No. 30 - The Perils of Becoming Caesar.

In 1961/62, when I was a few years old, my father was always busy and my mother was often rather poorly. I couldn't be left unsupervised, so I would be sent ‘on my holidays’ to the Parkers, the older couple across the street. Uncle Charles and Auntie Tootie I called them, even though we were in no way related. Lleyn Street was full of unofficial uncles and aunties. Uncle Charles was a rather taciturn Mancunian with a pencil moustache that made him look a bit like Clark Gable. Auntie Tootie was older, a fiery, white-haired little Scot from Edinburgh. They lived behind and over their antique shop, so I spent a lot of time surrounded by old and curious items, which may be why I am most comfortable that way now.

Sadly I have no photos of Tootie, Charles, or particularly Caesar. This photo of angelic little me is all I can offer from the period.

I would pack my little brown leather suitcase with essentials like felt pens, marbles and colouring books and over the road I’d go. Childless themselves, I think they adored me, but they had very fixed ideas about how children should be brought up, and how they should behave. I must wash my hands thoroughly before every meal. I must use the white linen serviette rolled up in a serviette ring, in the form of a bird fashioned from amber Bakelite. I must not lean my elbows on the table. I must finish every scrap of my food and align my knife and fork when my plate was clear. I must not leave the table until granted permission to do so.

There was a memorable occasion when I was not granted permission to leave the table. The Parkers didn’t own a fridge, but food best kept cool was stored in a pantry beneath the stairs. I was given toast and marmalade for tea, but unfortunately the pantry had been over-run by a plague of ants - and Auntie Tootie’s arthritic fingers had failed to replace the lid of the marmalade jar securely. With keen young eyes I could see little ant corpses dotted about the marmalade spread on my toast, which was unappetising to say the least. I protested, and asked permission to abandon the toast and leave the table. Auntie Tootie squinted at the toast through her gold-rimmed glasses and peered at the jar of Golden Shred for a few seconds, before telling me I was talking ‘stuff and nonsense’ and that I may not leave the table until I’d eaten it all up. So I had to eat the toast, along with so many ant corpses that it was reminiscent of the scene in Gone With The Wind, showing the decimated Confederate forces after the sacking of Atlanta.

More rules

I must not speak when either the news or the stock market were on the wireless. I must say my prayers before climbing into bed - a version of the Black Paternoster. ‘Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, bless this bed that I lie on. If I should die before I wake, pray the Lord my soul to take. God bless Mummy and Daddy, Jeffrey, Jonathan and Stephen, Auntie Tootie and Uncle Charles, Auntie Eva, Auntie………’ (Auntie Tootie would sometimes interrupt me to say that God would understand that I couldn’t name absolutely everyone or I’d still be at it the following morning). ‘Amen.’ Then off to sleep dreaming of being a cop in Burke's Law or The Fugitive or a cavalryman in Wagon Train, Cheyenne or Sugarfoot (aka Tenderfoot).

Tom Brewster, probably my favourite cowboy lawyer.

I learnt about pewter, about hallmarks on silver, jewels in watches and carat in gold, about porcelain and seal rings. I learned that a guinea was a pound and a shilling, and that there was a distinction to be made between genuine antiques and reproductions. Three of my great-grandfathers were colliers, the other a stone mason, but by the age of five, like some privileged child of the aristocracy, I was no stranger to the taste of game. Uncle Charles often had a brace of pheasants hanging behind an outhouse door. The shop had at one time been a bakery and there was a large building at the back, still referred to as the ‘bake house’ but it was now stuffed with fascinating furniture made from oak and mahogany. Outside it stood a mangle, not an antique awaiting space in the shop, but a contraption frequently used by Auntie Tootie to make her clothes a bit dryer and very much flatter.

A Temporary Affliction

Whenever I spent the night there, like most small children, I used to wake up long before the adults did. For some reason so much ‘sleep’ would have seeped from my eyes that the lids would be sealed shut and I could not open them without help. It only ever occurred there, a but I simply accepted it and would play quite happily with Caesar, their Old English Sheepdog, without being able to see, as though it was a normal stage of waking up. Caesar would keep an eye on me, but they would also place a dining chair at the top of the stairs to prevent me from tumbling. When they were awake, I would go into their room and they would ease open my eyelids for me, using cotton wool and warm tea in a saucer, so that I could eat my breakfast and resume playing in the weird little world I inhabited as a child, my fantasies enhanced by the many curios that surrounded me in that eccentric old shop.

