XV. Toys
THE TOYS DADDY MADE
Was a smell of fresh paint in the bedroom at
Christmases. Daddy would make me another
toy. The crane, like the one in the quarry, sat
balanced, all triangles; could lift my engine
down the garden steps. Airfield for the Junker
bomber, the Spitfires, had a light that could spin
green for 'Land!', red for 'Don't!' Desert fort to my
plan with the frontier bar, all striped. The boat,
called the 'Wild Cat' of course, with flags you could fly
saying 'Haul to!' or 'State your course!', that could float
in the bath. Made for you from wood, these glories,
given so you could make yourself with stories.
THE TIMES FOR TOYS
There were some toys that came at different times. One
month it was whips and tops, and the next came
hoops that rolled when you hit them and you could run
them where you liked. Then everyone had planes
made of cardboard with elastic. You could aim
them but they went where they liked. Things like trains
didn't have special months, but these others were
like Christmas or Easter or a holy day:
they came round with the sun. It wouldn't occur
to you to play with them still when to play
with the new toy had started. Better to store
them away when they had become such a bore.
THE MAKING OF THE WILD CAT
We all joined in the making of the Wild Cat.
Shaping the hull, melting the lead for the keel,
making masts out of oak to be strong, all that
Daddy took on, and the rudder, the painting
and the hatchways and portholes. The steering-wheel,
though, and the ventilators and the chaining
of the anchor I did, all specially bought
just to make it look real. Mammy sewed rope-
ladders, sails; Sarah painted lamps to show port,
starboard and bow, and made paper flags. Our hope
was all bound into one in the boat. Glory
sailed for us. Didn't know what course in story.
SAILING THE WILD CAT
I went sailing the Wild Cat on the Green Grounds
lodge, her sea, both when a gentle breeze slid her
smoothly and when a gale made her make bounds
riding the waves. Had two mainsails, two foresails,
topsails, everything that a proper schooner
had with neat model lifeboats and metal rails
and a stern-wheel and port and starboard lamps and
flags and rope-ladders. Best was when she got out
in the middle: the other bank looked like land,
strange, uninhabited land, a coast without
sign of life, without highways to the west,
and the far-off Crown Mountains like Everest.
SHADOW-SHOW
Had a shadow-show Daddy made. A white screen,
two wings supporting and so you could hide
from the audience. Could make a woodland scene
cut out of cardboard — was no need to colour
it: they saw it in black. You who were inside
saw it was just old Kellogg's boxes. Drama,
though, was what it was really. The characters
they were of cardboard too. You pushed at their limbs
with thin sticks, for they had brass fasteners
pinned at their joints to let them move. A Grimms'
fairy-tale was the story. We had to drive
it along but the shadows all came alive.
STEHAUFMÄNNCHEN
Knew the Germans called it a Stehaufmännchen,
'tumbler doll'. Push him once and he'd start wobbling
side to side, all the time, a nodding simpleton,
friendly, polite, giving you all your own way,
always bowing in welcome. There'll be no squabbling,
that's what he seemed with every nod to say,
no unpleasantness, not a murmur of no,
bland in agreement, exactly as you'd like.
In a little while, long after your push, though,
Mister Okay, like some clock about to strike,
began shaking his head, and, to my dismay,
ended up with a whine that faded away.
SARAH'S BABY-DOLL
Sarah's doll was a baby. When you laid it
down, it would close its eyes, go to sleep, so she
could pretend very easily. It would sit
up if you put its legs forward, and each hand
could be moved so it looked that it wished to be
picked up and cuddled. You couldn't make it stand,
but that didn't upset your wanting to play.
When I asked Daddy about the eyes, he said
that each one was a ball: a weight made it sway
down for the eyes, up for the eyelids for bed.
Though you knew was a trick, and one very cheap,
you just couldn't not see it falling asleep.
PEGBOARD
You put knobs on a board which had holes in it.
You could make any picture you liked: the cat
(though his whiskers were thick and didn't quite fit)
and the house (though the door would always stay shut)
with its smoke from the chimney (but only flat
lines and upright to show where the grime and smut
should go). Flowers in place by the garden wall
had no smell and no petals. Octagonal tyres
made the care ride a bumpy one, and a ball
had to have lots of corners. Pictures were liars,
I thought, but it was not as I had supposed:
you can see them all right with your eyes half closed.
SPINNING DISC
Made a circular card with two holes for string.
You had to shake it round and round until
just enough of the twists were there. Then pulling
hard as you could outwards, you could make the disc,
now revolving so fast, like a grindstone or
gyroscope, wind up again. You felt it frisk
in your hands like a bird. A concertina
whirring its tune in and out. You gave it force
on the way out to pull you with a keener
shrinking together again. To stop, of course,
wasn't easy. It leapt, a mad acrobat,
like it wanted to whiz forever like that.
