Later, Dad told me,

"The Jackson's eldest son had recently been killed in a road accident, while under the influence of drink," and said that the vicar, "had probably had one too many again... and he's the bloody hypocrite... and you can stop going there from now on."

I liked the Jackson family, they never hurt other people's feelings as some did, and I hated the vicar for his harsh words to them. We still went to St. Martin's other hall though. Mrs Williams our Cub mistress ran it. We all had a secret love for her, she was like a Mam, and it was like being in a big family of boys. She planned everything, properly, I mean. She did so many nice things without us knowing, but we would find her out, and when we did, she would blush bright red. But Dad usually spoiled things afterwards, especially when he had come home from the pub. Mam finally told him though. She said she must have more money for my Cubs pullover, cap, and neckerchief. But he soon had a few things to say on that score:

"Aye, and the next thing --as I told them down the pub-- will be a khaki suit for free, to go and fight Germans. Why the hell don't they leave our kids alone?"

But I got my uniform just the same, and it wasn't long before both sleeves were filled with proficiency badges, and two yellow stripes. Those badges --they really got me at it-- sewing, darning, cooking, knots, you name it. Come to think of it, I learned more useful things at Cubs, than I ever did at school. And I enjoyed it.

On Cubs night I would walk from our house differently, and pretend not to notice my mates flicking side-glances at my sleeves full of badges, or when they would casually ask if I was going anywhere special. Such childish pride. The only commendations I can ever remember receiving during my childhood.

The character we develop through experiences from our early years merge with what we have inherited, to become most of our adult nature. But what I found particularly baffling was the extremely hurtful dispositions boasted about by certain intelligent individuals. Though clearly knowing the bad feeling they were causing, they would nevertheless cling with great conviction to their hateful characteristics, regardless. These were early 'sowings' of selfish cowardice. But more about that later.

*               *               *

As in most families, we had our 'downers' -- periods of seemingly unshakeable difficulties, of grief, bad health, and money problems. Occasionally, events such as birthdays, outings to the seaside, and visits to and from relatives and friends would give us a brief lift out of pent-up feelings, and life muddled on much the same. But we always hoped for better things to come, though we knew not what those things were.

Instead, that infamous day during the year of 1939 arrived, which changed all our lives. I remember that day vividly. We were sitting together, Mam, Malcolm and me, enjoying our afternoon tea, when Mam casually reached for the evening paper, the South Wales Cardiff Echo. And instead of her usual glance from the top of the front page, and then into the obituary columns, she slowly lowered the paper and exclaimed,

"There! We are at war! Now its official, it's in print."

I thought for a moment what this could mean, and in my ignorance replied with the question,

"Oh good. Will their aeroplanes come over here then, Mam?"

"Don't you understand? We are at war, with Germany!"

She handed me the newspaper, while at the same time vigorously tapping at the illustrated cartoon by J. C. Walker with her index finger. I vaguely remember that the artist had drawn a row of soldiers with rifles over their shoulders. They were German or Polish, I can't remember, and their military helmets looked so strange.

In the days that followed we all became preoccupied with drawing sketches of ships, aircraft, and tanks in battle. Out of school, during those early war days, we listened to adults elaborating about the trenches, the Kaiser of world war one, of how much worse it was going to be for us all this time, and the kind of fool Prime Minister Chamberlain was, waving his piece of paper with Hitler's promise of peace written on it.

Later on, everyone became preoccupied with blackout blinds, food and furniture coupons, gas masks, voices of air raid wardens after dark, the fire service and their dummy- runs. Dad was involved in the Auxiliary Fire Service, with their triple extension ladders and hoses. Uniforms with silver buttons, and a hatchet. He loved it. Though there were no bombs dropped, or house fires, anywhere in our area throughout the war, it made a change, I suppose. Our greatest enemy was the news reports, and the calculated fear that Lord Haw Haw often conjured up for us.

One of our school teachers was a conscientious objector. For his beliefs he was continually talked about, and harassed by 'peace lovers' -- the children he was teaching. Abused by their whisperings and unfounded accusations that he was a coward because he refused to help murder other Dads. He quite bravely suffered the daily round of persecution from the ignorant offspring of others, suffering for their father's deadly crimes against humanity. I have often mused how the 'other side' (the enemy) are always said to be the aggressors, and never the defenders against their attackers.

