The Merc! 

Not long after beginning the new venture in 1992 — The Swordfish II Experience — and after that alarming first trip where I’d decided to do a vast array of lunches without thinking at all about the logistics of how, I was supposed to be doing an evening trip for the Manx Shearwaters off Annet one Wednesday evening. But the weather wasn’t too great, so I drove down to the quay to cancel the trip on my blackboard. 

I drove onto the quay and pulled up in front of the ticket kiosk, fully intending to reverse around the corner onto the main quay, stopping beside my blackboard to amend it. As I pulled up in front of the kiosk, I turned the wheel to the right, turning the car’s nose out to make the reversing a little easier. I then shuffled myself around to the left in my seat so I could see clearly over my left shoulder. 

As I did so, my foot — which had been firmly on the brake — slid off onto the accelerator and, as I hadn’t at that point changed gear, I shot forward and disappeared over the edge of the quay, much to my shock and amazement. It was in very slow motion. 

Fortunately, the tide was out. Unfortunately, my Uncle Joe’s boat Penguin was below… and I ended up on top of the boat. When the car finally stopped moving — now standing on its nose, upright in the boat — I managed to open the door and extricate myself from it. 

Dazed and in a total quandary as to what had just happened and what on earth I should do, I wandered into the Mermaid and asked who I should call for help. “Willie Pritchard,” was the answer; he had a lorry with a crane on the back which could lift the car out. So Willie was called. 

I returned to the beach where the police were already sussing out the situation. They breathalysed me and, contrary to what most people later suggested, I was completely unintoxicated. The car was duly retrieved and driven back up the quay, little the worse for wear. 

I, on the other hand, spiraled into dark thoughts about what could have happened. 
What if the tide had been in? 
What if Uncle Joe had been in the boat? 
What if? What if? 
And I still do. 

This all happened just half an hour before the ladies’ gig race that evening, so of course there were scores of people coming down the quay to watch that — but instead they got caught up in witnessing my debacle. 

One question I was asked many times afterwards was what was in the box I was carrying. Apparently, I had a small Tupperware box clutched tightly in my hand. I don’t remember carrying it at all, but it was suggested that it must’ve been my day’s takings. I had to confess that it was, in fact, my box of chalks for writing on the blackboard to say I wasn’t performing that night. 

I never got to change it. 

“It takes a village to rear a child.” 

So it is said — and in Scilly back in the 20th century, it was certainly true in my experience. 

No matter where you went or what you did, there was always someone who knew you or someone you knew, so help with anything was never far away. Equally, if you were misbehaving you could guarantee that your parents would know what you’d been up to before you got home. 

Because everyone knew everyone, we were taught to speak nicely, to say hello to anyone we met or passed. The parting shot from Mum as we went out the door was always: 
“And remember your P’s and Q’s!” 
So very rarely did I forget. 

I learned that lesson the harrd way, one day when I was about seven or eight, in the dairy, buying an ice cream. The lady behind the counter asked me what I would like. 
“Ice cream!” I said. 
She repeated her question; I repeated my answer... 
Four times she asked me. 

On the third time I thought I was going mad. 
On the fourth time I thought she was going mad. 

Until a person behind me leaned over and whispered in my ear: 
“I think she wants to hear a please.” 

I nearly died with embarrassment. 
And since that day, I’ve never forgotten my P’s and Q’s. 

As children, many of the things we were taught as a matter of decency in those days have long since been dropped from society. Things like: 

• always giving up your seat for a lady or older person 

• holding the door open for anyone behind you 

• speaking when you enter a room, then being quiet until spoken to 

• in shops, “Look but don’t touch!” 

• asking to leave the table after a meal — and sometimes being refused 

We always had to do the washing up after a meal. I hated it then, but now I look back and realise that was when, as siblings, we chatted and laughed together, and the washing up got done quicker. 

Especially if my middle sister helped — but for some reason she always needed to go to the loo after we’d eaten, and the washing up was invariably finished by the time she got back. I only realised what she was up to when, one day, I caught her peeping around the corner of the water tank in the yard on her way back from the loo, checking whether we’d finished. 

The rascal! 

“The Handkerchief.” 

One of the things I hated most as a young child always happened on the bus by the park. Mum would make sure we were on the bus early. We sat there waiting for Ronnie to climb aboard and the first thing she did was take her hanky out of her pocket, lick it, and proceed to wipe the dirt, ice cream, or chocolate off my face. 

After the first time, I decided I was not going to play ball. I’d wriggle, squirm and squeak, trying to avoid the dreaded hanky — but she always managed to clean me up. 

