"At All Events" by R.E. Mortleman

“At All Events” is former commercial fashion artist Rose Mortleman’s warm and witty account of growing up in a working-class family in the suburban London town of Twickenham during the 1930s and 1940s.

The only daughter of Fred and Dorothy Pickles, a painter-decorator and a former cook in service, Rose paints a vivid picture of her happy family home and the colourful characters who peopled her childhood.

In this gentle tale, skilfully told, we follow the author’s uneasy journey from toddler to teenage artist. Along the way we meet a cast of relatives, neighbours, teachers and friends vividly recalled from a bygone era. (Fred and Dorothy were born in Victorian times)

The text is accompanied by original photographs and a selection of the author’s cartoons from the period.

“At All Events” (ISBN 978-1-4709-2701-1) can be ordered online at http://bit.ly/atallevents

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Some of the places, businesses, events, etc. mentioned in the book:
York House, The Royal Albert, Talbot Road, Marsh Farm Road, Heath Road, Twickenham Green Road, Richmond and Twickenham Times, Holy Trinity Church, the Luxor cinema, The Red Lion, Lion Road, Henekeys, Briar Road Infants, Archdeacon Cambridge School, Pilkington’s, King George’s Silver Jubilee, Marble Hill Park, Orleans Park, The King’s Head, Strawberry Hill, Ham Fields, Radnor Gardens, The Grotto (pub), Doug Hermes (film director), Fulwell Road, Staines Road, Teddington, Richmond, Chiswick, Meadway, Kneller School, Twickenham Art School.

Extracts from the book..

Mum favoured the small shops in Lion Road, through the arch under the railway. We called it The Dip because it filled with water when we had a storm. The butcher’s shop, the paper shop and the grocery store were only a few minutes walk from home. She shopped daily, because we had no refrigerator. Meat was kept in a food safe on the outside wall. She bought fruit and vegetables from the man who called with a horse-drawn cart once a week; the horse always stood on the pavement and put his head over our gate waiting for Mum to give him a lump of sugar or an apple. 

“He’s very knowing,” she said. “Look how gently he takes it from my hand.”

Sometimes the horse obliged by leaving some manure for Mr. Pearmund next door to shovel up for his garden.

*     *     *

Tony Hermes, who lived at the bottom of our road near the railway line, was very well informed on all subjects relating to showbusiness. His father worked for the local film studios as a “Jack of all trades” ; we had even seen him in B pictures at the cinema. “Look,” Mum would say, “There’s Mr Hermes popping up through that trap door.”

Mum said Mr Hermes had once asked her to take me to the film studios – a baby was needed for a film about an orphan. Mum went to see the producer, who was an American and kept calling her “Honey”. She didn’t like that. He told her they really needed a baby boy, but I would do.

“I asked what they were going to do with you and he said you’d be made all dirty and left on a doorstep. The chap playing the butler was going to bath you. I said you’d scream the place down and he said that was all the better! I soon bundled you up and brought you home – they strong lights could have ruined your eyesight!”

My one chance to be a film star had very quickly been quashed by Mum.

*     *     *

Mr Garrod planned to visit Stonehenge and was afterwards coming to see us. He arrived at teatime, laden with leaflets, postcards and books. He had certainly aged since we last saw him, his once sandy hair and auburn moustache were now pure white and he wore tiny round spectacles. Almost immediately he launched into a discussion with my father about Stonehenge, and showed us lots of pictures of the stones.

Mum cut piles of bread and jam and poured endless cups of tea, but Mr Garrod continued to talk to Dad while he munched and drank. He told him about the mummies in the British Museum and showed him a large scrapbook full of newspaper cuttings about archaeological expeditions undertaken years before.

Mr Garrod turned to look at me at one point; he adjusted his spectacles and stared really hard.

“You remind me of someone,” he said. “I can’t think who it is – perhaps I should need to go back in time to recall your face.”

That remark caused Mum to refer to him ever after as ‘Old Father Time’.

On his return to Kent Mr Garrod sent yet another long letter to my father. He said he had gone through all his books to see if he could find my likeness, and triumphantly announced that I was a possible reincarnation of Queen Nefertiti. This made even Dad laugh. Mum was now convinced Old Father Time had a screw loose.

“Queen whatsername? He’s always on about that blooming reincarnation lark – do you remember, Fred, when he said you were St Francis of Assisi come back to life?” Mum thought for a moment and then added: “Mind you, I can believe that; all they blooming stray cats that we had under the lean-to!”

 *     *      *

Gipsies called about twice a year, with clothes-pegs and lace. Mum always bought pegs from the same gipsy, who had a child a bit younger than me: a small, brown-skinned girl with sharp, bright eyes and curly hair. Mum saved my outgrown clothes for the gipsy, who rewarded her with a sprig of lucky heather which Mum kept until it went to seed.

Gran mistrusted gipsies and told me to stay indoors with her when they appeared at the back door. “Don’t you go to the door, Duckie.  It’s Them People come to see your Mum.”

Gran watched from the front-room window to make sure they had gone, before letting me out of her sight. Life was full of hazards, according to Gran. Auntie had a large repertoire of songs about children who were stolen by gipsies, burned with pokers through playing with fire, drowned in ponds, lost because they strayed from home ... I thought it a miracle that any children survived.  

*     *     *

It was an awful job to get Auntie through the entrance of the shelter – Dad stood at the foot of the steps to catch her in case she fell, while Mum pushed her from behind. Auntie sat on a chair in the dank hole, with my mother opposite. Dad and I occupied the bunks.

“I can smell cats’ pee!” Auntie insisted, and took her smelling salts out of her handbag to sniff.

Mum had brought a flask of cocoa and tried to take Auntie’s mind off the cats by pouring each of us a cup.

“I can’t stand this smell,” Auntie said. “However do people get any rest in these places?”

The siren wailed its warning for the third time that night. We could hear the whistle of bombs above us; Dad looked out a few times and reported sightings of distant flames.

“I wonder if I ought to go and have a proper look – the ones on duty might need a hand.”

“For heavens sake Fred, you’ve done your share this week! Stay here and try and get some rest – at least we’re safe!”

I curled up on the bunk and slept soundly. At six a.m. I awoke to find Auntie stuck in the entrance of the shelter. “Let me get back home quick,” she said. “If I’ve got to die I’ll do so in my own bed, bombs or no bombs. Didn’t get a wink of sleep; you lot can do what you like, but I’m staying at home!”

It was the only night we ever spent in an Anderson shelter.

*     *      *

About the author...

Rose Mortleman (b.1931) is a retired commercial artist, prolific letter-writer, occasional cartoonist and slightly dotty cat-lover. In 2011, she lives in Long Melford, Suffolk, with her husband Brian and cat Sandy. She has one son, James, and two grandchildren, Ellen (6) and George (4).  Like her late forebears, she adores - and is in turn adored by - all her family (and many friends). 

"At All Events" is her first full-length book (although she has been known to dabble in short stories and cartoon booklets on occasion).

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