One thing is sure, warring conditions are invented and initiated prior to full-scale war breaking out. It begins by a destructive nurturing of hatred, leading to madness. At that time, it sprang up among Germanic fruitage, particularly inspired among their youth.

They are old men now, and regretting that particular 'meal' of bitterness that still sets the teeth of successive generations on edge. The brutality of these forefathers cannot be completely concealed, as "each man shall die for his own wrongdoing". ⁽⁴⁾

I think it important to mention here that only wars initiated by God against apostate nations, and whoever else He deems deserving of destruction, are holy wars.

*               *               *

How we school children loved the warm summer sunshine at weekends, with so many things we wanted to do. Some of us would wait for weeks for a short heavy downpour of rain, and after it, we were quick off the mark to the fir grove. You see, we discovered, Tommy Stanbury and me, a secret place, a couple of miles away in the country, on a slope. It was a large depression in the ground, shaped like a huge basin, which would fill quite deep with water. It was in the centre of a clearing, the other side of a densely overgrown fir grove, conveniently surrounded be fir trees.

We were up early on one particular morning, Malc and me, excitedly cutting sandwiches like doorsteps and filling pop bottles with drinking water, then stuffing it all into Dad's haversack, along with a towel. Mam and Dad were still sleeping, or so we thought, when we heard,

"R-o-n-n-i-e!"

It was our Mother. On Sunday mornings, both our parents would lay in bed for hours --if Dad wasn't working, that is-- with their newspapers, and would gorge themselves with enormous bars of chocolate. I would trot over the road in my socks to Mrs Bright's the corner shop, for their ritual chocolate bars, while Malc would pour out more cups of tea -- having quickly drained their second pot by then. And then, and only then, were we allowed to leave for the woods.

Tommy Stanbury was my closest friend. He lived only a few doors away, was a little hard of hearing, but coped well enough. He was always so pleasant and agreeable, so easy to get along with, that just being in his company was so refreshing. There was never an ill word spoken by him, and he sportingly went along with most things we did. He contributed to the enjoyment of others. In fact, he also had that rare quality of being a true friend.

We finished our chores and called for him as prearranged. He was quick to the door, and away we all tramped, checking over our supplies as we hurried along.

It would be about ten-thirty or so when we'd leave the town, after picking up a few others en route. Then it was over the Railway Bridge we'd storm, up Prince's Avenue, through Nant-y-Calch farm, until reaching the first group of trees, and on until we reached the fir grove.

The tranquillity I felt among nature's growths, especially after summer rain, was always so delightful, as if a new world had just begun, and which seemed to make conversation less important. The nearer we got to the secret place, the more our excitement would build, until our voices increased in volume into shouts.

Our sandwiches were eaten long before we had even reached the fir grove, and we'd be well down on water; each stile costing us another sandwich, but determined to keep back a little. At last we reached the wood.

"Where is it?" one asked.

"Through here, we whispered."

It was so indescribably quiet in those shaded surroundings, that it felt a little eerie at first; but how pleasant to feel the soft carpet of pine needles beneath our feet, and the total sense of seclusion all around. Then we reached the clearing.

We mustn't leave it too late before starting back, I thought, as very little daylight penetrated the fir grove. Then my heart jumped at the sight before us, for there it would be, in all its glory, as we had hoped, full with water again, and almost hidden by huge new growths all around it, and the water shining so clear. We all stood around it for a few moments, weighing up the best accessibility, then suddenly, splash! Tommy couldn't wait. Then another good swimmer dived in, the rest of us a little more cautiously.

It was now around midday, the sun was warm and soothing on our bodies, and the spring water so cool. A great deal of laughter went up when one of us left the water, as no one had bathing trunks on. Here we were, undisturbed by all the demands of grown-ups, and for hours free to completely give way to shouts of excited laughter, until a very cold breeze reminded us it was time to leave. On our return journey, we sometimes passed the farmer of Nant-y-Calch, who would want to know what mischief we had managed to get up to. But he was too late, for we had already stolen all that pleasure! We were so tired after spending hours in the sun, as we trudged homewards at long distances apart.