Caesar

Caesar, their large caramel and white Old English Sheepdog, was a major draw. His fringe tumbled over his eyes and he had a laid back attitude that suggested he’d already seen as much of the world as he cared to. We had a cat, and I liked her well enough - but Caesar was much more fun. Besides, he was no run of the mill dog, but a resting celebrity.

Before coming to Pwllheli, the Parkers had run The Ship Inn in Red Wharf Bay, Anglesey and Caesar was well known there. He used to sit beside a charity box outside the pub collecting coins, and to do this effectively he needed a gimmick. To this end, he sported a trilby hat with a pheasant feather in it, little round spectacles, a paisley scarf knotted around his neck if it was chilly, and he would have a full bent pipe in his mouth, mercifully unlit. He’d sit placidly like that for hours, without dropping his pipe when fussed over by the patrons.

When they moved to Pwllheli he retired from his charity work, but he liked to keep busy. At the corner of Lleyn Street, where once there had been a tiny inn called The Mostyn Arms, there was a newsagent cum toy shop run by a Mrs McCartney (no relation to the Beatle I don’t think). The window was busy with stuff, and nose against the glass, I used to covet all sorts of luridly coloured plastic tat that would help me become a knight, or a sheriff, or a soldier. Every morning Caesar would pad unhurriedly down the street and push his way into the shop. Mrs McCartney would hold out a rolled up copy of Uncle Charles’s preferred daily paper and Caesar would take it gently in his mouth and silently depart. Without leaving the comfort of his home, Uncle Charles was able to enjoy his newspaper, only slightly corrupted by dribble and the light indentations of canine teeth.

Perhaps these helped me learn the difference between reproductions and genuine antiques faster. (Daily Mirror, British Newspaper Archive)

The dog and I got on famously - usually. I’m not religious, but I recognise "Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's" as something that Jesus said, according to St Matthew. It is something that I should have heeded, although perhaps not in the way that Jesus meant it, because of course my Caesar wasn’t the Roman Emperor, he was a dog. He was bigger than I was, but he was placid and gentle and I adored him to such an extent that I wanted to be him. Whenever the dog was treated to one of his Good Boy Chocolate Drops, Uncle Charles was quite happy to toss me one too. They were like rather gritty chocolate buttons, but they did me no harm. I certainly never had worms, which I consider a good thing. Unbeknown to me, although Caesar was incredibly patient with the toddler who was eating half his chocolate, there was a line that shouldn’t be crossed and one evening, I crossed it. I was so wrapped up in being an authentic Caesar, that on all fours I crept towards his bowl when it had just been filled up with dog food. I had no intention of eating the brown stew of ‘retired’ horse, but Caesar wasn’t to know that. He snarled at me for the only time in our acquaintance - and bit me across the face.

All hell broke loose. I was hysterical because a large animal had bitten my face. The Parkers were in a flap, primarily out of concern for me, but also out of dread of what my mother, who was to collect me imminently, might say about her three-year-old being savaged while in their charge. Caesar was given a severe talking to by Uncle Charles as Auntie Tootie calmed my hysterics and assessed the injury. When it had all settled down, it became apparent that my face had suffered damage no worse than that sustained by the newspaper every morning - a few slight indentations where the teeth hadn’t even broken the skin. Caesar’s action had been admirably restrained under the circumstances - a light nip rather than a proper bite. Even provoked, he had known not to hurt a small child. Auntie Tootie explained that I must be more careful, because dogs didn’t know about pretend. We became the best of friends again, but I’d know not to aim for quite that level of authenticity when next I became Caesar.

Gifts of Time

These reminiscences may make the Parkers sound a bit strict. Uncle Charles seldom smiled and Auntie Tootie could be explosive - but that’s just the way they were and I never resented them for it. Theirs was not the sort of kindness that gave me everything I wanted whenever I asked for it. It was a kindness of spending time with me which, given my parents’ unavailability, was their greatest gift. I was never made to feel an inconvenience - they obviously cared for me. I could play with any antiques I wanted to because I was trusted to treat them with reverence and never to break anything, and I never did. They fostered my love of history by surrounding me with antiques and their stories. They helped me learn what were considered to be good manners, encouraged me to talk, to learn, to draw and to dream.