VEST's lament

The first thing I remember knowing,
Was a lonesome whistle blowing,

And a young un's dream of growing up to ride;
On a freight train leaving town,

Not knowing where I'm bound,
No-one could change my mind but Mama tried.

One and only rebel child,
From a family, meek and mild:
My Mama seemed to know what lay in store.

Despite all my Sunday learning,
Towards the bad, I kept on turning.

'Til Mama couldn't hold me anymore.
And I turned twenty-one in prison doing life without parole.

No-one could steer me right but Mama tried,
Mama tried.Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading, I denied.

That leaves only me to blame 'cos Mama tried.
Instrumental break.

Dear old Daddy, rest his soul,
Left my Mom a heavy load;

She tried so very hard to fill his shoes.
Working hours without rest,

Wanted me to have the best.
She tried to raise me right but I refused.

And I turned twenty-one in prison doing life without parole.
No-one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried.

Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading, I denied.
That leaves only me to blame 'cos Mama tried.

-Vest

EXCERPTS from my book


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EXCERPTS
It was a beautiful summer morning in late July 1932. A lightly scented breeze wafted over the myriad of summer flowers near the cottage. We hurried down a long path and crossed the road over to ‘Turners’ farm, where I was subjected to other unfamiliar smells. I saw the brook flowing over a slippery wooden causeway. Hanging over the brook were bushes with white marble-sized seeds that looked like small snowballs, which sheltered the fish in the brook from the sun. As I looked around at that moment, I could feel only happiness. My six-year-old mind focused on the tranquillity of my surroundings and said, “This is where I belong. I never want to leave it… ever.”
My elder brother, Christopher and I had arrived here at the village of Charlham in Oxfordshire the day before. We had travelled by train and bus from London, where our earlier years had been a succession of uncertainties and disappointments.
I was close to home when I saw the coalman open the front gate with a sack of coal on his back. I watched as the big lurcher dog that lived near the mill mounted one of Auntie Parker’s Scots Terriers in the spring flowerbed. Auntie flapped her arms, yelling, “Someone do something!” The coalman promptly dropped his sack of coal and grabbed and squeezed the lurcher’s goolies. The poor dog, his coitus having been interrupted, let out an unearthly howl and shot off down the road, its back legs hobbling in a three-legged sprint.
His local nickname was ‘Ram,’ which I used only once. I wondered what dark secret Ram was hiding. I believe the answer came to me during my first career while listening to sailors’ stories about lonely sheep farmers, particularly those in New Zealand. Their peculiar romantic liaisons with their woolly charges had me thinking that ‘Ram’ may have had intimate contact with the woolly maidens he was entrusted to shear.
As we approached the church, we would form file and then single file and march into the church like a colony of ants. My favourite march was ‘Colonel Bogey’ when the boys would whistle and sing “Bollocks and the same to you.”
Emily took my hand and guided it down her back. After saying; “Ah, that’s better,” she guided me around to the front and told me to “scratch softly, dear boy.” I told her that to touch such beautifully smooth skin was pleasing. She replied, “You are such a darling with words.” After kissing me, she said, “John, dear boy, would you rub the other spot that is itching?”
HMS King George V, a large battleship that was commissioned on 1 October 1940, weighed more than 35,000 tons. It was armed with 10 x 14-inch guns, 16 x 5.25-inch guns, 8 x 8-barrel two pounder pompoms, several 40mm-bofors and 20mm-close range, plus a crew of approximately 1,800 grossly underpaid naval personal.
I saw King George V for the first time while it was undergoing a refit in Gladstone Graving Dock in Bootle, Liverpool. It looked smaller than I thought it would be. Its upper deck was about level with the road surface. The whole ship was a hive of activity, with power lines, pipes, and miscellaneous equipment cluttering both upper and lower decks. There were many navy blokes in uniform or overalls, as well as miscellaneously dressed dockyard mateys moving at a slower pace.
The bookie said “Yeah okay, Jack. I’ll take your bet” and stated that I’d stand a better chance of winning the Melbourne Cup on crutches than I would with a Sydney jockey on a South Australian horse which had recently escaped from the knackers yard. After ‘Rainbird’ beat the field with Billy Cook on board, I felt quite smug. The odds were about twelve to one, I think. These winnings were added to from my 14/1 each way bet on the third horse to finish, its name ‘Leonard’ I just could not resist, but my first ever bet and win never made me addicted to the sport.
