excuse or whim. Exhausted as we were I volunteered to go out to find food. I had no map, a distorted sense of direction in a foreign place, no comprehension of the Greek language and unsuitable footwear for the scorching road surface. I was not even sure where things like towns and shops were.

After a slog up the hill behind the apartment and down the other side I could not see any signs of civilisation. There were roadside shrines every few metres but I was not sure if these were for lost tourists or deceased locals. At last I reached Argostoli, the main town on the island. The first shop that looked like a general store loomed up like a mirage to my parched, dehydrated but curiously sweaty form. I played safe on the purchases in the absence of McCain oven chips or Goodfellas pizza.

The freshly minted Euro note I handed over to the proprietor brought him out in spasms of anxiety. It must have been a huge denomination and after some mutual progress through my perspiration soaked money belt he took a selection of lower numbered notes and seemed very happy. I was now faced with the return walk, considerably more drained than when I had set out and now with two plastic bags of bulky carbohydrates,sweets and other consumables. I must have looked quite a sight as I struggled back to the hillside road.

After some miles I was aware of a car moving slowly up behind me as though stalking my every move. I hoped that I was not going to have a shrine dedicated in my memory from a drive-by incident. As the car pulled alongside an English voice offered me a lift. The driver was staying in the same apartment building, had seen us arrive on the coach and thankfully had recognised me. That was not the best of starts to the Greek holiday. It did get considerably better and we fell one hundred percent for the climate and relaxed lifestyle. Vacations in the British Isles had always been a matter of cramming as much in to every hour as possible. The Greek equivalent was to do a bit in the cool of the morning, keep out of the sun for much of the day or immersed in a swimming pool, avoid being seen amongst the shops when closed for the protracted lunchtime of the locals and then emerge for a full 8 hours of casual activity from about 5pm.

Towards the end of our 2 weeks it was that time to buy souvenirs for family at home and as a good memento of our stay. In the clock tower gallery of Argostoli we had seen a painting of a sad youth in bright colours on what looked like the lid of a crate of citrus fruit. Three short lengths of wood with twin cross bracings at the back. The colours were vivid and the young subject was wistful and enigmatic with pronounced cheek bones, dark hazel brown eyes and cloaked in a bright red robe. Upon expressing an interest in the painting we were introduced to the artist. She explained that the character was Telemachus, the son of Odysseus who originated from the island of Ithaca which was only a short boat ride from the north east shore of Keffalonia. The young warrior had set out to look for his father who had been missing for 20 years. Apparently, something had kicked off involving his mother and his dad's attendance was required to deter the unwelcome attentions of some potential usurpers to his position as head of the dynasty. Telemachus and his errant father returned to wreak a horrible fate on the pretenders and the rest is set in legend. The background to the painting sealed our intention to buy it and what would have been our Duty Free budget was blown on five bits of overpainted wood.

The picture retains its vivacity and dynamism  even today after many years of being displayed at the foot of our stairs. As holiday souvenirs go it knocks a stuffed donkey into a cocked sombrero.

A History of a Family - Part 3. Brass Weigh Scales

 The BBC recently ran a radio series with the help of the British Museum on 100 objects that shaped or contributed to the history of the world. These ranged from statues to coins and from toys to modern technology. I have tried to achieve the same sense of significance but in relation to our family for a few objects lying around the house currently or remembered from growing up.

Part 3- Brass Weigh Scales

In movies depicting major narcotics rings there is always a massive array of cash counting machines churning through the ill gotten gains of illicit business. The hoodlums and their lackies bring in grubby high denomination notes and in the first stage of laundering, call it a pre-wash, these are shovelled into the ticky-clicky machines, totted up and then wrapped in an elastic band in wads of say, £1000. Beyond that process is not always shown but usually involves a small bespectacled man walking away,with a limping gait, with an attache case.

In most supermarkets there sits in the entrance or in the corner near the toilets, a large Coinstar machine into which all ages of customers pour their loose-change for noisy counting followed by an often pleasant smile at how much has been accumulating in the Bells Whisky bottle or oversized pasta jar. The only disappointment is where a small accompanying child participates by pressing the 'Donate' button rather than the 'Collect' one.

On the fairly regular visits to the branch of Lloyds Bank where my father was Manager in the 1970's I would marvel at the swift manual counting skills of the staff. The essential tools to perform this skill were a ribbed rubber thimble and/or a small petrie dish sized glass bowl with a moist sponge. Fingers flashed through the paper notes with great dexterity and mental concentration only briefly interrupted by the need to dip a forefinger in the water in order to lubricate the process.

