Easter and The Half Hearted

Between the years 1958 to 1972 on Easter Sunday I loved to hear the St John's Church bell ring out to the parish of Oxgangs to celebrate Easter Sunday.

In the Hoffmann household Easter was always a very special time at 6/2 Oxgangs Avenue.

Back in the late 1960s/early 70s Anne, Iain and I would have joined the Blades (6/6) on some Easter Sundays at the former Oxgangs Evangelical Church. Paul Forbes and I also attended Charlotte Chapel too, probably through the influence of Fifi and Liz Blades. And when we were very young children we were taken along by the old boy to Belford Church too.

And yet despite all this we weren't religious at all; certainly not in the true sense. It was something which we did; I guess we were just stumbling along on life's journey. In a half-hearted way - without any formal analysis; and like many other young people, we were finding our path in life.

However, I enjoyed going along to the churches.

I liked the occasion.

I liked seeing people dressed in their Sunday best.

I liked seeing families together.

I liked the sense of fellowship.

I liked seeing the minister interact and embrace members of the congregation.

I liked seeing older spinsters or widows feel part of a larger family.

I liked being part of a group or an extended family.

I enjoyed the service - the mix of biblical stories; sermons; and many of the values promulgated. I liked the sense of occasion and the mix of formality; history; tradition; and warmth too. I found myself, even as a young and occasionally rebellious teenager finding and enjoying these moments of quiet reflection during the service.

And yet I was never religious. I was never a believer. When the charismatic Rev Derek Prime invited the equally charismatic Arthur Blessit to preach at Charlotte Chapel hypnotising half the congregation, I was most concerned about Paul Forbes joining many others 'to come on down if you've felt the spirit!'

Despite never being well off as a family, Anne, Iain and I were very well looked after at Easter by our mother and our grandparents.

Each year, on Good Friday we received an attractive little mug with a cartoon figure on it; sitting on top was a simple milk chocolate egg. These were inexpensive items yet we set great store by them. Yes we quickly broke up the egg into pieces and enjoyed eating it; but the mug was special, because that was our cup for the rest of the year, from which we enjoyed our morning and evening 'cuppa' of tea, with milk and two sugars.

On the Saturday we were very lucky, because every year, our grandfather Gaga brought each of us a large brand name egg e.g. a Cadbury's Milk Tray chocolate egg with individual chocolates arrayed along the bottom. We knew how lucky we were with this, because outwith Norman Stewart (6/3) who always outclassed us all we did relatively well compared to our pals at The Stair.

On Easter Sunday itself we would be collected by our grandfather and driven down to Durham Road, Portobello; I loved the route and in particular seeing the women and gentlemen dressed up in their lovely coats and hats walking happily to church services at Greenbank; Morningside; the Grange; and Duddingston Village. Usually we would hear the lovely sound of the peal of the church bells ringing out and calling the followers to worship.

Easter Sunday, perhaps appropriately, was a simpler affair.

Our artist-grandmother had made three hard-boiled eggs for each of us which she had painted very attractively. We would go out into the warm sunshine in the back garden and roll the eggs until the shells eventually broke. I'm unsure whether we realised the significance of this - but I'm sure we will have been told.

In the decades after I left childhood at Oxgangs I've always found Easter a special time of the year.

I've occasionally written poems about it or had the oddest dream, once combining the two involving Arthurs Seat.

Easter Away

‘…Like a magnet, drawing me in

Wanting to whisper something to me

I’d like to listen. But can’t

Easter’s a strange time. And the world is whizzing

And to stop. And maybe find out

That you were only a dream.’

In later years when we married we enjoyed Easter with the extended family up at the farm in the Highlands.

And over the past eighteen years or so the fun and competition of the 'famous' Easter Egg Hunt with 'Atticus' and 'd'Artagnan' and cousins and friends. This year, 'd'Artagnan' is competing at the Birmingham International Open but Unc (Iain Hoffmann) and I have been in strict training to outfox Diane and 'Atticus' in today's egg-hunt - Unc' has his walking stick at the ready, so watch out Atticus for dastardly tactics!

And although we can't enjoy the peal of the St John's Church bell ring out today have a lovely and 'Happy Easter' wherever you are; and if you get a moment to pause for a moment of reflection, enjoy that too.

ps 'The Half Hearted' is a very early, but enjoyable novel by John Buchan - well worth a read.