Penny lifted the net. I stood there, agape. I felt an unusual tingling throughout my body. Upon reflection, I had last seen a totally unattired female form during my pre-adolescence around the age of ten while swimming in the back brook at Charlham.
It was a beautiful morning with a slow southerly breeze blowing away the early summer heat. An unattended horse was trotting down the shopping street – a stallion with its pendulum swinging in hopeful mode.
My nose guided me towards the source of the aroma of cooking food. When I entered the café, a middle-aged woman with a broom said, “What will it be, young man?”“Bacon and eggs with all the trimmings please, Ma’am.”“Sausages?” she asked.“No, thank you. Did you see that horse go by?” I asked.“Big, wasn’t he. Did he put you off?”“No,” I replied. “It’s just that a lady friend of mine is allergic to them.”“You’re English, aren’t you,” she said. “Do you live around here?”
I told her I was staying with friends and that I was on leave from a ship in the harbour and would be going to England shortly.“Been on a cruise, have you?”“Sort of,” I replied, remembering the past wartime carnage. “But today I’m buying a sweet young lady a parting present.”
A man with an apron said, “Are you in the Pommie navy, sport?”“Yes, sir!” I answered.“Well here then, get stuck into this. It’s on the house.”“Thank you, sir.”
He shook my hand and said, “There’s no need for you to thank me young man, it’s me who should be thanking you.”
As I left the café, the woman blew a kiss. I returned the compliment, as I waved back to her walking smartly up the street, supported by two walking canes.
All that food was starting to have an effect on me, so I asked a bloke who was hosing down outside of the first pub I came to if I could use his dunny.
He looked at me for a while. Then I said, “I’m in serious strife, mate.”
He pointed and mumbled, “Well, you’d better get a move on, sport. It’s over there. Make sure you pull the bloody chain.”
Afterwards, I washed my hands and waved goodbye to a thousand flies. After much deliberation during my sojourn on the dunny, I had made my decision: a gold plated sausage on a chain was out, and a new swimming cossie was in.
The next shop was the green grocer. His sign read ‘Fruitologist.’ Maybe he is, I thought. Emma ordered a lot of vegetables and arranged to have them delivered, explaining that relatives had commandeered our transport and were on holidays in the mountains. Once we were outside, she said, “We forgot onions. Nip back and order three pounds.”
The Fruitologist said, “She must like her onions. Are your relos coming back soon?”“I hope not, mate. I think my Auntie was pleased to see them go; as we have a few problems to discuss.”“She is a very pretty Aunt,” he said. I agreed that they didn’t come any prettier. “How about I add two pounds of carrots for free?”“Are they any good?” I asked”“The best,” he said, smiling.
Several loud bangs outside woke me from my dream. I had been saved from being boiled alive by savage, dark-haired Amazons wearing gold earrings, who had finished having their way with me. Their chief named Auntie had rescued me.
After dinner, Emma and I retired to the bedroom and played submarines in the large bath. Then we lay on the bed with the electric fan blowing. I whistled a tango.“Is it ladies’ choice?” she asked“Yes, please,” I replied. “Go ahead.”
The arrival of the iceman stirred me from my slumber. I used the loo and cleaned my teeth and flossed out the fairy floss.“Tea, lover boy?” she asked.
When we arrived at the hotel, we were greeted by an industrial-sized bloke, who may have also doubled as a chucker-outer.
Emma admired a picture on the wall as I approached the bloke.“How may I help you, sir?” After he spoke, I knew he was a king- sized Albert.“My Aunt and I would like accommodation for one night, preferably for two singles,” I answered.“Sorry, one double only,” he replied.“That will be fine, Albert,” Emma chirped.“The name is Edward, Ma’am, and may I suggest you lay head to toe, you being closely related. By the way, who is Albert?”“He’s the Uncle of a sailor who is my nephew’s friend. He’s a very nice person like you, only thinner,” Emma replied.”How intriguing,” said big Eddy. Looking at the register, he said, “Leonard Hornblower. What a fascinating name.””Yes,” I replied. “I thought you might like it.”
Her bathroom was stunning, complete with one of those French bidets, a shower and a large bath. I showered. Soon after; when Caroline emerged from her session in the bathroom, I said, “Chanel Number Five.”“Yes,” she replied. “Emily’s favourite, too. I’m hoping it will bring back memories.” Caroline topped up our glasses. After removing the towel from the settee, she sat down closer to me. We crossed our glasses. “Drink,” she said. When we had finished each other’s drink, she asked if I knew what that meant. I told her I had no idea. She said, “I hope you enjoy finding out, dear boy. Now come along with me, and don’t look so concerned.”