 *               *               *

 After our heavy feelings had eased, family life after Gwyn's death went on much the same as before Gwyn was born, so I think we were somewhat at a loss to understand the real reason for his lovely but brief little life. On reflection, we had lived our lives just around him -- we enjoyed being in his brightness. When his moments of joy were at a peak, we were too. By contrast, when he was under discipline, we suffered with him, as if we were guilty too. And so disciplines were administered to him less and less, until increasingly he lived only according to his will.

In a few short years Gwyn had reached the crossroads of emotional decision, and refused to change his stubborn course at all, and refused any beneficial spirit readjustment. More to the point, to some degree he had taken us, the rest of his family, along with him on his rebellious course. However, during his short life we were certainly inspected as to our allegiances, especially our strengths and weaknesses toward one another, which were clearly exposed.

I should like to mention that the young need to feel some relative freedom, to do 'their thing' without petty restrictions, away from the ever watchful eyes of adults. It is a vital need within children, which heals the tiring effects of parental discipline. Yet discipline is of paramount importance.

It was the simple and undemanding things we willingly contributed to, and that gave us the greatest pleasure. To be able to share in the innocent joy of our companions, joys which we help to bring about, is the greatest happiness. Then, one is fulfilling a major part of one's spiritual need: love.

The deterioration of this foremost spiritual quality is often blamed on today's systems governing people, for the run down of family relationships, and in part quite rightly so. True, the problems created by unemployment are a degenerative reality that cannot be discounted. But it cannot be thought to be the cause of people's spiritual decline, as important human relationships are not intrinsically physical, nor are they concerning material gains or losses; though lengthy periods of unemployment do seem to make it appear as such. Sadly, while some want to know the truth about spiritual matters affecting our lives, they are certainly in a minority today.

Another dispiriting preoccupation that ruins much of people's relationships is watching television. For while, in many ways it educates, its overall content is definitely base and morally destructive. Those who reason it to be otherwise are already being destroyed by it. To be without a T.V. set, means that people have to learn how to respond to each other's inner needs. Fortunately, we never had such a thing as television when I was a child. People clamoured instead for the cinema, which sometimes taught debauchery, and on a much larger screen; the difference being that we saw less of it, and the censors of that time would not allow abusive films to be shown. Used wisely, television could be of great benefit in many ways, but it is used instead as the main tool of commercial "Babylon" today, mainly to promote politicians.

At our level of society, people had no sensible norms. In our outward appearance, we could go about dressed like 'the pits', as long as we had one or more of the parts that resembled a suit. I mean, we wouldn't get arrested for showing flashes of white from beneath a hanging patch on our rear for instance, even if it was as big as this page. As long as we looked clean, with a nice parting, we were accepted.

In retrospect, I could never claim that I was a good son for very long, or so I was often reminded. Try as I would, something or other --and it had to be dangerous or risky-- would be in my scheme of things. Playing at being well behaved soon became boring. And while feeling this way, I met up with a well known and incorrigible bunch, up to some new daring. The leader, Donnie, a wiry individual, was on his usual prowl for excitement. His full complement, usually around a dozen, would wait on all his decisions.

"Yer comin' Ron. We're going scrumping," Donnie shouted over.

"Where?" I shouted back, anticipating something interesting, as they never did anything ordinary when our full number was on the prowl.

"Dunno. St Martin's Road end, s'pose," he nonchalantly replied as he walked on.

We rarely visited that part of Caerphilly, I thought, as they were a self‑separating lot. But raping their fruit trees was somewhat appealing. I tagged along. We sauntered along, chatting away, until we reached the lane. Chatting automatically dropped to whispers. Half way down the lane there was a small garden, with tall forbidding spiked railings.

"Look-at-those-nobs!" somebody whispered loudly.

"Ssh! clown," whispered another.

There were only a few small apple trees, but the bright yellow fruit hung heavily on the branches, to breaking. It seemed as if the owner had cultivated them to boast. They're not for eating, I thought, they were only for staring at.

