The Sketchbook

My mother and father had made strident efforts at various times over the years to make a lasting partnership, but such was the island’s local stigma and prudency that they were immediately seen as outsiders by both families and friends. I recall my mother wearing a beautiful brightest red full silk skirt and soft knitted white bolero her long black curly hair wisping all ways as she took my fathers arm before alighting down the grim cold staircase in Kent house. Eyes bright and wide he would be smiling broadly at her, his naturally wavy golden hair slicked flat by brilliantine. Smelling of moth balls and cheap cologne my father was dressed in his light grey James Cagney suit sporting a wide garish tie you wouldn’t wear for dare.

In my hands was my sketch book, my pencil busy outlining the view of the front entrance of Kent House from where my mother and father had just emerged.

‘Going for a walk…Won’t be long, bring you something nice back.’ Shouted my mother, waving a white gloved hand in my direction.

‘Mind you don’t fall out of that bloody tree nipper’, I heard my father shout back, as they rounded the short path that led to York Avenue.

From my position in the tree I shrugged a reply as I watched them disappear into the pink evening light.

One of my delights was drawing not so much painting or pen and ink heaven forbid that the pallid thin water colours might stain or leave a permanent reminder of creativity in their wake.

The Voices demanded order as well as cleanliness.

My art was mainly the pencil variety on the yellowing back fly leaf paper removed from library or textbooks. So, imagine my delight following a visit to Shirley’s when she gave me a sketchbook and a box of coloured pencils. Drawing, together with the help of my imagination afforded not so much an escape as another comfortable hiding place. I vowed to carry the sketch book and pencils with me wherever I went. Throughout the rest of that summer the world was there, it seemed, for my delight to record with my pencils.

It was such an occasion, a day or two later; that I was interrupted as I lay huddled beside the rocks on Gurnard beach, cheating the cutting wind as it skimmed in from Solent. Close by, in the damp sand a group of young girls in thin pretty cotton dresses with bright ribbons and their pigtails flying.They were chanting a singsong skipping game. Taking up my pencils, I scribbled their laughter and vitality busily into my sketchbook.

‘Bugger me I think I’ve seen everything now,’ laughed Alan loudly, as he called over his shoulder.

This rude intrusion was none other than Alan Hick my once constant ‘Tree Camp’ companion. A little further down the beach struggling with something at the water’s edge was Mike Brinton

Alan waved his arm wildly, ‘Come here Mike, come and see what the tides washed up.’

Mike, who had been pulling a large piece of driftwood behind him ran up the beach and craned over my shoulder grinning widely.

‘Wutcher Gus, we haven’t seen you for ages Nipper’

‘I’ve been staying…

‘What’s it supposed to be then? He interjected, jabbing at my open

sketchbook, showering the page with shingle from his grubby wet finger.

‘Girls skipping’, I heard myself saying in a monotone.

‘You want to give it a rest, our young’un can do better than that…

‘Yeah, and he’s only four,’ shrieked Alan.

His convulsions were suddenly cut short by him slipping at that precise moment, between the seaweed strewn green rocks into a shallow rock pool.

After an explosion of expletives, a flailing arm was seen

Alan shouted out, ‘Give us a bloody hand up then… Bugger! I’m bloody soaking, Look, I’m bleeding.’

He waved his scraped hand in the air to shake out the pain and whistle hissing through his teeth. Meanwhile Mike proffered both a helping hand and a ragged handkerchief.

‘You must be bloody joking! Christ only knows where you’ve had that thing,’ howled Alan, thrusting his bleeding hand deep into his pocket for comfort.

‘When did you take up drawing then Gus,’ asked Mike.

I shrugged, ‘Been doing it for For ages.’

‘Let’s see what else you’ve done, asked Alan.

‘You can when I’ve finished, I said, watching the two eldest girls dancing into the turning rope.

…In came a bogeyman and pushed me out!

‘Your mum’s up the hospital, isn’t she? Is she ill then? Mike said, holding his flapping, raggy handkerchief aloft between outstretched fingers.

‘Is she up ‘St Mary’s Hospital’ then? Alan asked.

I nodded, pretending to be far more interested in my drawing of the girls than updating Alan who would certainly be in his mother’s good books if he was able to bring fresh gossip home.

‘Our Mum says that you must probably be over West at your gran’s house’.

My head stayed in my book

So, me and Mike called at your gran’s this morning, and she said you was over East staying with your dad.

Alan shrugged, so me an’ Mike says, let’s go over to Gurnard for a bit of laugh on the shore and then bugger me…

…guess who we find?

‘Yeah that’s really queer mate, said Mike, especially when your dad thought you was over West with your gran.’

‘So, where you been and why are you over here? Posed the jabbing pointed finger of Alan.

Their undoing words hung like knives in the air. Hardly audible, my rasping whisper was awaited by the two expectant boys

‘I been staying with one of my aunties?’

Down came a blackbird and pecked off her snout

‘One of your aunties!’ Repeated an incredulous Alan.

‘What auntie is that then?’ Mike said softly, as he busied himself with filling his handkerchief with soft, sandy shingle.

‘Be his daft old aunt Min, laughed Alan.

‘Who?

‘You know’, Alan attempted a grotesque impression of poor Aunt Min.

‘Her that gets drunk down at the ‘Commercial’ over Cowes every Saturday night’.

‘Then pisses her pants’, laughed Mike inanely.

‘Bugger off! If you must know’, I bellowed, old aunt Min lives with my gran over West!’

She flew to the window…

All my loud protests were for nothing, they met with nothing but hoots of derision and increased enquiry concerning the whereabouts of my mysterious aunt.

‘I’ve got loads of aunts over here, I said without looking up.

‘Where?’ Mike asked in a loud doubting tone.

‘Yeah, where does she live? Alan sneered.

Gesturing, I waved my arm in the direction of the Gurnard marshes which ran close to the shoreline.

‘Over there somewhere, I said, not far.’

What a pretty view, whatever shall I do…

‘What’s her name then? auntie who? Yelled Mike, as he leaned back and began to spin the ragged sling of shingle above his head faster and faster.

‘Shirley…

‘Both boys pretended not to hear but neither would dare to forget before they got back home to divulge this snippet of gossip to their mothers.

‘Where is she then? this auntie of yours…

‘She gone up Newport in her car, it’s a Ford Prefect.

As I uttered the word ‘Car’ and ‘Ford Prefect’ both boy’s bright eyes widened, and their mouths fell agape.

…then up came a bogeyman and threw her OUT!

Suddenly, the girls screamed and scattered as the handkerchief full of shingle burst in their midst, leaving Alan Hick and Mike Brinton spinning in the sand helpless with laughter.

After a short altercation with the parents of one of the girls we moved off down the shoreline in the

general direction of Cowes. We walked and talked until finally ‘Egypt Point’ loomed into view, by which time I had furnished the boys with most of the details concerning my poor mother’s demise and most of the recent changes and happenings to my life. Always careful to mention Shirley in the guise of a long-lost auntie who had elected to take care of me overnight before returning to grans whilst my mother recovered from her illness. Parting company was noisy and boisterous, as my two friends continued to shout crude obscenities at each other as they raced each other up the steep stone steps that lead them up from the beach to the Coast Road and back to the small town of West Cowes.