After some sixty years, I move back to live in my birth town and, whilst enjoying wandering around my old haunts, I recall my days at Pakefield Primary School, and my friend Paul. An unusual but interesting lad. Bespectacled with those round simple NHS glasses. He lived in a grand house at the posh end of London Road South, but his family didn’t have a television set. Whereas we were the proud owners of a Bush TV with a nine-inch screen. So, Paul would come round every day after school, and we would watch children’s hour together. He would concentrate on the programme without a word, mesmerised at the small black and white images of Bill and Ben, and Little Weed. Then, much to the amusement of my mum, he would mutter a quick “bye” and scuttle off home for his tea.
We had several exploits together, including our salvage scheme to make some extra pocket money. We would go round all the local houses and ask for their old newspapers and magazines, not realising how much weight we had to shift. After collecting all we could, and nursing our aching limbs, we headed back to Paul’s shed where we stored all our pickings, sorting it all out into neat piles and tying them up with string. When we had enough, it was all loaded onto our homemade trolley (every boy seemed to have one in those days made of old pram wheels and orange boxes). Then, off down the road for a precarious journey up Pakefield Street to see the salvage man. Now came the moment. Who was going to be brave enough to knock on his door? But he had already seen us and beckoned us in with his clawlike hand. He would weigh the bundles on his ancient scales. Then, adjusting his greasy old cap, and scratching his stubbled chin, he would mutter “OK young lads you got a deal” and reluctantly gave us a few bob. So off home we went, rattling down the street with one in the now empty trolley, and one pushing, happy with our success, and money in our pockets.
At the age of ten, the most interesting thing that happened to us was during one of our lessons at school. The class all fell silent as the formidable figure of the head master came sweeping into our classroom, gown flowing behind him, always a worry in case we were in trouble for something, but no, “all sit down and listen” he said “I have some very exciting news – the BBC no less are making a documentary about our local fishing industry here in Lowestoft, and they want a small group of children to sing a song as part of the sound track, and I’m here to select the lucky few who will be the singers. How about that” Well, you can imagine the hubbub, shuffling of seats and crossing of fingers in anticipation as to who would be chosen. After calling us all to order, the head lined us up into small groups and, listening carefully, asked each of us to repeat a continuous note, and I always remember his comment that he was looking for good pitch, not perfection. Anyway, the outcome was that, to our great surprise and utter delight, we were both chosen to sing in the Chorus.
A few days later the BBC turned up with a massive reel to reel tape recorder turning the classroom into a makeshift recording studio. We were all a bit nervous standing in front of a large intimidating microphone, which leaned forward, patiently waiting to capture every note, right or wrong. Overcoming our fears we were soon all excited to be part of a professional recording and, after several takes, as well as a few giggles, the song, “Caller Herrin” all about fresh herring, was finally preserved on to magnetic tape.
The documentary was broadcast sometime later, and a large black & white television set was wheeled out into the school hall where all the pupils, delighted at having the opportunity to watch tele as opposed to having lessons, could sit around in anticipation to watch the programme (live of course, no video recording in 1960). There is no doubt that for the chosen few who had recorded the song, all had a tingling sensation and a feeling of pride as we heard our own voices echoing across the hall to accompany images of fishing boats on the North Sea.
These memories of my childhood came flooding back as I strolled past the old school, the building still there, and still a school I’m happy to say. I thought of Paul and wondered where he was now. I thought of us singing together, and it was then that I decided to search out and join with other likeminded folk who enjoy singing. And that’s exactly what I have done – returned to the town I love, fulfilled an ambition and found a special community.
Well, it’s Tuesday and the diary on my dining table is shouting at me in capital letters – CHOIR. I’m off to sing some sea shanties with my new friends. There will be John who I sit with, and we will discuss where and what we had for lunch, whilst our wives sit on the steps laughing about goodness knows what and not concentrating as usual (not like us of course).
Then, as if it were only yesterday, we are once more called to order, and I will sing again about the herring!