The trees and fence were too near to the house for a quick get-away over those prohibitive spiked railings. We all stood for some moments, in full view of the rear windows, discussing it. We weighed up the speed of exit that would be needed to escape capture, and realised that, whoever took it on, there were doubts as to him getting away with it. Realising we were not invisible and that our voices could easily be heard, we had to make a quick decision, but no one dared to offer their services. I could see Donnie was delighted. He smiled his inimitable smile of confidence whenever he found a challenge that only he would take on. After enjoying all their detailed excuses, he reiterated his position as leader by quickly scaling the fence. Paddy was told to follow. There was always some dispute between these two, as to who really qualified to be leader. Excited movements and whisperings started up again, and then quick as a flash, prize golden orbs were being showered on the rest of us in the lane. Our jumpers were bulging in no time at all. Then we heard a loud voice from somewhere above our heads:

"All of you stay where you are!  Don't any of you try getting past me. I've men at both ends. You pair, in the garden, get back over here."

It was a policeman! How we didn't notice him coming up the lane I'll never know. My thoughts were racing.

"And you can keep that lot you stole from out of there. They'll be weighed as evidence against you. I know most of your faces," he said, with his long arms stretched out and almost spanning the entire width of the lane. My heart sank. It was my first encounter with the police. Donnie made some lame attempt at a bold remark. It died. Before leaving, the policeman directed:

"To save you lot some embarrassment, you can all walk in single file behind me down the High Street. Come along!"

His authoritative voice seemed to melt our instincts to run. He took up his position in front, with the lot of us trailing behind him like a chain gang. Even before reaching the main road, we began ridding ourselves of fruit. The loud thumps of our guilt soon reached the copper's ears. He quickly turned and hollered, sideways,

"I said, keep that lot. They're for weighing."

We were still loaded down on reaching the police station, except Donnie and Paddy, the pickers.

Sure enough, they did weigh all the fruit we'd pinched, immediately on our arrival at the station. The worst was yet to come. Our parents were contacted, and apprehensively we waited. The first arrival came into the police station as if the main door leading into the report room wasn't there. She bowled in, opening the swing doors all in one stride. An enormous woman.

"Where-is-it!" she bawled, with the doors still swinging on their hinges, as she bounded heavily across the bare wooden floor towards her son. Her lad cringed, and was instantly sent sprawling with a blow to the head carrying all the strength and power of a man.

After that episode, I became terrified. It seemed like hours, but my ol' man finally arrived. He was still in his working clothes. Slowly he came across to where we all were standing in a line, looking down at the floor as he walked. But the moment I expected to be felled, he instead opened up room for himself in our line, and stood next to me, fitting himself in as if he belonged there. He paused, and then whispered across my face, with all eyes and ears attentive to his next move. His voice pierced the quietness that his manner had created:

"Which one, son? Which one pinched you?"

I'm dreaming... Am I dreaming? He waited, deliberately pretending not to notice the uniformed officers present, and thought for some moments. You could have heard a pin drop. Everyone knew the severity of my father's anger. His temper and violent antics were well known throughout our street. I think the officers were anticipating another commotion breaking out. I gulped, and nodded in the direction of the officer wearing the brazened face.

"Him!" my ol' man shouted, "he was the biggest thief in Caerphilly when we were boys."

"Now, now, Alf," the brazened one replied, "your boy was caught with the others --all of them-- stealing from the magistrate's own garden, and he..."

Dad interrupted him.

"Didn't you ever steal? We used to go out thieving together, you bloody hypocrite! Now you're a copper, oh, its different is it?" Dad shouted, with neck outstretched.

 At this point, I was relieved to hear the sergeant's voice from behind his counter calling for silence. He told everyone,

"You can all go", and went on to tell us that we would all probably receive summonses. Sure enough, they weren't long in arriving.