BALLOONS
See balloons going any old where getting
smaller, so quick to blurt out their breath, to fall
like a dead bird at last, all their wild jetting
about letting them drop from where they ended
up. But blown up and tied with a sort of ball
just like a tummy-button, they pretended
they were calm and supreme, floating like dancers,
drums become bubbles, squeaking and vibrating
at a touch, with their shine, their cloudy colours,
bouncing in silence from the ceiling, and wobbling
gently, shaking their empty heads. Seemed to hang
in such peace in the air, but popped with a bang.
METAL PUZZLES
There were puzzles of metal, in loops and rings,
spirals and hooks. The trick was to separate
them by twisting them this way and that. The things
wouldn't give in if you just pulled hard, the rods
they were made from were solid. Just had to wait,
turning them this way and that until the odds
were on your side. The same loop that had snagged you
earlier, now was the way out. The same bar
that had blocked your escape now slid you into
space that allowed a special triangular
move releasing you. Two parts you'd pulled at, now
fitted one way. Their hate became love somehow.
THE PICTURE PUZZLE
Was a neat little puzzle, a light, thin box,
eight plastic squares and a space. You could made a
picture sliding them one right way. It would fox
you, though, for what seemed the easiest thing to
do was never correct. You had to take a
special long journey. The clown's nose wouldn't do
in the middle — one ear had to go there
first, but to get the right ear in the middle
meant the mouth had to go up like a nightmare
ogre's on top of the head. Was a riddle
to get that there as well. You had such a thirst
to succeed but so much you'd to get done first.
MEXICAN JUMPING-BEAN
Had a Mexican jumping-bean. Looked like a tiny
oak-apple cut in half. Was quite dead-looking,
dry and brown, one side dull, the other shiny.
Could be a fossil, a bit of bakelite —
was as light as a pumice-stone. But leaving
stones about, no one would expect that they might
move at all, but, with this, gave you quite a start.
Twitch! and it hopped over. Twitch! and it twirled round.
Then was still again, right away. Could it dart
straight at you? Could it break out of hiding, bound
like a flea in a second and sting you? I
didn't like it, that dead things might make you die.
THE TUBE TRAP
Was a little tube, plaited in coloured straw.
Could be a bit of a whip or a pigtail.
And the game was to get him to try to draw
out with his fingers so he would think he would
get them free. He was trapped of course, bound to fail
'cause, when he pulled, however hard, he just could
not get free. It went tighter the tighter he
pulled. The real trick was to do the opposite,
let your fingers relax till they touched to free
them. All the plaits lost their strain. They didn't fit
like a trap any more. It's better, they say,
with the Red Queen, to go the opposite way.
CAPS
Was the thing about caps: they made people jump,
even if they were expecting it. They had
two sorts — rolls you could put in guns and the bump
sort that you put in a little acorn made
out of metal that banged on the ground. The bad
boys so enjoyed making you jump. If you played
cops and robbers it didn't matter a bit,
but they would do it when you were just talking.
Couldn't stop yourself — as if having a fit,
felt all your shoulders hunch up, your head dipping
in a way that you hadn't chosen to do.
They just loved having such control over you.
TOY MOMENT
Was a Queen Mary, made of tin. You wound it
up and a red propeller would whiz round fast.
Liked the funnels and white top. In a sunlit
seashore pool left on the sand, where the ripples
were so prettily matched in gold, the ship passed
through them, its own waves criss-crossing in triples
and quadruples of water and skeins of sun.
Beautiful moment of sun and light. But why
have this bright image still? I had only run
five of my years. Shallow pools now will reply
to a glance. Daddy's half-crown for that liner
made for seashore and sunlight no time finer.
MAMMY'S LITTLE WOOL MEN
Mammy made little men out of wool. Each thread
that began at the head ended up in toes
or in fingers, and cords drawn tight kept them spread
as a body. His hair was always cut straight
like a thistle and stayed as the maker chose.
She would sew on the mouth; she would imitate
eyes with crosses. Three bonds at the hips shaped
trunk and thighs. But as soldiers they wouldn't stand
up; as family, wouldn't sit down. They aped
walking only if someone would put a hand
to each foot. Best was hospitals, tucked in bed.
When you tired of that, they could always be dead.
WHIP AND TOP
Coil the whip round to start with. Hold it
upright, still. Then it looks like what it will be.
Pull the whip sharply outwards. Let no respite
follow — lash hard at once; otherwise, it will
weakly topple, and run all your energy
off away from you. You must show your skill
in the snap of the whip: that keeps the top strict
to its vertical spin. It may curve away
but it spirals to you again, to be flicked
into upright submission. There it will stay,
whining, trembling. You could almost call it still,
quite as still as a world that conforms to will.
