Last week I was reminded by my Uncle Mike about a close shave I had in 1958.
One particular morning, 66 years ago, my mam tells me, “We’re visiting Grandma and Granddad Bray today. They’ve ‘flitted’ from New Lodge to a house on Athersley North.”
“Can I have some Spangles, Mam?”
“More sweets? Depends. If you’re a good lad and promise not to run around while you’re eating them. Don’t want you choking on one,” says Mam, as she wipes my hands and face with the dishcloth.
We get off the bus on Lindhirst Road and call for sweets at Triggy’s shop.
At Grandma’s new house our Mike is practising this sad song called ‘Dream’ by the Everly Brothers. It sounds wonderful so I decide to make it even better by accompanying him on their piano.
Uncle Mike is a gifted vocalist and has spent years achieving perfection. His voice is so dulcet that when he sings in the bath the whole street has been known to emerge from their homes to listen and wonder where the beautiful sound is coming from.
“By gum,” says Grandma, ignoring our Mike’s singing. “Listen to that piano-playing. Our Ronnie’ll finish up a concert pianist, one day.”
(Grandma always says things like that about her grandchildren. If I kick a football she’ll say, “Look at our little Ronnie. He’s going to be another Stanley Matthews.”)
I’ve no idea what a concert pianist is but I sense it’s something really special – like a milkman or postman. So I start raising the volume. Then, for some peculiar reason, Mam and Grandma disappear into the kitchen.
It’s then that it happens. After a sharp intake of breath I half-swallow the hard, square Spangle, then suck it even deeper as I try desperately to breathe. It lodges firmly in my gullet, like a pebble in a narrow pipe.
Mike bashes me on the back, but as I stare at the wall, all I see is a mirage of shimmering, rippling water.
“Mam! Mary!” shouts Uncle Mike. They both rush in from the kitchen. Mam takes one look at me and starts screaming, and this spreads to Uncle Mike, but Grandma goes to the bottom of the stairs and shouts Granddad. He’s having a nap before his night shift at Monk Bretton pit.
“Ernest! Ernest! Our Ronnie’s choking on a Spangle.”
Next thing I know, I see Granddad’s face right up close against mine, and I can feel his rough, stubby finger poking around in my little mouth. His tobacco-smelling digit digs deep into my throat, but I see only darkness as he flips out the fruity lozenge and chucks it into the coal scuttle.
I cough and splutter but I’m all right. My mother’s trying to nurse me like a baby and keeps kissing my forehead, but I struggle to break free.
“He never lets me cuddle him, our Ronnie. Never!” says Mam, still smiling happily.
I stare at Granddad’s fat finger and notice that after years of shovelling coal, he has the muck of ages deeply ground into his life-saving hands and fingertips.
Granddad soon disappears to bed again, as I seize the opportunity to knock out another masterpiece on the piano.
There’s love in her voice when Mam says, “Don’t you be making a racket on that thing again. A bit of peace and quiet is needed.”
“Don’t worry about the noise, Mary,” says Grandma. “Once Ernest is asleep an earthquake wouldn’t wake him.”
“It’s not his peace and quiet I’m concerned about,” replies Mam, laughing. Then she says to me, “You seem to have recovered all right. Can I get you anything? Drink of water?”
“Erm, can I have another Spangle, Mam?”
Many years later, in 2015, I’m employed as the singer at The Full House. Mike (and all the family) come to support me. He asks, “Have you got the backing track to Dream, by the Everly Brothers?”
I find it and we perform the classic ballad, as a duet, for the first time since the Spangle’s drama. Mike does the harmony, and punters are utterly rapt and thoroughly entertained. It’s one of the most moving experiences of my life, but the audience has no idea why real tears are rolling down my cheeks.
n Date for your diary: Learn the tricks of the writing trade, for aspiring authors, with Ian McMillan, Mike Padgett, Chrissie Yates and myself, at the Roundhouse Library. Tuesday, March 4 – 5.30pm until 7.