So I devised a cunning plan: 
I wouldn’t get on the bus too early. 
This worked brilliantly. 

While Mum gesticulated frantically through the window for me to get aboard, I was outside gleefully enjoying a few moments of freedom. 

Only once did Ronnie actually drive off — leaving me behind, hidden behind the telephone boxes. He stopped for me just around the corner when Mum squealed. 

Another lesson I learned!

Living up at Longstone Terrace, with a lovely belt of pine trees running behind, was pure magic. Climbing trees, building camps, swinging on the rope with a tyre tied on the end — life for children back in the ’60s was pure, unadulterated joy. With several beaches just a 20-minute walk in almost every direction, life couldn’t have been better. There was always too much choice of what to do, build a camp, build a treehouse, go swimming, fishing or rock climbing. Go to one of the off Islands with your mates, take a picnic, dont take a picnic, go boating with dad. But as I grew older, some of those decisions were taken away as in the summer, dad would get me helping in the garden, not a job I particularly cherished, especially weeding the cursed onions, which seemed to be my job, a job I now understand to be most important. 

“The Plaza.” 

As a child, being taken to the cinema was a real treat. I remember the first time I ever went — to see Disney’s Fantasia. It was amazing. I loved it. 

Going to the flicks in those days was wonderful, of course, but not quite as wonderful as going to see Vic Trenwith and Jim Pearce in the Scillonian Entertainers on stage in the Town Hall. They were hilarious. 

I also remember very vividly seeing them on the back of a lorry in the yearly Carnival, probably around 1961/62, singing “There’s a hole in my bucket, dear Liza.” 
The impact they had on my life was immense. My love for those old music-hall songs — the ones they always sang — became firmly entrenched in me. I used many of them in the years that followed, especially when I started a theatre club, The Stagelights, in Bristol after I’d left the islands. 

Not only did those songs shape my life, but the lives of many youngsters since. I would get such joy from hearing the kids humming the tunes or singing those songs long after we’d finished a particular production. I know those melodies will turn up again in some theatre somewhere in the future. 

A few memories etched in my head about the Plaza: 

• The sight of the rats running back and forth below the screen.
  • The cry of “ZZZZZZZOOOOOMMMM!” as Zoom lollies were raised into the air after the interval. It always began with someone quietly making a bee-like “zzzzzzzz,” gradually growing louder and louder until — suddenly — all the lollies shot up at once. 
  • The bigger boys creeping in through the exit door. One would come in the proper way, pay his 9d (4p) for a seat, then sneak down and let his mates in the exit. 
  • And of course, the sight of cigarette smoke drifting lazily through the beam of the projectors — sometimes more mesmerising than the film itself. 

It was a day of great sadness when the Plaza finally closed, and the cinema was no more. 

Winkling 

I remember only too well how every year on Good Friday we were sent off down to Auntie Ena’s in the morning, where we would have a drink and wait for the tide to go out. It is always low tide close to midday on Good Friday, so perfect for heading down onto Porth Cressa and clambering out amongst the rocks on the Brow to collect a load of winkles. 

Then back to Auriga to boil them. Auntie always gave us some to take home to eat. I was never too sure how much I enjoyed them. I was happy enough to collect them, happy enough to cook them, and even happy enough to pick them out with a pin — but when it came to actually eating them, I wasn’t quite so sure. I would eat a couple to show willing, then quickly make some excuse to disappear, leaving my sisters to sort the rest out! 

Eddy 

Two of the highlights of my week when I was a nipper always came on a Thursday and a Monday, usually around 2 p.m. I would sit in the dining room and wait for Eddy and his bread van to arrive. He would reverse right along the front of the houses to Number 3 for Mrs Pender and Mrs Thompson to come out and get their bread and a few other bits and pieces, then he’d drive up and park in front of our house. 

I always managed to beat Mum out there. I remember the wonderful smell of fresh baked bread emanating from the back of his van. He also carried a couple of boxes of chocolate bars, and sometimes — when we could afford it — I was allowed a tube of Smarties or a bar of Fry’s Five Boys. 

My last memory of Eddy’s van is from a very nice day down at Old Town. I was heading home on my scooter, having been on the beach for a swim. As I shot around the corner just past Stone Raise, I was going a little faster than perhaps I ought, because there was the bread van with its back doors wide open — and before I had a chance to stop, I found myself sprawled out inside the van, amongst several loaves of bread, bottles of pop, and assorted items. I very quickly extricated myself and drove off before Eddy came out and found me.