FIRE WORKING
I liked fire made to work. You could buy little
steam-boats that pop-pop-popped across the sink when
you lit meths on a wick. A sort of griddle
under the front of a steam-lorry let you
see the flames that were fighting hard to open
dungeony bars to get out: all they could do
was to keep up the steam that the calm driver,
standing so safely above them, could control
with a turn of his hand, slower or faster,
just as he wanted. When they came to steamroll
down Vale Avenue, all the surface they gave
it was flat just because fire worked as a slave.
THE STATIONARY STEAM-ENGINES
Among richer boys' toys there'd be stationary
steam-engines, black and red, with brass bands,
couplings, fly-wheels, all polished, a luxury
Daddy just couldn't afford. You'd light some meths
on a special wick. Soon inside steam expands,
pushes the piston, and with short panting breaths
it sets off the machine with a quick elbow
opening and closing, and a pulley will take
his Big Wheel or windmill, made of Meccano,
round like a top. Because I just couldn't make
things like that, was no use for me to have one.
A godfather might give one to his godson.
THE MAZE-BOXES
In a glass-topped box shut away from fingers
was a silver ball. Upside down you could roll
it about on the glass anywhere. Players
of the game weren't allowed to go from START to
HOME like that, for a long road led to the goal.
All the fun was in passing the holes. If you
took the glass way, like flying, it was a cheat.
People watched you, and screamed when you arrived at
WOLF or FOX (you were RABBIT and they could eat
you up). Then it was their turn. You watched so that
you could jeer when that 'Clock! 'noise came. Had to pit
yourself against them, always their opposite.
BAGATELLE
Playing bagatelle. Shooting with a steel ball.
How it would bounce off the pins, depending
just how gently or sharply you pushed. Its fall
drew pure parabolas among the cages
with a tink and a tonk. You saw it had gone
right by the hole for the hundred. Such ages
it seemed hovering at the top of a curve,
then with a hesitant slewing it just missed
the round garden of pins. A knock forced a swerve
over towards the tiny cradle; it kissed
at the edge. One last pin knocked it out of play
and it fell to the row where the others lay.
KITE
See that kite by the very swoop upwards twist
down just as fast, a swipe to the ground as if
a golf-club has swished, a violinist
arc-ed to sforzando, a headlong miss that cheats
what it danced itself close to. Off like a skiff
darting on clouds, vibrantly flirting its pleats
till they crack like a whip, trailing its bow-tie
tail, a mad centipede, the after-image
of a sparkler, a wake of images, high
glidings and windings on a taut anchorage
like a poem or life, till it plunges to
earth, a shot bird, a fluttering residue.
BOBBIN-TANK
Cut some notches around the cotton-reel's rim,
knocked in a tack each end, put some elastic
through and hooked on one; with a match as limb,
twirled the elastic till tight; then set the reel
on the floor or the bed; then, with lurch and crick,
crawling as tortoise, snail or tank, it would feel
its way blindly up ridge of carpet, mountain
no longer blanket, fall headlong down valleys
where, by whipping its matchstick round, this bobbin-
animal kept on unrolling its journeys
with an uninterrupted grind. But it could race,
when it whizzed away turns, stuck in one place.
THE DOLLS' HOUSE
Was a dolls' house that Daddy made for Sarah.
All the front opened and you could put the chairs
and the tables, the grandfather clock and the
bath, and the lavatory, the bed, the boudoir
set, the pink wardrobe — all of them in. The stairs
were for the dolls. If our front wall were ajar
like that, huge and invisible hands could pick
us up and put us just where they liked — the White
King that Alice picked up, he was almost sick,
collapsed flat out when she dusted him. You might
float right out of the walls, be lost far away,
and they'd see everything that you did all day.
WATER FLOWERS
You could buy special flowers, made of paper,
and they were all crumpled up like dried buds or
shrivelled seeds, but, when you put them in water.
after a while they began to open out.
You could watch them unfold, revealing their store
hidden away in so little a space, sprout
in odd jerks from a pale, shut-up parasol
out into brilliant patterns more even
in their colour than real flowers. Like a doll
under a glass, they looked brighter, in Eden
out of reach, magnified, bedewed with bubbles.
Wouldn't last in our world, full of its troubles.
TRANSFERS
Would like playing with transfers. Though you hadn't
painted the butterfly, a bit of water
let you peel it with care and then an instant
picture was there in your book. Some had them stuck
on the back of their hands, but, if you caught a
corner, say, scraping a cuff, it was bad luck,
little flakes would curl off and all you would see,
left on the skin, was a butterfly in snow.
