Kaga Simpson - his life and memories

I wander into Butcher Row, it's older, darker. I find my way in the city by getting lost in it, centuries old shops, houses, a baker's shop, a bake house in the rear, a kneading trough, on the wall an old bread/cake basket you slung by a leather strap over the shoulder. A counter, dusty with flour, piled high with cream cakes, rolls, bread with sesame seeds. A door opens into a very narrow hallway, coal scuttle shaped like an old woman's bonnet, copper warming pans on a white washed wall, on the floor a couple of earthenware warming bottles, oblong in shape with screw cap in the middle, an old woman with her arms in a soapy sink, steam rising, her hair pinned high above her head. Paint flakes off a wall. On a shelf a pair of snuffers, tea canisters, black with gold Chinese figures in relief. I walk into the churchyard. Silence, looks like my crayon book, once a city of medieval houses, drinking fountains and churches. Lady Godiva rode these streets, so did knights. How old it all seems, centuries bursting past, generations passing along these streets. What was life like then, before pasteurisation, before radio, and no television footage, and maps were full of shadows? I close my eyes, a thousand starlings lift off from the buildings, shimmering in green-purple, they assemble and put on a display above the cathedral that takes your breath away. I clap, grinning and pointing, they part, stretch into two bands winding apart, swooping between the churches, then snapping back together plunging in co-ordination. Not liked by the public for the damage they do, so why are they so beautiful? They can mimic and talk if trained equal to any parrot. Mozart kept one in a cage by the side of his piano. I return to Broadgate, board a tram and fall asleep. Been a great day. The conductor wakes me, Bell Green sonny, end of the line.

Perhaps I should say that Coventry, with its old buildings and warmth, attracted the starlings in their thousands, but thirty years on in the fifties they were down to a few hundred, and so were a lot of our wild birds. Skylarks disappeared, and so did cuckoos. Where now stands Wood End, once was a farm with a lot of boggy ground. Here the Cuckoo flower, pale pink, was abundant in the boggy ground. A host of local names like lady smock, milkmaids, lady's mantle, cuckoo shoes, had the habit of flowering to meet the arrival of the cuckoo. But the 'cuckoo pint' also was in abundance, the 'Viagra' of the 16th century, the eye winking names. This also had many country names; cuckoo cock, parson's billycock, wake robin (medieval 'dick'), and many others, its roots baked into an arrowroot, a drink popular before tea or coffee. You could hear as many as a dozen cuckoos in one small area, but the decline of birds, especially the meadow pipit, the cuckoo's favourite nest for depositing its egg, has seen a reduction in cuckoos.

In a field deep in the countryside, two young boys heard the distant sirens. They heard the bombers when they were three miles away. They hid in the garden. A lone bomber shed altitude, flew directly over the garden, released his bombs on the station at Shilton less than half mile away. Less than two years later the elder boy now a cadet (8F) flew over the same fields in a small Tiger Moth. His instructor shed altitude, flew the same pattern as the bomber, to the boy's delight. On the evening of 14th Nov 1940 in Coventry the boys heard the wailing sirens. The bombers crossed the Channel in the evening, there were 500 of them in waves. Below, the sea, a little choppy. Soon they by-passed the outskirts of London, avoiding the big guns. Their intercoms crackled, they shed altitude, each plane then released their loads of deadly explosives directly over Coventry. Five years later the boy, now in the forces, stood and stared in amazement. Three Lancaster bombers were idling on the tarmac, their props gently ticking over, and the boy and eighteen others were about to have the flight of their life. The three bombers flew wing tip to wing tip, through Southern England, circling back over the Channel, the crew answering any questions. The boy asked if on the way back they could follow the path the Germans had taken on that fateful night of the 14th. A few radio calls and yes. Drawing ever closer, the three Lancasters lost a little altitude as they neared Coventry, as low as they were allowed. You just had to experience Lancasters side by side in formation. So yes, it is about me, but who else could boast that double whammy. This is true, fact.

Charlie lived near the Forum in Poets Corner, he was a real old Coventry kid. It was not all about racing - he told me when Poets Corner was built, what was there before it, when he was a boy, over the fields, the black and white building called Magpie Hall. So much that today I can't remember.