The Scooter 

It was amazing how much I put that scooter through, and how it stood up to the wear and tear. It was a damn good workhorse for many years. I would often have three dogs on it with me — two Border Terriers on the footplate and Rooffuss on my lap — and occasionally four. When Toby the West Highland Terrier was around, he was more than happy to sit in the box I pulled behind. 

I must admit that I fell off the darn thing more than once. I always enjoyed a pint or six or seven. I hated being drunk so I liked to check if I was still sober. So, I would drive home from the school to New Seat at the end of Longstone Lane without touching the handlebars. On the odd occasion I wasn’t sober, I would go flying. 

I think the most memorable time on the scooter — which I don’t really remember much about — was one night after a lengthy period of not drinking, eating sensibly, and having just packed up smoking 40 a day. I decided that I was going to have a drink that night. 

Well… after copious quantities of beer and a great many whisky chasers, the time came when Brandon was kicking us all out of the Mermaid. I remember staggering to the scooter, which was parked on the Atlantic slipway, escorted by a policeman. I managed to get on the scooter and drive up to the road, where he stood watching. As I got to the road he put up his hand and stopped me. 

“Bugger,” I thought. “He’s going to arrest me for drunk driving.” 

Just then a car shot past and the very kind policeman told me to get on home. So off I went. 

The next thing I remember was hitting the pavement by the church as I turned the corner towards the school — which was strange, as I always went up the Strand to go home. My next memory was halfway up Longstone Lane. I fell off the bike, picked it up, it immediately fell over the other side — and after several attempts I failed miserably to keep it upright. I pushed it to the side, left it there for the night, and staggered the last 100 yards home. 

The next day I learned why I had gone up Church Street rather than the Strand: 
I had gone to the disco in the Town Hall. 

While I was on the boat that day, several people asked how I was, and told me I’d had a rather eventful time at the disco — twice lifting one poor maid high into the air and dropping her unceremoniously on the floor. Fortunately, I saw the young lady later, and she confirmed that yes, I had indeed tried to lift her above my head, with no success whatsoever, and no permanent scarring to her psyche. Phew! 

The Van

On another memorable night, when I had my Honda TN Acty van, I received a message from my Aunty Betty — who was a nun living in Truro. She told me that a newly married young couple were holidaying in Scilly and, as they were very good friends of hers, would I hunt them down and look after them? As you do! 

They were camping on the Garrison, so it wasn’t difficult to find them. My sister Ann and I went up to the campsite to pick them up, then drove down into town and parked opposite the Steamship Company office. We entered the hallowed portal of the Bishop and Wolf to partake of a few bevvies. 

Once said bevvies had been partaken of, we adjourned to the Atlantic Inn for a couple more and from thence to the Mermaid. Up until now we’d had a very enjoyable evening and, feeling a little tipsy, we headed back to the car. 

The young couple — quite rightly — were concerned that perhaps I oughtn’t to be driving. I explained that I was probably a bit too unfit to walk all that way, so I had to drive. 

As we approached Michael Gray’s shop, I suddenly became aware that my car was now parked outside the chemist. 

“Strange,” I thought. 
“Who on earth moved my car?” 

Ann and the young couple were equally mystified. 

“The only ones who would move it would be the police,” I said. 

“But how would they do that without a key?” the young lad asked. 

“Well, the key was in the ignition,” I explained. “I always leave it there in case it’s in the way and someone needs to move it.” 

We all clambered in and set off. 

As we reached the Steamship office, a policeman was standing there, loitering suspiciously. I stopped sharply — sending the couple in the back sprawling — wound down the window and barked, “Oi! Come ’ere! What do you know about my car being moved?” 

He was a copper of excellent character but absolutely hopeless at telling a lie. He stuttered and ummed and ahhed and finally said: 

“Well… err… I… I know something about it.” 

Just then, a policewoman appeared round the corner of the paper shop. I immediately knew who was responsible. 

“Oi! You! What do you know about my car being moved?” 

She laughed. 
“Thank God you found it. I was getting worried you might’ve gone back to the Bishop and Wolf and wouldn’t know where it had gone!” 

The poor policeman beside her added, still stuttering helplessly, 
“I… I didn’t drive it. She wanted me to, but I refused, so I sat in the passenger seat.” 

“I saw you going up to the Mermaid earlier,” the policewoman explained, “so I thought we’d be kind and move the car closer for you, so you didn’t have so far to stagger.” 

By this time, the couple in the back were gurgling with utter fear — we appeared to be surrounded by police, all slightly merry, and they clearly thought their honeymoon was about to end with us all behind bars. 

But that was the beauty of Scilly back in the day. 

We all ended up laughing, then went on our way. 

Of course, this behaviour wouldn’t be countenanced today.