And then bending your hand would go snickersnee
right where the wrinkles were. The colours would go —
only nasty black bits would remain. Better
keep them flat in a book, like a pressed letter.
NO-PAINT PICTURES
In these books there were pictures ready to paint,
only you didn't need paint, only water.
If you used too much water, colours were faint:
too little, nothing would happen. Had to keep
steady inside the lines — just a jog brought a
colour across so they mixed — the red would creep
over grass and his hat became green. And they
only could make red, blue and green, so you had
to pretend all the flowers in a bouquet,
garden or vase were coloured those ways. Not bad,
though, the blurrings: sometimes that's what would please —
they made feathery boughs of wonderful trees.
REPAIRING THE TRAIN
If my train went wrong, Daddy would always mend
it. When it broke — it was usually the spring
coming out of the bottom — I didn't spend
any time trying myself 'cause I knew that
I might make it worse fiddling, so the best thing
then was to leave it on the mantelpiece flat
on its side so he's see it at ten o'clock
after the pictures. The next morning there it
would be waiting, set down with the rolling-stock
all wound up, ready to go. He'd repair it,
even paint it again, whatever happened.
That was why all my train-set was old-fashioned.
ALEC MILNER'S TRAINS
Alec Milner had very fine Hornby trains.
I was allowed on a Sunday afternoon
in their polished front-room. Behind leaded panes,
there with the best crockery, long blue boxes,
good as new. Out of cardboard sockets maroon
carriages, green and gold engines, not copies
with the pipes and the pistons so exactly
right. For his daddy could afford it. So kind
of the Milners to let me see. My rattly
engine looked silly on the same lines. To mind
that was 'envy'. And Alec was never proud,
and you've got to be glad with what you're allowed.
TOY DISASTERS
After drawing up time-tables for Hornby
trains, and keeping so strictly to them for hours,
we arranged crashes. Loads, to make more debris,
were piled high, and the Dinky Toy ambulance
was parked near to the cushion cliff. Our towers
made of Minibricks to our omnipotence
bowed low, popping apart at a blow. Houses
of cards flat at a breath. In boats lead soldiers
quite unable to swim when the last pebbles
had capsized them. And plasticine prisoners
we created with care fell from windows head
first. We ran down the stairs to model the dead.
GYROSCOPE ON THE EIFFEL TOWER
Why you set up the spinning gyroscope on
top of the Eiffel Tower remained
such a puzzle to me. No comparison
with a big rocket, say, or a skyscraper.
Pull the string and the massive whirligig strained
hard in your hand, as trying to escape the
one direction you'd chosen, as if it knew
just what it wanted to do, would ignore
both a tap and the whole Earth's pull, stayed askew
out of a kind of stubbornness, would restore
its own axis in spite. But what use its own power
if you place it on top of this silly tower?
PERPETUAL MOTION TOY
Was a clown on a rod. He turned over and
over while running down rails from left to right
and then right to left. Going hand over hand,
soon he reached the bottom of the tower,
and ran out on two bars. But, so that he might
lift himself up again, he had the power
to dislodge a small catch: a weight, released, swung
down on the other end, the bars up-ended,
and the clown went up with them, finally flung
back on the rails at the top. He descended
in perpetual frolic, ignoring fate.
Was one snag: it was I had to set the weight.
MECCANO
The Meccano instruction book was very
helpful. It took you by stages from the simplest
of the models to difficult ones. Easy
making the Bath-Chair (funny, underneath in
French, it called it the 'Vinaigrette'), and the rest
shown in the Grade 1 box, the See-Saw-with-Spin
and the Luggage Truck, 'Signal de
Chemin de Fer' and the 'Chariot Tournant'. But pages
farther on, there were Telpher Spans, the Tower
Bridge, the Inclined Delivery Chute. Cages
of strips needed for those. But I'd get one day
the Accessory Box they labelled '1A'.
TRIX
Had as well as Meccano a little Trix
set. Made the same sort of things, a plane, a cart,
and a crane and a see-saw. You couldn't mix
them, and I hadn't as many as in my
big Meccano set, and it wasn't as smart
'cause the Meccano was red and green; to buy
it cost more and the cogs were all gold. But yet
Trix looked much better somehow, with matt grey
girders, rounded each end; down each one a set
of holes like fives on a dice, and the bolts would stay
firm (Meccano's kept slipping). The look of a toy
makes you feel it is something you want to enjoy.
MAURICE'S MICROSCOPE
I found Maurice's microscope a wonder.
