cottages was Bellanger’s the ironmongers, then the Bungalow Stores owned by Mr. Walker where we placed a weekly order for groceries; his cheery assistant, Chris Kenny, delivered our order at the end of the week. had a beautiful red letter box outside; inside on the counter was spread the order book, full of accounts and addresses, next to the metal spike set in a wooden block where paid-up bills were counter was the scene of many a battle between me and my brother as to who would have the honour of proffering up the ration book to be stamped. Thump, thump, thump went the stamp on the book and that’s your lot for this week – make it last! But there was often an extra egg in the little brown paper bag.
the Bungalow Stores where we bought lovely orange speckled plaice, up from the coast in their chilly ice packs, their still unmilky eyes declaring their freshness.
And so up to the newsagents, with the advertisement board outside amid the metal sandwich boards shouting their headlines in stoppers and aniseed balls.
Another destination of enormous interest was Clack’s Yard. Like many other young families, we were constantly doing up our bungalow and always in need of building materials, so Clack’s Yard, opposite what was the Gilmais Swimming Pool on the Top Road, was a frequent weekend outing. I observed with close attention as a window pane was cut with a ‘diamond’. Yes, Watching these tradesmen and my father in action with their tools has taught me far more than I could glean in the present day DIY centres.
One service that we rarely used, but would have loved to, was the ice-cream van with its
to road, so near yet so far away. We would sit mouth-watering envy until the van turned into Lane, and then, our tummies in our boots, we would hide in the gooseberry bushes at the bottom of the garden and suck unripe fall-down plums.
So, we restored our bodies and our bungalow clothing secteur. We all knitted industriously, but our birthday or Christmas outings were establishment was right at the bottom of Church Road, the last shop on the right, with little steps store room at the back behind a curtain where there were piles of Kangol hats and other treasures. This was the domaine of Mrs. Kleebo (the spelling of this lady’s name was never elucidated. I assumed that it must start with ‘K’ for Kangol, but does anyone from back then remember?). She wore a Kangol hat anchored with discreet but lethal hat pins. The ladies of our family, my grandmother, my mother and I found three generations of dresses and coats my grandmother who was tiny, so the hem was taken up. Then it was passed on to my mother when it became a mini. What a good thing no- one wore trousers in those days. ‘Waste not, want not’ was the rule of thumb in those days, but we never went hungry, and something new of one’s very own was an event to be cherished. It was the anticipation of ownership, the ogling of a new dress in a shop window for months, waiting for a birthday to come round, which made it really special when days, but the stuff that memories were made of.
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