On The Cusp Of the Year

Today is Thursday, 15th August, 2013. It's the last day of the year since, on a whim, I first started the blog, The Stair, on Thursday 16 August, 2012. On the cusp of the year, both for the blog and when late summer is just turning to early autumn I thought I would display this lovely photograph of the season. 

The photograph has been taken up at Swanston Road with the T Woods in the background on the lower slopes of the Pentland Hills. A local farm worker is atop a cart and horse carrying hay; they are making gentle progress up the slope on a golden afternoon at the cusp as summer turns to autumn.

It was on such afternoons throughout the 1960s and on to 1972 that I along with the other twenty four children from The Stair contemplated our return to the classroom. Quite often the weather remained similarly fine and sunny which made it a struggle to return to stifling classrooms at Hunters Tryst, Firhill and Boroughmuir Schools. Those of us with an awareness of the English system would be envious that our peers across the border wouldn't return until September.

For most of the kids we didn't really want to go back-even if by the back end of the holidays being off school had perhaps lost a little of its sparkle. I've no doubt though that a few others like Gavin Swanson who were more studious actually looked forward to the start of the autumn term and the new school academic year. I don't think I ever did, but there was always a certain 'buzz' about going back. 

The boys had visited Ben Mackenzie for a haircut-Michael; Boo-Boo; Brian and Alan Hanlon will have had their number ones, whilst Iain Hoffmann and I had our hair plastered down with jungle juice. 

For those with new schoolbags (and that unforgettable smell of leather) or new school clothes and ties or perhaps those going up to secondary for the first time many will recall these days with a mixture of excitement and pleasure, but pain might be too extreme a word choice!

Many of us were keen to squeeze the last drops from the summer fruits and as the countdown began we managed to play amongst the hay in the fields at Swanston; have grass fights with the mown grass in the front garden of 6/2 Oxgangs Avenue; or late evening games of kick-the can or British Bulldog at The Field. Bike runs were still taking place-I note that in August 1972 Paul Forbes; Boo-Boo Hanlon; Iain Hoffmann and I cycled through Arthur's Seat to Portobello whilst young Colin Hanlon cycled so far. On another occasion Boo-Boo, Iain and I watched a world record at the Edinburgh Highland Games-little did I realise that a few years later I would take part myself. 

There was still a certain continuity in our lives as milk runs and paper runs were still being undertaken, because not many of us at The Stair went away on holiday other than Liz Blades to Stonehaven; Anne Hoffmann to our New Town cousins; or Alison and Fiona Blades; Iain; Paul and I camping at Stobo, Peebles. 

For a few summers we enjoyed our Mini-Olympics at the army's former running track at Redford Barracks which were great fun. We might even manage a final visit to go jumping the burn at Colinton Mains through to the Braid-Burn Valley, but by then the grass and wild flowers and weeds and nettles had perhaps become too overgrown. 

And if it was wet, Iain, Paul and I would enjoy card games at The Blades with Fiona and the girls or play mischievously with their giant tape-recorder with Paul blowing great rasps onto the tape.

The cusp of the year was further illustrated and articulated through the school calendar.What was truly lovely about the summer was that it brought many of us at The Stair together whilst school would unfortunately divide us. At the start of the autumn term The Duffys returned to St Augustine's whilst The Hanlons; The Hoggs; Norman Stewart; The Swansons; and The Hoffmanns were divided up between Boroughmuir; Firhill; The Royal High; and of course Hunters Tryst. The cusp was thus metaphorical and literal.

And on this last day of the year of the blog whilst it should perhaps be a time for reflection I'm not inclined to go down that road, and for whatever reason I'm not inclined to quite bring down the curtain on it-and certainly not before I do a Where Are They Now blog-and even that of course is unlikely to be a final hurrah.

So, on the cusp of the year after a golden 2013 summer good luck in your adventures-and I look forward to meeting and hearing from old acquaintances and making new. And by way of update, one former member at The Stair, Fiona Blades has been accepted to undertake a PhD whilst I'm joining Iain Hoffmann on holiday to Portugal. Any updates from others would be welcome!

Comment From Liz Blades On the Field In Winter

Liz,
Sorry, I hadn't realised there were further paras than I'd published so I've rectified publishing your comments in full below-pure chance/serendipity  that I stumbled upon the rest of your missive-makes me wonder if there are further comments out there that I missed.