In a box like a safe, of mahogany,
with brass hinges like gold lace, with each drawer
packed with slides neat in slots, each slide etched and stained
like a pound note, and bright lenses like money
piled up. Wonderful power, as we both craned
our eyes down, to see everything much bigger
than it was: scales from butterflies like jewels;
cells of leaves all inlaid. But how much better
it would be if we had some blood! Refusals
by us both! As we argued, Aunt took a pin,
pricked her finger. How right for her to give in!
MORSE-TAPPER
Daddy made me a Morse-tapper. You could take
two wires upstairs and fasten the buzzer there,
and then Walter or I could wait there and make
out the 'Da-di-dahs' and receive the message.
From a little blue spark the cold wires would bear
meanings across — over the floor went language,
up the carpeted stairs onto the landing
right overhead. Course, you had to get the taps
as they should be or else misunderstanding
would interfere with it or there would be gaps.
You'd hear Walter who'd shout to get it complete,
but with ordinary speech you couldn't repeat.
KALEIDOSCOPE
The kaleidoscope made the pieces collide,
run almost anywhere, and then — magic! — they
were a pattern, hexagonal. You could slide
just as you liked, but the symmetry always
put the chaos in place, as a bright nosegay,
made out of splinters of stained glass. They would craze
from these sharp everlasting-flowers into
chromatic snow-crystals glowing fire, dither
into brooches of crammed brilliance, undo
radiant coronets at a touch, slither
from agreement like silver-fish, always flee
between states locked fast to those helplessly free.
MICROPHONE
Daddy made us a microphone, on a box,
strung on wires just like an announcer's. You could
connect through to the loudspeaker. Little knocks
sounded like thunder, his breath like a great gale.
We could make up a programme when Sarah would
sing and I read out a poem, tell a tale,
as if I became Uncle Mac. And a friend
joining in let us do plays. Was fun being
on the wireless like that. So nice to pretend.
Added our sound-effects. Made it exciting.
Only snag, though, couldn't hear your own speech.
If you spoke in the room, it made a loud screech.
PERISCOPE
Daddy made me a periscope out of tin.
Two mirrors, angled, inside a camouflaged
tube — you see, you could keep out of sight down
in grass or behind a tree. No one could see you
there but you could see them. You suddenly charged
out and they had to be dead. Only you knew
that you saw them as you watched all their secret
actions, perhaps to do with you, but you stayed
safe, so cosy alone, in the dark quiet.
No one watching you watching. Not afraid,
you could plan the whole thing how you would win,
but the time always came when you had to join in.
STEREOSCOPE
When you look in the stereoscope, the two
pictures, both flat, become hollow and solid.
This is Bournemouth in eighteen-something, in new
space that's as tangible as this room, a bridge,
and a park, and a distant spire. Some leaves hid
part of a mother and child, but the image
still invites you to move to get a better
view. The old sun is now shining with the light
of a new one in Cambridge. New eyes get a
look at what old eyes are seeing. Now you might
hear the twitter of sparrows long gone, and feel
the warm breeze of this summer that once was real.
LIFT-OFF FOR OUR HOME-MADE ROCKETS
We made rockets of paper. They balanced neatly
on their fins made of cardboard. We spent ages
in preparing the site. Meccano Army
men at perfect attention were defending
the perimeter. Studying the gauges
drawn on shoe-boxes that we were pretending
were recording the pressures inside, counting
time without watches, we were able to fire
without wires, with electric matches. Mounting
from the pad, all our rockets rose much higher
than they did. We would never say what we found:
all our gunpowder fizzling out on the ground.
OTHER MODELS
When you'd made all the models Meccano
said that you could and you hadn't got money
for the 'A' set to up it one, you could go
on to make up silly Heath Robinson things
making levers turn wheels turn cogs in funny
rows all to knock over a coin or play dings
on a bell or release an elastic band
flipping a pea into a tin. All the works
were as clever and complex, as busy and
sure as the proper models, their whirls and jerks
as impressive, but what they did had no point,
save fun. No one could say they were out of joint.
COGS
With the cogs in Meccano you could connect
lots of them all in a row. Turn the end one
with a handle and all of them moved, subject
to your control, teeth gritting teeth, tiny cog
somersaulting inside a wheel, which would run
over a hot-coltsfoot-stick, which couldn't clog
up the works like the stick in your mouth, but had
to, without twisting, transmit your push on to
the next, bowing and scraping with ironclad
fate, because all those teeth had been made so true
to the slots. There were some, though, that tended to skip
over others with a grinding noise, and slip.
BOW FOR BOW-AND-ARROWS
Made a bow for my bow-and-arrows. The string
buzzed like an instrument. If you brought your eye
very close, the curved band, whitely vibrating,
streaked with the lumpy twists, showed where you couldn't
see at all what was there or there. Could ask why
something was not where it was, but it wouldn't
help you much. For the eyes it was much too fast,
so it was hidden inside the band, never
to be seen, with a smoke-screen in which it passed
this way and that, leaving a trail
wherever it was going or had been. It was a sell —
just like someone you thought you knew very well.