Although Emily had been inches taller than me when we first met eight years earlier, she was now dwarfed by my growth of twelve inches (thirty cm). My weight had increased accordingly. Emily remarked on my overall transition in size. Later, she beamed an appreciative smile after dominating the proceedings during our first full on love encounter and riding me home like a demented jockey on her first derby winner.
Emily was always prone to tears during emotional situations, and occasionally after making love would ask, “Was that good, darling?” as if she had made all the effort. I would tell her that only Emily Squires (her married name) could produce such a mind-bending performance. I would then spend the next few moments drying sweet little Emily’s eyes.
Going ashore in Gibraltar and seeing Barbary apes sitting on the walls outside the dockyard masturbating in public was quite amusing. On the other hand, the conventional entertainment was super. The Spanish singing and dancing ‘Flamenco dancers’ were great, but ‘must not touch or else.’
The bullfights in La Linea were the best entertainment, especially if you happened to be a cruel, insensitive bastard. Dressed in civilian clothes and with visas, we crossed into Spain. After getting stuck into the Spanish brandy at five shillings a bottle, we were soon chanting “Viva El Toro” – ‘long live the bull’ – which infuriated the local Spaniards.
While dashing across the parade ground to get our pay – which created some confusion around the cannon – an unknown person inserted an extra charge down the barrel. At about five o’clock pm, the visitors watched with baited breath as Henry Harker and the cannon crew appeared in splendid 1800’s attire. Henry then yelled, “Fire!” The cannon belched fire and smoke. The cannon ball missed the canvas and hurtled across the roofs of two Nissen-type army huts that housed Indian and Pakistani naval trainees, leaving a trail of dents and finally plopping into a static water tank. Fortunately, all the occupants had seen fit to watch a hockey game final – Hindus versus Moslems – at the time the cannon ball arrived.
Keeping it in the family was not what I expected when calling on Caroline Courtney-Cowper. It had been my intention to simply honour the invitation that she had made six years before. I made a social call so she would know I had survived the war. Tea and biscuits were all I expected. Shortly after arriving at this very remarkable lady’s home, however, I knew it was going to be difficult to escape. She seized the opportunity to illuminate a period of darkness within her dull love life. This lady was cool, open-minded, very attractive, and generous. She was also a force to be reckoned with within the bounds of her boudoir – a leading lady worth following. You might wonder why I went back for more. However being that I was a free agent at the time and committed to no one. And my needs no less greater than hers, ‘why not’
Our ship also visited Colombo and Trincomalee in Ceylon (Sri Lanka) where I did more exploring and thoroughly enjoyed myself, Sri Lanka is such a beautiful place.
Spunky Chunky Bevan an able seaman aboard HMS Marlbone, was commonly referred to as ‘Chunky with the pineapple balls.’ Most of his conversations were centred on his sexual appetite. His wife in England was with child, as was a Portsmouth bus conductress. It was also learned that a French woman and a Maltese lady Gharry driver had joined Chunky’s pudding club.
I suppose it had to happen eventually. My curiosity got the better of me. Only I knew why I drove through Brighton-Le-Sands.
We passed by the house I had known twenty-five years ago in 1945, where I had stayed with Emma Penny and their uncle, It had hardly changed over the years. A garage was standing where the peach tree had been. Brighton-Le-Sands looked similar to other seaside places we had visited.
I parked the car, bought ice cream for the children, and surveyed the local scenery. I walked past the old house and touched the wrought iron gate that I had so often opened and closed in the past. Mary and I sat on a seat under the Norfolk pine trees, where I had sat twenty-five years before. When I held her hand, I had a strange but beautiful feeling when Mary said, “We have been here before; haven’t we John Spencer?”
I looked at my beautiful wife with the pretty face, brown hair, and brown eyes and replied, “I believe we have, love. I really do.”“I thought it looked familiar,” she said.
Only recently – thirty years after that day with Mary and the family at Brighton-Le-Sands in 1972 – did I tell my wife Mary about my 1945 love escapades. Mary just smiled and said, “Kiss me, John Spencer.”
The wonders of the past have a habit of not returning, but remembering them brings back the warmth and love that never leaves us.
I was quite surprised when Bruce turned up at the club looking quite fit and healthy. Bruce told me he had met his wife, Shirley at the Lady Jane Nudist beach in outer Sydney, where he said she had fallen in love with him at first sight. He said it was a match made in heaven, as Shirley was young and beautiful, owned a logging business in Tasmania, and was ‘stinking rich.’
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