I suspect you're most definitely the furthest travelled-I wonder what that says! I sometimes wonder what happened to Norman Stewart. Heather Swanson is in America-Florida, I think.

6/6 may be able to see the No 16 bus, but not 6/4 or 6/2. 

That was a brave step you took going to the States-life changing. Departures are strange things and we often handle them awkwardly, poorly or not recognising the moment for its full worth. I tried to bring this theme out in the blog For Whom The Bell Tolls. The Scottish/Australian folk singer Eric Bogle captures this in his performance (preface/song) Leaving Nancy-if you're not familiar with it check it out. 

I wasn't going to mention the topic again and it's not a competition (!), but since I'm responding-I'd met up with my mother and sister in Edinburgh on Saturday and whilst acknowledging everything you said on our fathers, we felt a key difference for us was the fear factor which was always there for us because KH was such a very intimidating individual. Anyway-don't feel obliged to respond-we've probably done that one to death!

I've enjoyed our wee chats across the globe-it would be good to keep in touch.
Best.
Peter
x

Hi Peter, 

I think I remember those winters and the sledding more so than the summer. Maybe because the snow made things seem pristine, new, and fresh. It made things sparkle - a pleasant change from the dull concrete jungle that was Oxgangs. 

I remember the treacherous ice slides on the pavements and the hard packed snow on the field. It was exhilarating flying down the hill on a sled. I remember using a light low sled, basically a flat 'bed' to lie or sit on with 2 short wooden runners attached. I don't think this was the sled Mr Hogg made, which I don't remember, but thinking back it seemed similarly home-made.

Anyway I was about 9 or 10 yrs and I wanted to emulate the older lads who ran with the sled and launched themselves to lie on it in motion. I unfortunately allowed the rope to trail under the sled as I ran forwards and trod on it just as I launched myself. Of course the sled stopped sharply as I continued going! As you said the hard packed snow was iron hard and my face bore the brunt, severely damaging my front teeth and taking off a layer of skin (ice burn). It was so cold I didn't feel much and felt more foolish than anything but the next day my face was a mess!I think I had a dermabrasion long before we knew what that was!

As for the trees, my how they have grown. I remember those spindly saplings which seemed to forever require propping up. But they made it to maturity forming a copse there on the hill. I wonder if we would still be able to see the No 16 bus coming down the hill?!

On an earlier topic you mentioned leaving Oxgangs in 1972 which I did also although I think it was earlier in the year. I may have been the first to go. I moved into a share house, a beautiful ground floor garden flat in the new town. I worked in Charlotte Square and so I used to walk to and from work, and later that year I went to Philadelphia in the US to work as a 'mother's help'. Now in Australia since 1988, I wonder if I am the former resident now most removed geographically from the stair? Liz Blades

Dreeping-Ruth Kaye (Blades) and Peter Hoffmann

Hello Peter
I cannot remember if you mentioned about the dreeping off the shed roof at the back we used to do that often. The stair fashion also fascinated me everyone was very into the 70's look I remember fiona and Liz with their loons. My mother always used to dress the 3 youngest in the same outfits all the time. Bu I guess it was easy for her. She always had our play clothes laid out on our beds when we came back from school. I had forgotten your mother was always a natty dresser and very colourful I do not think I ever saw her in trousers whereas my mum wore trousers all the time. I know your mum loved sewing and made a lots of dolls clothes I am sure she could have made a very successful business out of it
Kind regards
Ruth

Excellent-that one passed me by-I used the term with d'Artagnan not so long ago when he was up in the attic and he just gave me this blank look...duh!...Dreeping-what's that? Yes, it was very popular-we sometimes had to coax one or two people down who would take fricht and end up in the hanging position for five minutes so good was their power to weight ratio! 

I don't remember Mrs Anne Hoffmann making doll's clothes-I'm likely to catch up with her and Anne Junior on Saturday when I'm down in Edinburgh for the weekend with d'Artagnan-she certainly was brilliant at making her own clothes-if we came in from school or out playing and cloth covered with patterns and pins encompassed the sitting room floor we made a quick body swerve out of the house as we knew from experience that the language might get rather colourful and choice if things didn't always go to plan! We could have done with your creative thinking back then Ruth-it would have been good pin money-sorry, me and my pins, uh, puns again!

ps Iain and his wife are up staying with us over New Year-he was saying you were always his favourite and how he enjoyed chatting with you coming back from Firhill School-he said you were always great fun!