BOW AND ARROW
I loved making a bow and arrow. Bamboo,
that was the best, clean and straight and so shiny
it was already polished. They always said yew
made the best bows, but I liked its tapering
finger, so bendable. I would wrap twiny
cord round the middle so it was firm gripping
it. And twanging the string made it buzz like bees,
seeing it whiz into a striped spindle-shape
like a flat blade of smoke. Then, like Achilles,
drawing the arrow, not letting the string escape
till the moment was right. The arrow was cast
to the future with force saved up from the past.
THE BOW THAT I KEPT
There were bamboo bows, thin at the top, that split
and would trap your skin. Too thick they wouldn't bend
much, and arrows would fall short, too near to hit
what you aimed at. For cord, wire was too brittle
or too stiff; with elastic you couldn't send
many arrows — it wore through in the middle.
Even string didn't last, but I had a bow
that was just right. It always bent perfectly.
It was worth painting patterns on, Navaho-
style, and varnishing. I'd keep it carefully
always. Kept it for always, so long ago,
till I found I had no use for a bow.
THE SWORD
Daddy made me a sword out of wood. The blade,
carved to the right shape, with aluminium paint
so it looked like real steel. After that, he made,
out of some bendable metal, the hand-guard
that was curved like a galleon's sail, with quaint
patterns to look like real jewels, and all barred
with green lines like the carriagework on a bus.
I could be Errol Flynn as Captain Blood, or
in the French Revolution, with arm out thus,
I'd become Leslie Howard, rescuing more
lovely aristocratic girls. A pity —
nobody else had a sword who could fight with me.
BOOMERANG
Saw a boomerang scything its arcs over
background of trees. It was horned, a torc dizzy
with a scissoring spin, a slicing razor
cutting itself, snake catching tail but failing
unsuccessfully, tricking the wind busy
gusting about its own concerns, and trailing
to my slow eye a trellis-top, wristwatch band
Möbius-twisting, up over air-cornice
and invisible comber, till it checked and
rose to a last flailing entrechat to miss
one more spin and fall crippled through the air-surf
till it stuck like a signpost in the green turf.
THE SHIP IN THE WINDOW
Had Meccano ships. Slid them about over
seas on the table: the Queen Mary, with three
scarlet funnels, on her course past Nova Scotia;
France had the Normandie, too (was more streamlined);
there was H.M.S. Nelson, gun-turrets free,
turning to this side and that, your mastermind
tactics cheating the enemy. In Bolton,
though, a travel shop's window had a fine boat,
such a lovely big model, S.S. Manxman,
and each ventilator with its red throat,
every lifebelt and lifeboat, its whole outfit
perfect. Why was it no one could play with it?
VERISIMILITUDE
Once a stone was a car. It only need be
roughly square at the edges: that was enough
if it fitted the fingers to let me see
me as driver at Brooklands on the banking
made of air. At eleven I couldn't bluff
myself thus: then there had to be wheels flanking
a neat chassis — they needn't go round as long
as they showed all the spokes. Later they had to —
plus a helmeted driver — couldn't be wrong
that I only had half of him. Wouldn't do
at fifteen without scale-model Jaguars.
Wouldn't do at eighteen to take stones for cars.
DRIVES IN THE HOUSE
There were lands in the house. There were smooth brown hills,
bulging cliffs, shining high ridges where your car
ran in any direction, no stops or spills,
even straight upward, on the settee. A deal
desert spread on the kitchen table with far
glimpses of chair pinnacles; you turned your wheel
over firm white sand, rippled by the last brisk
wind. And the carpet had streets and avenues:
by the long city wall you ran a slight risk
(heat from the great volcano). And you could choose
after accidents, only took a second,
to go on as if nothing bad had happened.
TOY CARS ON A SAND HEAP
The best thing about toy cars was that you could
make all the roads for them. A sand heap was best.
Was a mountain with cliffs. What was really good
was to construct one along the precipice
where there could be a crash right up by the crest
(that was your lieutenant — in your car you miss
just by inches), then down wriggling roads to safety.
Valleys were nice. Best of all were the tunnels.
If the sand wasn't dry, you were a navvy
burrowing through with your arm. In your travels
you could then take the darkness all in your stride,
to be sure to come out on the other side.
THE ROADS ON THE SAND
All my Dinky Toy cars got stuck in the sand,
though I'd flattened the roads as well as I could.
