Authors: Paul Potts
It didn't bother us too much, though, as it was part of the passage to Portsmouth. We got there early enough to have breakfast in our favorite café by the station, and then walk down to the seafront. The walk to the beach was like walking through any suburb of any city, but to us it led to our wonderland. On the way home, we took the last train back from Portsmouth Harbour station, often called the “milk train,” from the days when the last train of the day towed a few tankers of milk. Other parts of the country had the “strawberry train” with a similar setup. Even now, when I go somewhere for leisure, I try to get the first transport up and the last one returning, to make the most of the journey.
Southsea has a pebble beach, so swimming can be uncomfortable when the tide is in, although when the tide is out you can walk into the sea and have sand between your toes. Pebble beaches do have one compensation, though: you don't have that awkward job of trying to get your shoes back on without getting them wet while trying to ensure you don't get a load of sand in them, either. On the other hand, when you get out of the sea onto a pebble beach, your skin is softened and those pebbles hurt!
We would spend the whole day at the same spot, having brought a packed lunch with us. It would usually be sandwiches filled with cheese or ham. Because it was a pebble beach, we
couldn't play beach sports. We would swim for hours in the sea and then sunbathe for a few more hours. After a few hours' swimming, we had not only the smell of the saltwater but the salt itself once we had dried in the warm sunshine. This was all before people became concerned about skin cancer and being in the sun during the middle of the day. I had a tendency to burn with my first contact with the sun each year, but then I became a golden brown, something Mum was jealous about. That still holds true today, but obviously I do use sun cream now! People we knew didn't believe we had gone only ninety miles away from home, rather than Spain, because of our tans.
Towards the end of the day, we would pack up our things and walk down to Clarence Pier, which had the main funfair. We usually just wandered round and thought about which rides we would like to go on, not being able to afford any. We'd watch others having a good time and maybe have a cone of chips (french fries).
At times, there would be arguments amongst all four of us that would lead to threats of going home. Tony and Jane would often stick together; not surprising, their being twins. John and I would sometimes come to blows. Jane, however, always knew how to scheme and was too clever for us at these times: she would strike first, hitting when one of us was out of sight, and then stand where we could all be seen.
“Don't hit your sister!” bellowed Dad.
“But she hit me first!” answered whoever had hit her back. (We had full equality; if she hit any of us, then we would hit back, though never as hard as she had hit us.)
“I don't care, you don't hit girls!”
I'm not sure who said it, but out of the blue came the words, “But Dad, she's not a girl, she's my sister.”
It took us a while to learn the lesson. I think Jane caught every single one of us out at least once. Jane and I still laugh about this now.
John's birthday always fell during the holidays, so we had a treat on that night by visiting the fair and having a go on the rides. The one we feared the most was the White Mouse: it was the most scary roller-coaster ride in the fair, and you got a good view of the sea on your way round. It was strange how John often suffered from travel sickness in the car, but he had no issues at all with the roller coaster. The fair was noisy but exciting, and we were surrounded by the smells of chips and vinegar. As it was John's birthday, we all got treated with a fish and chip supper, and then got on the bus back to the Eastern Road campsite.
Occasionally, we used the car and drove further up the coast to Hayling Island, Worthing, and Brighton. We liked Hayling Island the most, as it had a sandy beach, so we could use our buckets and spades. Even the pebble beaches kept us occupied, though, as I learned to skim stones there. It was something I always found relaxing. The secret to a six- or sevenfold skim lies in the choice of stone. Not too big, not too small, with a reasonable density so it won't be thrown off course by a wave. Then it's all about the speed of your throw and the angle at which the stone hits the water.
One of the highlights of Portsmouth in August was the Navy Days at the historic dockyard. They started out many years ago as a recruitment exercise for the Royal Navyâthe modern equivalent
of press-ganging! We always timed our holiday to coincide with the Navy Days weekend, because for a single entry price you could wander round most of the dockyard and go on board the ships. One of the major attractions was the aircraft carriers, and there were always long queues to see them. The only year when there weren't real Navy Days was 1982, because this was the year of the Falklands War between the UK and Argentina over the sovereignty of the Falkland Islands. It was very poignant to see the badly damaged HMS
Glamorgan
in dry dock after it had been hit by an Exocet missile, where several crew members were killed and injured. There were regular parades by the sailors, and the day ended with the rousing sounds of the Royal Marines Band playing the “Last Post.”
Those days of wandering round the dockyards stirred us, though, and John and I vowed that we would join the navy when we were old enough. When we got home, we joined TS
Adventure
, one of the Sea Cadet Corps in Bristol. I planned to be an artificer, or engineer; an aim doomed by my lack of ability in physics and mathematics, which were prerequisites for the job. John, though, was more successful and a number of years later he joined the navy as a cook. He ended up serving for around twenty years, seeing much of the world and also serving in dangerous times such as Operation Desert Storm.
The Portsmouth holiday in 1982 doesn't just stick in my mind because of the Falklands War. I was eleven, leaving Chester Park for the big bad world of secondary education. Primary school had left me feeling confused. I hadn't known how to interact
with the other children when I started, and upon leaving I felt like I knew even less about it.
The thought of going to secondary school scared me witless. I didn't see these new experiences as an opportunity but as a threat. Those six weeks of summer holiday in 1982 passed all too quickly, as I worried about being thrown into a new world I didn't know how to deal with. The one thing that had helped me cope with my problems in primary school had been my love of music and singing. In secondary school, I was going to need that solace more than ever.