I May As Well Try And Catch The Wind-Signing Off And Final Thoughts From The Stair

This blog feels rather like the last page of the Oor Wullie annuals when he signs off-Wee Wullie sitting on his bucket contemplating, philosophically on the Auld Year as it draws to a close and then cheerily wishing all his readers all the best for the New Year ahead.

Serendipity, perhaps, but  it feels appropriate to be signing off from the blog on Auld Year's Night allowing the followers and me too, to move on to pastures new. There's no handing over of the torch however-it's just occurred to me that an interesting twist on such blogs would be if the role of 'editor' passed on Olympic Torch like to others!

On a recent response to Ruth Kaye (Blades)-the most ardent supporter of the blog, we mentioned that it had been slightly disappointing not to have received more feedback from those still alive of the 'original cast of forty one'; however, including my responses to comments there's actually approximately 10,000 words. Because they disappeared off the side bar, for the sake of completion I will pull them all together and post them as a Comments blog later in the week.

The blog will continue to exist on the net for any current readers to revisit or for those who may stumble upon its existence by happen-stance in future-it may even become a useful resource for children doing a project on life at The Stairs half a century ago.

I'd like to thank everyone who has taken the trouble to make contributions since I started the blog in the summer-either through the Comments button or who I have spoken to. In particular I'd like to mention Ruth Kaye (Blades), Liz Blades and Iain Hoffmann. There's nothing like a comment, a reaction or a response winging its way through the ether to raise the author's spirits!

I will probably do a blog sometime in the New Year giving a succinct update on Where Are They Now-I'm short on material on the likes of The Duffys; The Smiths; The Hoggs; Norman Stewart and Alison Blades.

I've tried to paint a picture or to give a flavour of what life was like at an atypical Stair in the years between 1958 and 1972, but to quote Donovan's 1965 hit I may as well have tried to Catch The Wind. I haven't quite managed to capture life there-perhaps because I haven't deployed a more thoughtful, intellectual, methodical or chronological approach to it. Instead I've largely gone on instinct-I've tried to present or tell the story through little vignettes that I trusted would be local, but also have some universal appeal too. And yet, I've not really captured what day to day life was really like for the sixteen adults and the twenty five children who lived at 6 Oxgangs Avenue over these fourteen years or so. Indeed, I haven't even captured the sights, the sounds and the smells of the days-I've not even mentioned the smell of chips wafting down the landings as Mrs Hilda Hanlon cooked dinner for Mr Charlie Hanlon and her darling boys Michael, Boo-Boo, Colin and Alan-never mind an atypical day-A Life in the Day of The Stair.

Also I haven't managed to convey the enormous changes that subtly and then more quickly impacted upon us all, because the decade of the 1960s produced perhaps the biggest changes socially, culturally and technologically of any decade-certainly if I'd continued into 2013 I would have written about the likes of Neil Armstrong and the moon landings which feature prominently in old diaries. There are some excellent academic books out there including two works that I have at home by Dominic Sandbrook, but perhaps even to my surprise I've avoided even referring to them opting to take a more folksy approach and to try to see things from the eyes of a boy and a youth-thus the absence of areas such as politics which dominate my day to day interest now. I rarely referred to my journals until quite late on which is a mistake-they are thorough, honest, timeous and immediate snapshots.

It's been an interesting experience writing day in and day out-it's given me an insight into what life is like for some journalists. On many occasions I've thought, What the hell are you doing Peter and on other fleeting occasions I've thought, Yes, this is worthwhile-it's recording times past before particular experiences vanish and disappear for ever. Also hearing from the likes of David Lines, Douglas Blades, Ruth Kaye (Blades) and Liz Blades alone has made it worthwhile.

I would have liked to have heard from others and the wealth of experiences that they could have brought to the table because too much of the story was me, me, me-I had subconsciously hoped for a dialogue-a conversation and the blog would have been so much better if it had consisted of more input from those other residents at The Stair-more of their story, their adventures-how they saw, viewed and interpreted life at The Stair-but of course it's still not too late for anyone to add future comments if the whim takes them, for as long as the blog exists on the net, others can continue to add their story too.

