Hungry Kids, Smoker Parents, and the Plastic Camera
Part of my childhood memoir series set in Blaenymaes, Swansea, during the 1960s
The one thing that was a constant throughout my childhood was the lack of money. My parents never seemed to have any.
When we lived with my grandmother in Port Tennant, it didn't hit us kids too hard, our grandparents made sure we had food in our bellies. But when we moved to Blaenymaes in 1962, and my parents had to fend for themselves, I think the reality came as a shock. One of the results was that we often went hungry.
The Yo-Yo Dad and the Tea-Drinking Mother
My father was in and out of work like a yo-yo. He'd have a job for a couple of weeks, then sit around the house for a month or two. This cycle repeated itself endlessly. It wasn't that there were no jobs—I later found out that unemployment was only around five percent. It's just that my father didn't seem to want one. Or maybe he did, but not badly enough.
My parents weren't alcoholics, so you couldn't explain it away with that. Maybe they were just lazy. My mother certainly was.
She'd had five children in six years, me first, then Peter, Violet, David, and Vivienne. She was only 17 when I was born, and looking back, I don't think she ever really recovered. As I got older, I used that to excuse what would be labelled child neglect today.
When my father wasn't home, she would go round to our neighbour Vivienne's, and the two of them would sit for hours, day after day, drinking tea and chatting. Whilst they did that, we ran wild around the neighbourhood.
The Shame of the Free Meal Ticket
Because of our situation, we qualified for free school meals. Strangely, I found this embarrassing even then. In my mind, free meals = poor. I knew we were poor—I just didn't want anyone else knowing.
Unfortunately, one teacher seemed to take a bit of pleasure in asking the class, "Who gets free meals?" The shame of having to raise my hand was horrible. Very few kids in the class were in the same boat.
That free school lunch was often my only guaranteed meal of the day. So thank fuck for Britain's social safety net.
Whilst most kids complained about school dinners, my family didn't. I'd eat mine and go back for seconds if they were available.
Capstan Full Strength vs. Empty Cupboards
My parents rarely did any shopping, they always sent one of us. I usually got the job. The shop wasn't far, down Woodford Road. Even at 8 or 9, I deeply resented their nicotine addiction.
My father smoked Capstan Full Strength, and my mother smoked Woodbines, both unfiltered, heavy-duty brands. Even back then, cigarettes were expensive. They'd find money for smokes whilst we didn't have enough to eat.
The Social Worker and the Plastic Camera
One day, a social worker from the NSPCC turned up. Someone had reported my parents. I was hostile toward her, as we all were toward any outsider. She might have been kind, but to us, she was a threat. A stranger in a suit asking too many questions.
The end result was that the NSPCC sent me a plastic camera for Christmas. It was the only thing I got that year. I don't remember what the others received, if anything.
I still remember the camera. It didn't take real pictures, but it looked the part. A strange kind of charity—a Christmas gift in exchange for poverty.