They were safe ways from one hole across the land
to another. To fly cars over desert
wouldn't do. Winding roads, untouched, looked so good
in the random sand: they would mount cliffs, and would skirt
the abyss, make a cutting through the summit,
and on bridges of sand, patted into place
by my fingers, would lead to the opposite
sides. My hands met in tunnels: I could embrace
the whole mountain. But cars on sand wouldn't go.
In the end I'd pretend it was really snow.
ROADS FOR MY CARS
I liked sending my cars right across the floor,
specially in shiny lino, but some always
would turn over or end up backwards. The more
pushing you did made it worse. They never came back
of their own accord. Better making a maze —
anything did as the walls: even a crack
in the floorboards was houses one side, open
road on the other. Rulers, schoolbooks, Daddy's
tool-box would make corners, unexpected when
drivers were going along. You couldn't whiz
where you liked. Couldn't help sometimes being late
'cause to get where you wanted you had to wait.
A ROAD UNDER THE HEDGE
Ran a road by the hedge for my cars. It wound
in and out round the privet stems — they were trees.
It went into the forest, over rough ground
smoothed by the steamroller of my seaside spade.
It went all down the garden, at last would squeeze
out by the lupins. I had had to invade
next-door's garden; the Ainscoughs' cucumber-frame
lay where the road went in and came out. They would
never know, wouldn't bother. No one could blame
me. Wasn't trespassing really. No one could
try to prosecute you. They'd never find out.
So the road, it belonged to me, without doubt.
CONTROLS
In my motor-car, pushing on the treadles
was the way to persuade it to go where you
wanted. Dinky Toy cars didn't have pedals
so you had to forget your hand while you shoved.
Even clockwork cars you had to wind up to
make them go. And a German make that I loved
which you guided with wires — you could almost think
there weren't any while it drove to the place
that you'd told it to go. The radio-link
that later boys have now mean that you can race
without hands. You can make it turn this way
or that. Without hands, you can make it obey.
MY FIRST CAR
I was four. Daddy made me my first and only
car. He put bicycle pedals inside it.
If you lifted your hands off the wheel, crazy
went the direction, the front shaking its head
to the left to the right as if in a fit,
all of the things before you sliding instead
like a lantern-slide — you could end up banging
right on the kerb. Your hands were itching to hold the wheel.
When you did, then yours was all the sliding.
Wonderful how a twist you could hardly feel
sent the bonnet just where you wanted. Forgot
that your legs underneath had to work a lot.
RECONNAISSANCE CAR
In the Dinky Toy Mechanized Army they
had a reconnaissance car. It had windows
all along the side. Took it on one fine day
up into Rivington to play on the hill
by my Granma's I knew so well. Now it rose
thousands of feet. Now all the driving skill
in my fingers was put to the test. I crossed
chasms by round wooden bridges; I would wait
to watch ladybird leopards; I would get lost
deep in the jungle just by the garden gate.
Reconnoitring found roads where the aerial
survey never had seen them. It was ideal.
SIR MALCOLM CAMPBELL'S CAR
Had a Dinky Toy model of Sir Malcolm
Campbell's new racing-car. It was all streamlined,
as if engine and wheels had had some blue gum
poured all across. Was narrow, low, like a tongue
or a thin wedge of cheese. It had been designed
specially to slip through the air, and so low-slung
it could cling to the ground. And he could afford
it. Rich men tried for such records. The paper,
it agreed it was whizzo, a big reward
England deserved. And my whizzing it over
our front lino was sort of agreeing too
'twas a thing that rich people could choose to do.
TANKS ON THE ROCKERY
We made roads on the rockery. Exciting
curving round cliffs by the forests of stonecrop,
tunnelling under, making bridges. Fighting
each other's Dinky Toy Mechanized Army
was terrific with artillery on top,
tanks hidden ready to push him suddenly
down the precipice, bridges that would collapse
'cause I'd removed some nuts and bolts. Was no fun
on the flat lawn. No point in making our maps
carefully first if your enemy could run
his tanks anywhere. Only fun playing if
he was crushed in the tunnel or pushed down the cliff.
THE DINKY TOY MECHANIZED ARMY
We would take all my Mechanized Army, tanks
of two sizes, reconnaissance vehicles,
and the guns, big and small, although they fired blanks
made of breath, and the men, each having a post
at his bottom to fix him, stop his wriggles
on the seat of the gun or carrier. Most
of the Dinky Toy army was green, but when paint
fell off, I added camouflage, which meant you
could not tell what they were, or where. You could feint
with your flank and attack somewhere else. A new
terrain soon grew familiar. Shots of breath
soon had mapped out exciting plots of death.