When I started the blog around two hundred episodes ago I said that I was taking more of an instinctive rather than an intellectual approach. It's thus begun and ended in the same way. Because of the approach taken there's no objective idea or measure as to whether it's been a success or a failure-in management speak no SMART objectives were set so there are no performance indicators. There's a part of me that perhaps hoped it might take wings and fly, but without knowing how and to where.

I feel that where the blog did take off to give a much more interesting take on The Stair is some of the on-line discussions and dialogue that I've enjoyed with Liz Blades who lives today in Melbourne, Australia. These gave some insights into some of the darker aspects of life back then as well as taking the conversation into unexpected detours adding in new information and re-awakening seemingly lost or forgotten memories. If there had been many more of these dialogues then the blog would have improved immeasurably, because people could have sparked off one another.

Some interesting themes have surfaced-The Elephant in the Room whereby two of the eight families had alcoholics as the head of the household; life through a child's eyes rather than an adult's; slips of memory; freedom and autonomy; hard work; fun; a general malaise of the importance of promoting a positive academic sensibility; a good, healthy place to live compared to the pre-war generations; values; lifestyle; interesting personalities and interesting families; entrepreneurship; relationships giving way to transactions; a time of stability and yet paradoxically a period of great change; transition; the celebration of the seasons; friendship and companionship; stable employment; and the advancement in technology  We were lucky too whether at a micro level enjoying the golden age of comics to the macro because we enjoyed and benefited from everything that Bevan instigated in 1947 in terms of new housing, new schools and the NHS. And from a personal angle it's given me a better insight into my father-many colourful tales of his adventures which will never see the light of day!

Finally to all those individuals who lived at The Stair-grew up, grew old and to those who have long since died from those days-many of them very happy indeed could I say thank you for the years at The Stair. When I think of these times it is with great affection for all my fellow travellers and whilst not all of the experiences were good they influenced the people we became and continue to be.

Could I apologise if I've inadvertently upset either you or those close to you-I've undoubtedly been clumsy or somewhat thoughtless on occasion.

Once again a big thank you too, to all the contributors to the blog and also all those anonymous followers too-ironically over the past few days the blog's been getting 250 hits or so a day!

I will visit the blog regularly in case anyone leaves any comments in future-I would be delighted to hear from anyone; indeed, because it still has the potential to be a live forum, anyone can still add their own comments, their stories and their tales of life at The Stair as they see fit or when the motivation takes them. And although it's no longer alive, yet it isn't dead either-and of course those readers who have followed the blog since it started will know that I enjoy these little quirks and paradoxes, not to mention the titles-was Adolf Hitler Kept Me Out Of... either the best or the worst of such examples!

Take care; keep busy; look after your health; and good luck in all your adventures-one of mine may be to edit the 90,000 words of The Stair!

Peter Hoffmann
peter.hoffmann@btinternet.com
Twitter: @thehoffster
Mobile: 07799 673290
'd'Artagnan' (Tom Hoffmann) is on Facebook and would communicate any messages to me too.

ps Look out for my Edinburgh coffee and cakes invites!

Letters From Abroad

I always thought the Blades family lit up The Stair-they were great fun and always seemed to be very go-ahead. One of their innovations was writing to pen-pals in the United States, which must have gone beyond just writing, but actually meeting up. On Saturday, 5 August, 1972 Liz introduced me to her American pen-pal, Lisa. They soon had me doing the same and introduced me to a girl called Peggy Burbank from New York; over the next year or two I was exchanging letters with her.

Receiving letters through the post was a thrill, particularly with the foreign stamps. These were the days before mobile phones were even a dream, never mind the internet, Twitter, Facebook or blogging.

On balance the world's much better for the improvement and speed of communication. Waiting on tenterhooks for the postman to drop a letter through the door from a girlfriend or boyfriend was a wonderful thrill-however if it didn't arrive one had to wait a whole twenty four hours; it was agony and one had to be patient and endure. 

Writing a letter did mean that one was perhaps a little more considered and there was a delay before the finality of posting the letter through the post box down from Dr Motley's surgery. And, because there wouldn't be an uplift until the following morning one could delay sending the missive. Today it's too easy and immediate to press the send button or the publish button on the blog. Even now I feel that slight hesitation-what are the ramifications?