There is mention of Magpie Hall here

From an internet search . . Another building, which, until its demolition in 1950, stood on the north of Hinckley Road just beyond the village, was called the Old Manor House or Magpie Hall in the late 19th and 20th centuries. The house was occupied as six cottages in 1843 and later. This building may have been the house owned by Benedicta Mills, formerly Alexander Lapworth's, in 1756-7, and, therefore, the capital messuage sold to Edward Lapworth in 1590. The possible origins of its manorial status have already been discussed. At the time of its demolition the Old Manor House was a T-shaped building consisting of a long timber-framed wing on a north-south axis, and, projecting from its east side, a brick-walled range at right angles to it. The timber-framed portion was of four bays, of which those at the north and south ends were of 16th- or early-17th-century date. The two central bays, however, are thought to have formed a two-storied cross wing to the single-storied and formerly timber-framed medieval hall which lay concealed in the brick range to the east. This hall, probably of early-15th-century date, measured 32 ft. by 22 ft. and contained a central cruck truss which had arch-braces supporting a cambered collar-beam. A massive stone chimney stack with brick shafts formed part of the 16th- or early-17th-century addition at the north end of the cross wing. Fragments of this stack were left standing in the garden when the old building was demolished and a new house (No. 45 Hinckley Road) was built on the site.

Factories came in, and the women lost their little business of weaving - the spinning wheel, the small looms, the ribbons all now lay idle in my aunt's and grandma's spare rooms. The war left us in poverty. 1926, the miners refused to accept reduced wages. All unions called a strike, all services were at a standstill - no papers, no milk, no bread, no nothing. The military escorted food supplies to hospitals. The Craven Colliery in Coventry closed, disruption at other collieries. People unemployed on a large scale, the dole queues stretched for 300/400 yards, 3/4 deep, the money inadequate. Real poverty - bread and jam was all they could afford, patched clothes and hand-me-downs. Humiliating and degrading for a number of years, grown men made idle. There was no way parents could afford for us kids to go to a better school, except the farmer, the publican and businessmen. We gleaned, we scrapped, we scrumped, we fought over paper rounds, we made do, until factories got larger and employment came back. For a few years things got better, then, blackout and rationing. 'Oh my!'

During my childhood there were no paperback books as such, only trashy, lurid and crude, not what parents bought children. The hardbacks were too expensive for the working class - we had two - one a war book for dad and one Aesops fables for us kids. Both were about 10x7 inches, three inches thick and very heavy. We used them as weights to stick things down on occasions. We also bought Rupert, Brer Rabbit and such in hardback. I was about 10/11 when an Aunt said 'Woolies' are selling books for sixpence, so I raced to Smithford street, a firm called Penguin, the books a different colour for fiction, crime etc. During the war they became popular. I read a couple down the shelter and became a fan of D H Lawrence, but one book was banned in the UK - 'Lady Chatterley's Lover'. I had bought one in S. France in '45. Written in Italy, I paid a visit to the cottage on the lake in '54. At the end of the war 'Penguin' began to publish the 'classics' for about three shillings each. But it wasn't till 1960 that they published Lady Chatterley's Lover, and challenged the 'Obscene Law' and won.

I feel very fortunate to have been born in Coventry. The green fields, woods and streams surrounding it I believe gave the people a friendly nature, honest and humorous, romantic and generous. Built on sloping hills, its 19th century shops and houses were either step up or step down and low beams - this allowed gentlemen to offer an arm to assist the ladies, bringing forth a smile and a nod. The old quaint houses had charm, nooks and crannies inside and out, couple of wooden panelled steps up or down into small rooms. This may have held classic, ancient books, or sketches and paintings of Coventry's mills or ponds. The butchers next door with its poultry and rabbits hanging outside, interlaced with mint to keep it sweet. Birds in cages singing, the scent of bread and cakes all wafting in the air. Every shop a different scent, a real pleasure. Shops that wound through a maze of rooms, stepping up there stepping down here, dodging a low beam now and then, all helped to make it worthwhile. Goods laid out in trays, baskets, baths, trinkets on the walls - there was no ending to the array. One never got tired of shopping, or just mooching around. Tea and sugar you could buy loose, blackberry jam and blackberry wine, centuries old home made pills and lotions, rosemary for medicinal lavender for bath oil, angelica for flatulence, its seeds dried and burnt perfumed the shop. A huge jug with a watering rose in its side, forebear of our watering can, stood near the door. All this stood close to the old Priory, with its herb beds and healing powers.

Water is the most precious thing to man, and Coventry had none, apart from rainfall. Coventry wasn't threatened by the sea or large river. The lowest part of Coventry, St John's church, was 260 feet above sea level. Coventry relied solely on rainfall to fill the wells, for almost every summer the wells ran dry. The woods and fields around formed little channels during heavy rain. On the north-west side they criss-crossed the area they joined and formed two major brooks - Spon End and Radford brooks - eventually becoming the Sherbourne river to run to the east. So low was the water in the summer there were scores of fords, including Spon-ford. But man/monks threw weirs across the brooks at Spon End and Hales Street, creating sheets of water and power. They built water-mills, and manipulated the water. Over time and through storms the weirs were damaged, excess of water could not get away for many hours. (Man-made problem.) Spon bridge was not erected till 1776 after a very disastrous storm. Much pollution was found in the river - old kettles etc. 1769 and the first boats entered the canal basin, but wharves were not solely for coal, almost as many were for water, for the wells had failed again. Water carts sold water to Coventry people. Yes, we never learned, for in 1933 the water carts were out again selling water to Coventry people.

