Life [16]
I kept a notebook for songs and ideas on the last tour we did, while I was thinking about these memoirs. There’s an entry that reads, “A snapshot of Bert & Doris leapfrogging in the ’30s, I found in my gander bag. Tears to the eyes.” The pictures actually show them doing a kind of calisthenics—Bert doing handstands on Doris’s back, both of them doing cartwheels and tableaux, Bert particularly showing off his physique. Bert and Doris seemed, in those early photographs, to be having a wonderful time together, going camping, going to the sea, having so many friends. He was a real athlete. He was an Eagle Scout too, which is the highest you can get in scouting. He was a boxer, Irish boxer. Very physical, my dad. In that way I think I’ve inherited that thing of “Oh, come on, what do you mean you’re not feeling well?” The body, you take that for granted. Doesn’t matter what you do to it, it’s supposed to work. Forget about taking care of it. We have that constitution where it’s unforgivable for it to break down. I’ve stuck to it. “Oh, it’s just a bullet, just a flesh wound.”
Doris and I were close, and Bert was excluded in a way, simply because he wasn’t there half the time. Bert was a fucking hardworking man, silly sod, for twenty-odd quid a week, going up to Hammersmith to work for General Electric, where he was a foreman. He knew a lot about valves—the loading and transporting of them. You can say what you like about Bert, he wasn’t a man of ambition. I think because he grew up through the Depression, his idea of ambition was getting a job and holding on to it. He got up at 5:00, back home at 7:30, went to bed at 10:30, which gave him about three hours a day with me. He tried to make it up to me at weekends. I’d go to his tennis club with him or he’d take me up the heath and we’d play soccer a bit or we’d work our garden allotment. “Do this, do that.” “All right, Dad.” “Wheelbarrow, hoe this, weed this.” I liked to watch the way things grow and I knew my dad knew what he was on about. “We’ve got to get these spuds in now.” Just the basic stuff. “Nice runner beans this year.” He was pretty distant. There wasn’t time to be close, but I was quite happy. To me he was a great bloke; he was just me dad.
Being an only child forces you to invent your world. First you’re living in a house with two adults, and so certain bits of childhood will go by with you listening almost exclusively to adult conversation. And hearing all these problems about the insurance and the rent, I’ve got nobody to turn to. But any only child will tell you that. You can’t grab hold of a sister or a brother. You go out and make friends, but playtime stops when the sun goes down. And then the other side of that, with no brothers or sisters and no immediate cousins in the area—I’ve got loads of extended family, but they weren’t there—was how to make friends and who to make friends with. It becomes a very important, a vital part of existence when you’re that age.
Holidays were particularly intense from that point of view. We’d go to Beesands in Devon, where we used to have a caravan. It was next to a village called Hallsands, which had fallen into the sea, a ruined village, which was very interesting to a young kid. It was really Five Go Mad in Dorset. All these dilapidated houses, and half of them you can see under the water. These weird, romantic ruins right next door. Beesands was an old fishing village, right on the beach, where fishing boats were pulled up. To me when I was a kid, it was a great community because you got to know everybody within two or three days. Within four days I’m talking with a deep Devon burr and relishing being a local. I’d meet tourists: “Which way’s Kingbridge?” “Ooh,