Whilst in the short term the immediacy of communication is wonderful, in the long view having letters from forty years ago opens a window on the past-people can speak to you from beyond the grave, so to speak. 

My father Ken Hoffmann was a wonderful letter writer. My grandmother was always encouraging him to write about his adventures across the seven seas. He wrote to me from America, Japan, China, Australia, Argentina and Romania to name a few. 

And, as the saying goes, When I was sixteen I thought my father knew nothing; by the age of twenty one (or fifty six) I was surprised at how much the old man had learned!

The Elephant In The Room-A Response to Liz Blades

Liz, thanks for your interesting comments re: The Andrew Duncan Clinic and associated experiences. It will be interesting to hear if my mother elaborates further. Her memory is excellent and also the overall experience is so ingrained.

Out-with the general principle of trying to be truthful I am unclear about my own motivation for being so open about my father. The subject of alcoholism is not something which I have ever really spoken about amongst friends or colleagues at all. However, when Fiona Blades and I have met up we've been able to be quite open-there's been no embarrassment discussing our fathers’ illness. Yet, if others stray across the blog on the Internet they'll be totally surprised. And, if I clearly thought through the implications for a wide range of stakeholders, including grandchildren and great grandchildren, I perhaps would not have gone there. That said, any story needs to be balanced-the bitter and the sweet; the good and the bad; and the ups and the downs of life.

Similarly, I have a specific vignette which I have been wrestling with for a while now. It is about a school-teacher at Hunters Tryst who was a war hero, but with whom I had a difficult experience and mixed relationship. I want it to be balanced, but honest too. Yet I'm conscious some of the teacher’s relatives may still be alive.

All that you say of the Blades' family's experience with Charles, we at 6/2 could empathise with and identify with. Looking back, if we had only all been more open with each other as kids, it may have lessened the burden-even removed it a lot earlier. However, Helen and Mother were open with each other, especially considering the existing mores and values at the time.

It's understandable why it was kept secretive, particularly when you are living cheek by jowl within the confines of a small community, amongst eight families in The Stair. To understand our reasons perhaps begins with what motivates people-acceptance and the need for approval; the avoidance of rejection; status and the need for social prestige; and also the era in which it took place.

For example, I hated the embarrassment. I might have some pals in the house and totally out of the blue my father arrived home drunk and unnaturally good natured and effusive. I'd try to usher my friends out of the house quickly before they might notice. The down side was his mood would then transform from Dr Jekyll to Mr Hyde. I would thereafter be on the end of some sarcastic cutting remarks and vicious looks which would then, more often than not, move beyond mental abuse. Another embarrassing incident was him coming into the classroom at Hunters Tryst Primary School to ask for the house key. He resembled a down and out and was drunk. His breeks were held up with a piece of string. I'm actually laughing at that particular memory, but it wisnae funny at the time.

Like 6/6 we didn't really see him drinking at home at all. It was hidden from view. Ditto on the bottles too; on one occasion I couldn't sleep properly because a bottle of vodka had been planked under my pillow, but I was too scared to mention it.

I'm unaware whether other families in The Stair knew that Charles and Ken were alcoholics. My impression is that it was kept quite well hidden, but perhaps I'm being a little naïve. Looking back I don't recall either being on the end of any social disdain or receiving any social empathy. I always felt I had a special relationship with Helen, so perhaps there's an inherent contradiction there, but I'm only surmising. Undoubtedly it was our mothers who suffered most.

Last, perhaps there has been a subconscious motivation to talk about the elephant in the room. In the decades since, as a family, we've occasionally spoken about the subject but usually tempering it with humour, which is a positive thing. Up until now my own approach has been to park the issue in the past and move on. After all, what else can you do? And yet, without being dramatic, I am aware that the whole experience at the time really was quite horrendous and undoubtedly has left its mark-both in a negative way, but also in a positive way too, in terms of trying to learn from the past and as a parent avoid making such mistakes in the here and now.

That's quite a heavy blog, especially with-oot many pictures-more like a sermon and not what I'd planned-just as well it's a Sunday!

Charles; Ken; and Magwitch!

A bit like my extended response to David Lines, I realised once again, that this was going to be far too long a response for a comment-so here goes, a blog instead!