I
WILL ALWAYS
remember the first time I experienced music properly. I was five years old, and was attending a service at our local church: All Saints, Fishponds on the northeastern side of Bristol. I was part of the congregation, standing up to sing a hymn, when I was suddenly taken by the sound of everyone singing together. It was such a beautiful, sweet sound that it took me out of myself. I was completely caught up in the moment. I'd heard music before, of course, but this was the first time I “got” it and realised just how special it was.
I soon discovered that not only was music something magical, but also that I was naturally good at it. I had an innate ability to remember tunes in my head, something that is often described as learning music by ear. I could hear a tune in church and sing it back with little effort, and also play it on the piano. Right from the start, I realised music was going to be an important part of my life.
When children at church reached the age of seven, they were
expected to start Sunday school. I had been singing in the church choir for a year by this point, and I wanted to continue singing rather than go to Sunday school. I couldn't do both, as they were scheduled at the same time. It took a little negotiation from my parents for me to be excused, but I got my wish. I was joined as a chorister by my brother John. Tony joined a different choir at St John's Church by our school. Jane wasn't interested in being in the choir, as she liked Sunday school. We were paid a small amount of money for weddings and normal services. It wasn't much, but it did give us something to save up and spend at the fair on holiday.
I wasn't sure why music made me feel good; I just knew it did. Seeing that the vicar did lots of singing during the service, for a while I wanted to be one. It wasn't because I had a calling; I thought it meant I would get to sing!
Even at an early stage, I gained a reputation for singing loudly. I sang tunefully, but always at full volume. This wasn't from being disobedient or wanting to show off, but simply because I enjoyed it. I was so loud that if I was in the congregation at a different church, I'd often turn heads as people could hear me from the very front of even a pretty large building.
One Sunday at home, I decided to experiment with some matches and paper. I think it was more about curiosity than anything else. I set the paper alight in a drawer in the bedroom I shared with my two brothers, and the smell and smoke made its way downstairs. Predictably I was caught and told by Dad to pray to God for forgiveness at church that evening. I was offered a choice of punishments: either I could miss a whole week's activities, namely Boys' Brigade, Cub Scouts, and choir practice; or
miss the Cub Scouts camping trip to Exmoor a few months later. I really wanted to go camping, so I chose the week of missed activity instead.
That evening at evensong, I dutifully prayed for forgiveness as told to by Dad. To his surprise, I came home full of joy.
“Well,” I said to my parents, “God forgave me!”
Dad looked startled. “What makes you say that?” he asked.
“We got a pay rise this evening!”
One thing I wanted from an early age was the opportunity to sing solo. I remember watching the BBC show
Jim'll Fix It
as an eight-year-old, and seeing a boy treble who had written to ask to sing in St. Paul's Cathedral. I was green with envy. I wanted to sing solo, and I dreamed of doing so in a huge church like St. Paul's. I didn't enjoy watching someone else doing it when it couldâand shouldâhave been me.
I eventually got my chance in a much smaller venue. A small choir made up of pupils was formed at my primary school, the majority of whom were girls. The choir only really performed publicly once a year at the school's carol service at St. John's Church, which was next to the school. In December 1978, I was asked to sing the first verse of “Once in Royal David's City” without accompaniment. This both excited and filled me with fear. It was a huge moment for me, and I still remember my legs feeling like jelly as I was singing, nerves being something that would always be with me.
Nineteen eighty was a key year in my vocal development. We had noticed in the local newspaper, the
Bristol Evening Post
,
that one of the central Bristol churchesâthe great Georgian church, Christ Church with St. Ewenâwas auditioning for boy choristers. It seemed too good an opportunity to miss, and I decided to audition.
The audition itself was a quiet affair in front of the organist and choirmaster, Brian Bussell and his deputy, David Moon. Mr. Bussell was a man with a jolly disposition and a fairly even temperament. But standing in the church in front of the panel, initially he looked domineering. Middle aged and almost bald, he was friendly, but you knew he was in charge.
My audition was successful, and I was selected to join the choir and be paid £200 a year plus bus fare expenses. I was thrilled. Christ Church wasn't large, but it had a long choral tradition supported by a benefactor who had left a large amount of money in her will, which paid for the choristers' annual fees.
At my first service in the choir, the whole of my family was present, including John, Jane, and Tony. John was heard singing by one of the church wardens and was subsequently invited to join. I was a little put out that I'd had to audition, but I was happy to be there, especially as I started getting solos.
New boys were always taken to All Saints Church in the parish for a fairly mild initiation. The church was said to be haunted by a monk who died defending the building's treasures at the time of Henry VIII's dissolution of the monasteries in Britain. We all had to stand up against a door while a few boys stood round the corner making shrieking noises, pretending to be the ghost.
My older brother and I had good fun in the choir and made friends. One particular Thursday there was a storm under way.
Having arrived early, John was running round with a few of the others, and he turned and said, “If I have ever told a lie, may God strike me down!” At that moment there was a huge flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder immediately after. He was petrified, but I laughed my head off.
As choristers we were well treated by the church. In addition to the income that covered our expenses and also helped pay for singing lessons, we had regular trips. We also had an annual meal out just before Christmas. This was a rare event indeed for me. We usually went to the Berni Inn on Broad Street, which was a huge treat. We were allowed anything we wanted on the menu, and as it was a steakhouse and not something our family could ordinarily afford, I was nervous about ordering anything expensive. Seeing my discomfort, Mr. Bussell told me to go for it. I ended up having (as did every other choir boy) a three-course meal of breaded mushrooms, rump steak, and ice cream for afters. We were given liqueur coffees at the end (minus the liqueur, of course), and felt thoroughly spoilt.