Just along the counter and for the weighing and bagging process of coins was a magnificent set of brass scales.

This stood about 2 feet high, originally bright and brash but with the metalwork having built up an immunity to the abrasive polishing by Brasso or other treatments over many decades. The colour was now tarnished but faintly gold in hue.  The scales were a tripod in appearance but embellished with mouldings and brazings which added to the majestic status. Chain links were looped at the top over a hook and run down equidistant to a tea plate sized dish on both sides. The central armature could be adjusted to balance out the scales with the fine tuning of a metronome. The two dishes rested just above counter level but could be raised with a pivoted lever to give a visual confirmation of a balance.

Complimentary to the scales was a full set of cast brass weights. These were fascinating to play with. The graduated weights could be carefully stacked one in another to form a small but dense pyramidal tower. These ranged in our young minds from miniscule polo mint sized through to a hefty Burtons chocolate wagon wheel size. The weights were actually engraved in antique script and imperial measures from half an ounce to 1 ounce , 2 ounce and then at regular increases through 4 and 8 ounces up to the 1 pound, 2 pound and 4 pound weights. The combination of these eight weights could be used to assess the customer assembled contents of small pre-printed coin bags. This rapidly speeded up the counter process and made for happy customers. The set of scales were, in the modern banking age, surplus to requirements but represented a very strong symbol of commerce and banking that gave reassurance to savers and borrowers, investors and shareholders.

My father worked in banking for 40 years at a time when it was a greatly sought after and respected career. I was very conscious of the very high regard in which my father was held in our town and community as Branch Manager. He was trusted by personal and business customers, small and large Corporate concerns and gave good, sound and impartial advice.

Those were the days of banking when the Manager was able to endorse any request for a loan or a mortgage because there was a long term relationship with the customer and an understanding of what was really required and not as today an opportunity to cross sell everything from life insurance to car and health insurance.

Like a set of scales my father was a steady and dependable pair of hands in a fast changing and, unfortunately, an increasingly distrustful world.

A History of a Family- Part 2. Nautical Chart

 The BBC recently ran a radio series with the help of the British Museum on 100 objects that shaped or contributed to the history of the world. These ranged from statues to coins and from toys to modern technology. I have tried to achieve the same sense of significance but in relation to our family for a few objects lying around the house currently or remembered from growing up.

Part 2- Nautical Chart

The true environment for a Nautical Chart would be rolled up cocooned in others on a table in the wheelhouse of a seagoing vessel. Whilst treasured and meticulously preserved each chart would be able to convey its own story through signs of wear and tear, wind whipped edges, pencilled scribblings by way of observed amendments, the faded stains of a well earned fortified cup of tea, salt spray, sweat and tears and perhaps a few traces of fish entrails.

It was a hard decision to make but the May 1974 Gnonomic issue for England-East Coast at a scale of 1:50000 is now framed up and takes pride of place in our dining room.Whilst produced under the Superintendence of Rear Admiral G P D Hall, Hydrographer of the Navy, the chart belonged to George Brown, my father in law. He knew the area of coverage extremely well as it figured significantly through his lifetime. The northern landfall extremity of the chart shows just above the East Coast town of Withernsea and with the bottom right hand corner the dunes and marshes of the Lincolnshire coast below Grimsby. Farthest west is an inset panel of how to navigate up the Humber to Goole and below that a further extract of the entrance to the River Trent.

The course of the Humber meanders mightily as befits its role of draining one fifth of the landmass of England. To the east, the North Sea with navigation guidance as far as the former mooring position of the Humber Lightship. George was born in the port city of Kingston upon Hull in 1929. In his teens he was working on the river on low slung commercial barges which plied between the thriving Hull docks and the inland riverside towns. These vessels were the HGV's of their time carrying coal, fuel oil, grain and bulk goods in large and regular shipments.

George was on the river during the early part of the second world war and will have witnessed and indeed been exposed to the incessant airborne bombing raids on the docks and wider urban area in the peak blitz years of 1941 to 1943. His maritime experience, even though he was still under the age for conscription to the military was important and he was soon to be working much more hazardous waters on the lifeline provided to wartime allies by the Arctic convoys.

After the war George took again to the sea but in a much warmer climate and was stationed in Malta in RAF Air Sea Rescue aboard what will have been former motor torpedo boats and also as flight crew on the Sunderland Flying Boats.