Saying that, we must remember that winters were more severe 2-3 centuries ago. The great storm of 1800 that did flood Spon End - the year had been perpetual snow, coal supplies had run out, the canal froze, and the freezing wind blew through Feb, March and April. The birds failed to sing, snowdrifts lay in the fields in May, there were frosts in June and floods in July. No wonder that Spon End was under four foot of water and the Ram Bridge swept away. In the north, waters rose fast, looms in houses, mills, weirs, sheep and horses were swept away. In September uncut hay rotted in the fields and unripe wheat blackened. Storms and hail killed geese and pigs. On top of that the gov't passed an act that forbid strike action. and anyone discussing wages or conditions would be prosecuted. And the war with France knocked on the door.

By the middle of the fifties Coventry wasn't ready for self-service and Tesco's, although the days of austerity were over. Rationing through the war had people queueing, talking of sons and daughters in different parts of the world had brought a social bond and a geography lesson that had never been seen before. They didn't like to walk into a shop and help themselves, then walk to a counter and just pay, they wanted to stop and chat - there was always a stool to sit on, something to watch, a pat of butter cut from a block by wooden paddles, loose tea being weighed. It was a pleasure to shop, not a chore. But within a decade supermarkets were with us, by then it was the mid fifties. We also had to think of new ways to cook, for few people knew of pasta, aubergines, red and green peppers, scampi cooked in butter, and a lot of foreign foods, even the retailers had doubts. This country had been used to high street shops and counter service. But everything was changing fast. For in shops in '52 we had television sets, and they sold like hot cakes, and mass entertainment came in. In '54 we had our first 'soap' on BBC, 'The Grove family' - no rapes, no lesbian stuff, no murders, but the writers took a holiday in '57 and the show was dropped. This was followed by Granada's 'Coronation Street' in '55, the independent television gave Granada the franchise in the north. But Granada went broke and was baled out and became ITV.

1927 and the Craven Colliery complex closed down - with the canals and railway connected, it threw over a thousand men out of work. So I was an unwelcome baby in that sense, that year. I guess that truth to tell, we were an unruly lot of kids, there was no traffic then so we played football in the street, and men passing by would join in - sometimes as many as twenty or thirty of us, it was great fun, and we were together plenty, pretty exciting. You remembered which kids got sick, you stayed away from - people talked about it, you couldn't afford to give parents such expense. Someone got this, someone got that. You smelt fresh tar, save you from TB. Kids were in and out of each other's doors, we got shunted around a lot, we all looked the same and seven or eight kids would come running out of the same door. Kids died of things back then, so you stayed away from them, and sometimes you would call them 'sissies' but you needed an army for they were the toughest brats you ever saw. New kid joined the street and soon someone set about him, we had to know the place, or the pecking order he belonged to. My grandfather was a public figure, being owner of the boat repair yard that stood on the other side of the 'cut' to the pub. It was said in summer he often swam or waded across the cut to the pub, and often in the evening would wheel a barrow to the pub so someone could wheel him home if drunk. But he was a fair man, and would help people out in hard times, which they were most of the time, but the atmosphere was happy. If you did get sick you had to wait in a very crowded room on hard wooden seats for hours on end among the coughing, sneezing and other ailments people had - no nurse, no attendant, but few people complained, it was the way things worked in those days. There was this class system, where everyone knew their place in the world, and people respected it. Several chapels, with all these names like Wesleyans, Presbyterians and many that we did not understand. We ate food while at play, not enough hours in the day for us - my mother would open the door wide in summer and let her piano playing drift down the street and we kids sang even if six or seven doors away. Kids in prams gurgled with delight at the antics of the young girls minding them. We were all nice enough kids. We wouldn't break into places, but if things turned up, like a rabbit or a few eggs, not many questions either. Yes I enjoyed my childhood, in fact I have enjoyed every moment of my life.

The stuff you write Kaga should be compulsory reading for kids. They have a distorted view of what humans need to be happy. There is joy in the simplest things. Tusses Bridge.

Thank you Helen, the photo is about the time as well. That's a little shop between the pub and the canal, one yard from the canal and I never knew anyone to fall in the canal.