THE LOYAL SOLDIER
I was running a troop-carrier along
rockery roads, tiny men, black-beret'd, sitting
so alert for the enemy. Took a wrong
turning and — lo, and behold! — a lead soldier
with a busby and red jacket was standing
stiff at attention in a cave, much bigger
than the Dinky Toy men. A statue then,
meant to encourage them. He was a hero
from the past. He'd been there, though, out of my ken
years out of count, on the watch that, long ago,
I, as general, set him. Through rains, through snows,
he had stuck to his post beyond what I chose.
THE WAR IN THE AIR IN THE KITCHEN
When the Lancaster bomber landed, no one
noticed the hand holding the fuselage, but they
had to hear what was engine noise. If a gun
fired from the Spitfire, flames were invisible
but you heard the rat-tat-tat like a relay
right at the top of the throat. A terrible
sort of coughing and roaring was a bomb, though
nothing exploded on the table. Had to
specially make an agreement whose plane would go
down from the sky, whose anti-aircraft gun blew
up, stayed safe on the mantelpiece. Used to tire
of the shout not to play on top of the fire.
THE AERODROME
Daddy made me an aerodrome where I could
fly, and the best was the lights. First, the searchlight
in the dark. With my black Messerschmidt I stood
up on a chair — you could catch the enemy,
shoot him down bang before I'd a chance to fight.
Then, on a tower there was a cover free
to spin round so the bulb shone green, amber, red.
I couldn't take off till he said so, had to
stay grounded till it showed green. And there were spread
out on the field the landing-lights, and he knew
when he'd switch and I didn't. Safe on the ground
he could keep me forever circling round.
SHOOTING DOWN A JUNKER BOMBER
Bought the Dinky Toy Junker bomber, all black,
wings like a hawk's. They had put a little ring
in the top. On the lawn you could have your ack-ack
ready to fire. Tied a thread from the bedroom
window down to the garden. Another string
tied to the tail of the plane. Down it would zoom
with the thread through the ring. You had to forget
all that you'd done, forget the ring, and not see
what you saw hanging down from the house. You bet
it was fun with the gunners in place — they'd be
firmly stuck on their stumps. And though it was you
aimed the gun, yet they downed him out of the blue.
THE PARACHUTIST
Used to like making parachutes. Mammy would
give me a big rag and I'd cut it into
a round shape and sew on the thin string — was good
having about six or seven strands. Had a heavy old
diver, arms by his sides, so they couldn't screw
up in the strings. Once down in a sunken hold,
now he flew as escaping pilot, and quite
safe from a fall with his steel suit on. You'd throw
him up high, all wrapped up. The top of his flight,
quickly unrolling himself, he didn't go
falling down, but ballooned away out of harm.
Like a dandelion seed, he floated in calm.
MODEL AEROPLANES
You put dope on the tissue paper: this would
tighten it up so the struts showed through. Between
them the paper was taut, and I thought it good
drumming with fingernails, not too hard though, or
you might break through the membrane. The struts would lean
all sideways after the crash, and if you tore
at the tissue you didn't care. There was no
drumming to do; the edges of the paper
skin would flutter like dead leaves; wrinkles would go
this way and that as you twist; the propeller,
if you wound it, would make all the airframe bend.
Dabbing glue, you'd pretend it wasn't the end.
MODEL PLANE
The propeller was wound up. In the model
plane an elastic stretched inside from one hook
to another. You could see the rubber trammel
tighter and tighter. First the waves are spread out
like entwining of long limbs. Begins to crook
in on itself, in sudden hard knots that sprout
and pull tighter. There are more of them
packed in like a palm-trunk; against your finger
feel the pressure. And now with that store of them,
waves held in tension, you're ready to fling a
plane to flight. It depends on the wind and you.
Have to ask, 'What will all that energy do?'
THE FLYING FLEA*
Made a Flying Flea, tiny wings and body,
looking as frail as an insect, its balsa
struts and skeleton matchstick-thin, gauzy
dope-tightened skin that you wanted to pop through
like a bubble. It had a small propeller
looped to elastic — you were expected to
fly it. Everyone thought so. But really I
ought to have let it dangle from the bedroom
ceiling, just as pretence. Never meant to fly.
But, didn't think, 'cause I wanted it to zoom
in the air. Down it came by the goalmouth — Crash!
All my trouble for nothing in one big smash.
* The Flying Flea was a French miniature aircraft.
THE GOOD PLANES
Were some planes, quite cheap, that you flicked with a
rubber band, flew with marvellous turns and curves.
They were off in a flash, hither and thither,
swooping like swallows with a dive to the ground
that they cheated with uninterrupted swerves
seemed they had already planned. Or they went right round
you, on end to the earth with their wings, as though
you had a string when you didn't. And the air,
that was something they played with, went with its flow
making more beautiful curves as though a scare
was all part of their fun. But if the wind blew,
they went down with a bang and were cracked in two.