George was a grafter and provider for his family working, in civilian life in the large industrial plants of Hull and also on the Blackburn Aircraft production line at Brough some 7 miles west of the city. The 1974 navigation chart was acquired by George to go with his ownership of a sea-cobble fishing boat maintained and shore-berthed at Tunstall on the Holderness Coast.

The North Sea was still a very productive fishing ground at that time and the vessel provided access well offshore to reach the stocks of fat fleshy Cod, in particular, now very sadly depleted and emaciated by comparison.

Beach angling was also a favourite pursuit of George and the chart illustrates the sheer size and scale of the annual competitions which would attract participants from all over the country, Europe and the world who would draw pegs at regular spots along the full length of the Holderness Coast from Spurn Point to Bridlington.

The chart is a technical document essential to an understanding and safe negotiation of a major and very busy watercourse but for George it was also the key to a very active and enjoyable lifelong association with things maritime.

A History of a Family Part 1= Africa

 

History of a Family (Part 1)

The BBC recently ran a radio series with the help of the British Museum on 100 objects that shaped or contributed to the history of the world. These ranged from statues to coins and from toys to modern technology. I have tried to achieve the same sense of significance but in relation to my family for a few objects lying around the house currently or remembered from growing up. The series is repeated from some time in 2011.

Part 1; Africa

I never really knew and have great difficulty actually remembering my Grandfather on my father's side of the family. He died when I was about 4 or 5 years old. My only recollection is of a very strong smell of cigarettes in his presence and how he would produce from his cardigan a packet of sweet cigarettes for us when it was time to leave and go home. Other fragments of information came from my late father and a few bits of furniture or inherited objects that came with Gran when she moved in for the last 10 or so years of her long and generally healthy life. My grandfather worked for the Bank of British West Africa which helped to introduce modern banking to that part of the African continent. He travelled widely and had associations with business and trade in Liberia and I think Sierra Leone. Two objects that fascinated me as a small child epitomised the myths surrounding my grandfather.

The first is actually a pair of crocodiles. I am not sure if I contributed to loss of the lower jaw of one of the figures but I was not to know that carved ivory was quite brittle when roughly handled in play. They are about 6 inches long, perfectly straight, and with a girth of about the middle finger. The jaws have cerrated teeth and a gaping hole of a mouth that served well as a rest for a pencil or rolled up balls of plasticine but for which it was never intended. The reptiles had a flat belly underside and could sit flat and level on display. The tail tapered to a sharp point and the whole body had a raised series of scales. I would usually head for the crocodiles first in visiting the rather dark and grim inter war semi detached house where my grandparents lived.

The second object of fascination is a carved upright figure, standing about eight inches tall. It was skillfully carved by a native African out of a single piece of light, almost balsa or cork wood. This will have been sourced from what remained of a once extensive equitorial forest but decimated under a two pronged attack to clear land for farming and to provide fuel for a village hut or smallholding farmstead. The figure is very much a caricature, comic but authoritative, of a Colonial Officer, perhaps a Civil Servant or even a Missionary or Teacher. I liked to think, when young, that it was loosely based on my grandfather. The uniform includes a pith helmet in white pigment but now very much faded to a pale washy hue. The hat is removeable and has done well to accompany the figure through many Spring Cleans and a few house removals.  His facial features are sharp with a regular but dominating nose starting well up on the forehead. The eyes are almond shaped, almost feminine in appearance. Thick fleshy lips sit above a proud chin. There remains some trace of a sunburnt skin tone but with bleaching and blotching from catching the sunlight after close to a century of exhibition and play. Attired in a khaki safari suit the figure is quite dapper. The skill of the carver has produced faint folds of linen and the suit is well tailored but cool for the sweltering climate. Incongruously the man is wearing boots with quite a Cuban heel and retaining a bright burnt-umber shade to depict leather. The pose is sitting or rather perching on a bench and at a desk to symbolise a position of relative power and control in the Colony. The desk is typical for a Board School furnishing. Stout vertical supports, low bracing bar doubling up as a footrest, hinged heavy lid, inset ink well and a groove for a writing implement. The front face of the desk has symbols of a circle and triangle, almost masonic but not thought to be of any significance or menace.

The figure is a personalised souvenir of Empire because it was individually carved with patience and artistic understanding. It may well have been one, however, of thousands of similar brought to the river bank or quayside, city square or hotel steps, railway platform or other embarKation point to be thrust into the view or hands of departing Civil Servants, Financiers, Businessmen, Private Tourists and my Grandfather.