On the day of the hearing, we all turned up in our best 'bib and tuckers'. Our parents were told to wait in an outer room, while we were lined up in a separate room, to stand before an enormous desk. Around the other side of the room police officers stood, bolt upright, like fence posts behind the desk, their side of the room covered in darkness by the huge shadow over the walls. Almost immediately, giggling broke out, and being rather slow to adjust to the macabre surroundings, I failed to understand what could possibly be causing such mirth. Then my gaze fell upon a little, white, and completely bald head, just visible above the surface of the desk before us. To make matters worse, loud sounds began emanating from the little head in a very low register, with facial mannerisms of such comic proportions, that hysterical laughter from the midget's young audience filled the courtroom. Next to me, stood Bunky Cripps, and next to him, Donnie. And every time the rest of us quietened down, these two would start the laughter up, again and again. I felt we would not have the last laugh, so I tried not to look sideways at Bunky anymore, who was again last to control the raspberry noises from his mouth. He was having great difficulty in holding in what wanted to come out. The 'head,' finally vented its anger in waves of moral denunciations, ending in fines averaging around eight shillings and sixpence each. I now realise the probable source of those bars imprisoning the magistrate's little garden.

On leaving the court at Caerphilly police station, and after conferring with one another about our monetary penalties, the general opinion was that we had all been robbed, and we were to stop associating with so-and-so boy -- as if we all had some secret innocence of our own -- and it was scrumping as usual.

I can't help thinking, that if it wasn't for other people's garden allotments during those years of the war, many of us kids would have grown up a lot leaner, and certainly less healthier in the years to follow. Though thieving should never be regarded as a justifiable option to prevent hunger or malnutrition, surely those who contribute towards such political evils as imposed deprivation commit the greatest crimes, through greed and unjust distribution of a nation's wealth. And when this is finally exposed, on the day of judgement it will place many on the horns of an irreconcilable dilemma; especially when this world of theirs has an abundance of growth to amply fill everyone's needs.

Food restrictions worsened, and family members spent most of their spare time standing in long queues, for both rationed and unrationed foods. Mam usually got us up early on Saturday mornings. It was the day when we did most of our queuing, and during breakfast, before commencing our rounds, Malc and me were well briefed as to which shops might have so-and-so rarity, and if not, where to try next. One for fruit and veg, the other for leaning against Colman's bakehouse wall for two or three hours to be sure of something substantially sustaining (in preference to a clout round the ear for returning empty-handed). The agony and boredom of those endless hours, standing huddled up in that cold windswept lane every Saturday, throughout those icy-cold winters, is one of the memories that first comes to mind when I think about the 1939-45 war. But I can also recall the blissful satisfaction of being handed two huge white prepacked bags of warm, sweet-smelling multicoloured cakes, and another bag full to bursting of waste cuttings. Standing inside the bakehouse, thawing in the comforting heat, breathing in the delightful aroma, and being among those so quickly changed by it all, cheerfully chattering. It made me feel so warm inside, and more willing to face up to the prospect of leaning against the bakehouse wall the following week.

Next, it was to queue outside Symons', the fish and chip shop. We almost lived on their doorstep. There were strict orders for Malcolm and me to remember to double up, allowing a few people in between us, in the event of Mrs Symons running short of fish, and of her serving reduced portions. We would take up our positions, and then the comments would start:

"Aren't you with the one behind?" and usually followed by,

"You people don't care, s'long's others do wivout I s'pose."

I'd return with some bold and cheeky remark, like, "S'long's you get yours."

Then would come the threatening reply, "What's that cheek you said then? You wait till we get to the counter. Then we'll see." Or, "What's your mother's name?"

Dreading my turn, as there were eyes and looks to kill, I croaked in my special voice, "Four 'ake and chips… err... separate please," my chin rubbing along the tall marble counter.

 "I can only let you have two plaice," said Mrs Symons, standing at the fryer with her back to me.

Now the moment I feared most, when I must say, under Mam's orders,

"My mother says you've got 'ake, and she said she don't want anything else ‑‑ she can't eat it.

After her long rehearsed pause, like lightning, two of something would be quickly scooped up and thrown on top, then covered over, as if she had just made a rare but definite concession.

"Haven't you got the proper money, I'm short of loose," she said, to give vent to her irritation and ease her injured feelings (and to frighten others into feelings of shame if they dared try persuading another four hake out of her good nature).

I don't think Mam could really tell, if the truth be known, whether she was getting hake, or not. She'd say, 'It must be really white, and if not, take it back.' And Mrs Symons would be expected to exchange them, after a brief argument thrown in for good measure. I sometimes thought, as Mrs Symons said, that I was in fact returning good hake.

