I grew up in the 1950s. That was a decade which, as far as I was concerned, was just wonderful. Mum was home and in the kitchen making all the foods that I liked, Dad was at work and I would walk down The Terrace to the steps where I would meet him each night as he walked home from Parliament. Everything was just right, and everyone was in his or her right place.
Of course, today, so-called experts look back at the 50s and see a decade of oppressed women, tied to the kitchen sink; of 6 o'clock closing (pubs, in those days, all closed at 6pm, and that's quite another story - men would roll out of them, drunk, and go home to "beat up their wives". Not all men did that, of course, but it's a colourful notion of how it was in the 50s)
Looking back at that decade, it was directly after the end of WWII when women held down jobs on farms, in factories, offices, joined the army, navy, and airforce, and supposedly found their own individuality. After the war, they went back to the home. Supposedly, they lost their so-called individuality, but had it been worth fighting for? They still had been looked upon as second-class citizens; the men still dominated on the farms, in factories, offices and in the forces, so although they may have had a taste of 'real work', it was mainly in the labour force and not in a career that women found themselves. For many of them, when their menfolk came home, there was a huge desire for normality, and they were glad to go back to a family life that had been snatched away so suddenly.
So, back to the kitchen. Newly married, both Mum and Dad had lost loved ones in the war, but now were making a new life, in a small two-bedroom flat in Carrigafoyle flats, 193 The Terrace, Wellington. Both my sister and I were born there. I was born in Ghuznee Street in a private nursing home. My mother was there at the same time as her close friend, Nell, who was pregnant with Anne. Although we weren't born in the same place, as Anne decided she'd come into the world via caesarian section, we claim to have known each other since we were both embryos. There are only 12 days difference between us, with me being born on 12 May, and she on 24th which was, in those days, Empire Day. My sister was born three and a half years later on 9 January. I can remember back as far as that.
I think Mum was really happy. I remember she and Dad had the same nick-names for each other - "Hank" which I suppose was an Americanism. They socialised quite a lot; went out in the evenings, with Mum having to come into us before she went out and give us a "swirl". Her dresses were beautiful. Organza, full skirted, boat-neck, or square-neck, pretty colours, strappy high heels, a clasp bag, nylon seamed stockings, and masses of jewellery given to her by Dad. She looked lovely.
I think Mum was really happy. I remember she and Dad had the same nick-names for each other - "Hank" which I suppose was an Americanism. They socialised quite a lot; went out in the evenings, with Mum having to come into us before she went out and give us a "swirl". Her dresses were beautiful. Organza, full skirted, boat-neck, or square-neck, pretty colours, strappy high heels, a clasp bag, nylon seamed stockings, and masses of jewellery given to her by Dad. She looked lovely.
I remember helping Dad make their bed each morning - he slept late because of the working hours when Parliament was sitting. I would stand on one side of the bed, smoothing, straightening, and tucking in sheets and blankets, all the while talking to my make-believe friend, "Roddy". I used to make him stand back from the bed in case he got in the way.
We didn't have a car, so we would walk everywhere. I guess I would have been in a pushchair, and Mum would walk down to the Boulcott Street flats to meet Nell who would be pushing Anne in her pushchair. They would go into town, along Lambton Quay; to the library, to the park. There were no supermarkets, so Mum would shop every day, either at the dairy where Nell lived, or further up The Terrace where it turned into Salamanca Road. Bread was baked by Denhards with a large D on the side, imprinted from the baking tin. You would buy a double, or just a half loaf. Bread came as a double and the shopkeeper would break or tear the fresh bread in half down an imprinted groove. The two opposing sides would be ragged, soft, and oh, so delicious. Called the 'kissing crust', it was irresistible not to pick at. You ask any child of the 50s if they picked secretly at the kissing crust. It also made the best toast, too.
The dairy still had some shelves boarded up where stock that was hard to get was kept and sold to 'best customers'. Coffee (instant) for example, various tinned goods. Mum once told me she spent no more than 10/6d on a week's groceries. Today's rate that would probably be around $1.50 - including the Sunday leg of lamb for roasting.
I used to go to Sunday School - the nearest one being the Baptist church down Boulcott Street (it's still there). Anne and I would go, and sometimes Colin would be forced to join us. Usually he ran away. To me, Sunday School was always connected with the lovely roast lamb, gravy, roast potatoes, and mint sauce that was only an hour away. Colin lived in the block of flats next to Boulcott Street flats. Embassy Court. It was much smarter than our flats and had a lift. It had a clanging metal gate that you closed first, then the inside sliding wooden door with a tiny window at the top. I have an image of Pru (Colin's mum) always waving us goodbye as the lift slid back down to the ground floor. Pru was lovely and I adored her. She was the woman you always wanted for your mum when you were in trouble with your own. When she was pregnant with David, she used to let us look down the front of her pinny to see if we could see the baby.
I loved her.
Colin and Anne used to play together a lot, and would try to convince me to join in their fun. One day, to prove my worth, I did as they told me, and pee'd behind the sofa. Got in for it, too. I suppose I was about 4 yrs old. Probably the same age when I decided I wanted to be a dog and just pee in the street, instead of having to go indoors which always took so much time. I distinctly remember taking off my knickers, lifting my leg and trying to aim a pee down the lamppost. Of course all that happened was I got warm wet socks and shoes.
I can remember quite clearly when Mum was pregnant with my sister. I used to play outside on the street, with dire warnings about going onto the road, and would wander up and down The Terrace picking weed flowers. Oxalis, some other red-flowering weed, and present my posy to Mum. I distinctly remember her saying to me, "I wish you could stay like this forever".
When I started school, it was only a moderate walk away at a small model school called Clifton Terrace. I started there with Anne, and Miss Finity was our first teacher. We used to sit on the mat at her feet and listen to stories. I can remember her ankle boots with fur around the top. I also remember wetting my pants at school and Mum coming and taking me home. I didn't like the school toilet block with its cold concrete walls and floor, and the tiny little dunnies with wooden rims like brackets, and no doors. The teacher had a big toilet with a door that shut.
Anne didn't stay at that school for long, as her family shifted to Karori, but she would talk home with me after school where, once opposite the Flats, and to our personal endless embarrassment, I would have to blow a whistle loud enough for Mum to hear and come out to escort us across the busy street. I would wait until there were no cars then blow my whistle, hoping no one saw me.
On Saturday mornings, Dad would take me down to Adams Bruce' corner. They had the best ice-cream in the world. Served in double cones, the flavour was only vanilla as I remember, but dipped in melted chocolate that immediately formed a thick, cold cap over the ice-cream and would crack resoundingly as you bit into it. Often Dad would take me to the Press Gallery on Saturdays where he would finish off his work, allowing me to sit at the next typewriter and clack away writing my own 'letters'. Old, black Imperial manual typewriters with round discs and bold white on black letters.
... more later, maybe.
On Saturday mornings, Dad would take me down to Adams Bruce' corner. They had the best ice-cream in the world. Served in double cones, the flavour was only vanilla as I remember, but dipped in melted chocolate that immediately formed a thick, cold cap over the ice-cream and would crack resoundingly as you bit into it. Often Dad would take me to the Press Gallery on Saturdays where he would finish off his work, allowing me to sit at the next typewriter and clack away writing my own 'letters'. Old, black Imperial manual typewriters with round discs and bold white on black letters.
... more later, maybe.