Those were our weekend supplies. The rest of the week, it was back to bread and marg, and spam that ended up tasting like cardboard, and jam instead of sugar in our tea. Rationing reduced the number of family visits to and from relatives, but we were particularly honoured when our Aunt Louie, Dad's sister, turned up our doorstep. With her once-a-year visit from the bottom end of town, her stay could be long, or it could be short, depending on the illnesses, temperaments prevailing at the time, investigations, and local news, interesting or otherwise. Preliminary chit chat having been dispensed with, their first serious verbal encounter would somehow take a wrong turn. And, after Mam's show of various pains, and her search for a little sympathy for her recent suffering, her verbal flight into the realm of the physic was abruptly shortened:

"Yes, yes, hmm, yes, but oh Harriet, listen to this. This happened this very morning... And the pain... Oh, and I was on my own, Harriet. The only thing it could have been, and you correct me if I'm wrong..."

"EXCUSE ME, Louie! AND AS I was saying, THIS SWELLING on MY leg could be serious. I went to see Savage, our doctor, and..."

Louie interrupted again:

"Hmm. Oh Harriet, I was in absolute a-gon-y. I couldn't get out of my bed, girl."

"Louie!" Mam shouted, with such indignation that Louie was instantly knocked off her self-centred 'perch', which was no mean feat.

Mam then set herself with a long pause to go in for the kill. Louie, who realised she had awakened a lioness, froze, with her mouth agape, waiting in fearful anticipation for the old and long overdue pent up feelings to flood out. Mam's remaining patience, if any, she abandoned, as she slowly began to clip Louie's selfish 'wings', using past memories of all the self-seeking aspirations of Louie's nature against her, and ending by remarking how impossible it was for anyone to hold a conversation with such a boring hypochondriac. There were bitter tears, of suitable proportions, to last them both for another year or so, to allow the 'ground' of friendship to lie fallow for the appropriate amount of time; Louie's call of duty having been fully carried out.

Most families though, have recurring patterns of behaviour, and accompanying verbal expressions, that rarely seem to change. We certainly did. The sort of thing I mean would perhaps be better understood if we listened in to another typical conversation:

"Alf, the kids need their shoes mended. They are through the soles already, and their heels want doin' an' all. Tell me what leather you want and I'll go and get it from Woolworth's," Mam ordered, to align his thoughts on the matter.

"I don't want any muck. That lot you bought last time was like cardboard. And I don't want somethin' I can't cut," he retorted.

Shoe repairing was something he loved, and hated, but felt he was good at. Besides, and as he often reminded us, he wouldn't,

"Pour good money after bad into the shoemaker's pockets."

"Well, why don't you get it yourself. Other men do," she replied indignantly.

"I'm not other bloody men! And don't give me your lip."

We came to know this ritual almost word for word, but it would run its course.

"How much shall I pay. Come on, stop your nonsense!" she impatiently rebuked.

"And you'd better get some heel ball this time, while you're at it," he ordered.

"Look, Alf, I want a good job made of them shoes this time. I don't want any heel ball-in' filling over bad workmanship," defiantly nearing her climax. Now his turn:

"Send them to the bloody cobbler's now! You can pay thro' the bloody nose, for your lip," waving his arms about dismissively.

"Oh, don't be awful, Alf. Isn't he awful, Ronnie?"

I wondered when I was going to become involved. But on such occasions, turning a 'deaf-un' was best, so she got my blank facial expression.

"Go and get them shoes will you, Ronnie? And Malcolm's. I'm ashamed to send you both to school, indeed I am."

"I'll throw something at you if you don't shut. They can walk bloody barefoot, or stay at home, for all I care. Have you got money for a pint?" thinking his first delivery would help his own immediate requirements.

"Oh! Beer is it? That's what's bothering you?"

(It was another emotional 'cat and mouse' game).

"No. Make a start on them and I'll give you a few shillin'. They can stay home until they're done. You should finish them by tomorrow night. I'll get extra leather. Alright, Alf? she said, rounding off in a soft high voice, with angel face to match, to clinch their ritual, tidy like.