Hi Liz-nice to hear from you once again-it is a rather lovely, if poignant thought about Helen-she would have been perfectly suited to Oz, not only because of the sun, but because she was such a hard worker and such an engaging and outgoing personality-she would have positively thrived there!

It was at Helen's funeral that many of us last met up. I note from my diary of Tuesday, 24 October, 1978... We all went to Helen Blades' funeral service at Charlotte Chapel and after the burial we went to Liz's house for a tea. Very sad circumstances, but it was lovely to see Douglas and all the girls again, reminding me of many happy old times...

Helen Blades cleaning The Stair-An appropriate photo given she rarely stopped working-but still smiling!
(Photograph by Douglas Blades)

I met Douglas for an hour earlier this evening (he looks very well you will be glad to hear!) and although we were flitting around a vast number of topics (goodness knows what the waitress thought, especially my Robert Bond, (2/8) story!), his and my  memories of Charles and Ken coincide. It is very sad for all involved because both the fathers and children were losers, not to mention the wives too.

Anne Hoffmann is a fount of stories and was very friendly and terribly fond of Helen; you're right, I think she and Helen were a mutual support group. Whilst, she had an ambivalent relationship with Charles, partly because he wasn't pleased when Anne had to intervene and support Helen on one difficult occasion, she did like Charles. They used to sit beside each other on the number 4 bus in the morning travelling to work.

I had forgotten about Lady Blades' car, but I now have a vague memory of it-what an extraordinary juxtaposition! I wonder if I offered to look after it for a couple of bob to prevent the wheels being removed! There would certainly have been no trouble parking it as cars were as scarce as hens' teeth!

When Ken was drinking it really was a nightmare-quite frightening for a child-there are endless tales! Unfortunately, he seemed to take against me and I often took the brunt of it-I've still got the mental scars if not the physical ones!

Ironically, whilst his behaviour was understandable when he was on the bottle, what is less understandable is how he behaved when he was sober. For much of the time, his was a brooding, grumpy, disputatious and menacing presence. He took no pleasure or interest in having two sons, but did have a warmer relationship with my sister Anne. That said, I loved to sit and listen to him and my mother, Anne Hoffmann, converse over our Sunday breakfast of tea and rolls-their conversation was of a really high quality punctuated with many laughs!

He did battle his alcoholism hard by attending AA at The Rooms at Cockburn Street for years and years. I have occasionally tried to understand Ken through vividly re-imagining  his upbringing (a phenomenological approach?)  at 14 Dean Park Street, Stockbridge in the late 1920s and 1930s and with the type of parents that he had.

That gives me certain clues, in that he was certainly a child of his times; but whilst it partly explains who he was, ultimately, if you are an intelligent and reflective individual, it is probably not enough of an excuse. As a husband and father he failed to get to grips to try to overcome particular personality traits and weaknesses. And, whilst Dr Spock manuals on rearing children weren't exactly dotted around, I don't think he ever gave his demeanour and behaviour much thought-for example I don't recall receiving any real praise from him-it was the stick rather than the carrot!

A Rare Outing to Edinburgh Zoo
Iain; Ken; Anne; and Peter Hoffmann (circa 1964)

I'm sorry that your memories are not better. I/we at least had the consolation of getting on better with Ken in later years after my parents had divorced on my 15th birthday in 1971! I would often bump into him on early autumn afternoons at Boroughmuir rugby matches at Meggetland and later on when I stayed at Colinton Village in the late 1980s/1990s he used to sneak round to join the whole extended family for Chinese Carry Outs/Trivial Pursuits evenings which were very happy occasions-by then he was able to enjoy and appreciate us all-even my grandmother! By then I think he probably had many regrets on how life might have been.

Although I bore the brunt of his wrath I have only ever felt warmly toward him after he left home. I intend to do some future blogs on the topic of foreign letters-(it was you and Fifi! who introduced me to a New York pen pal!)-I am lucky to have a dozen or so letters from Ken from  throughout the world from 1971 to around 1980-I have not looked at them for years but when I did a decade ago I was completely, but pleasantly surprised to see he did actually care for me, and in his way tried looking after me from afar, Magwitch style, with some well meaning advice.

And, because he was so keen on sport I think it came as a pleasant surprise to him that I had done something-there is a 1976 telegram addressed to the Olympic Village, Montreal-he heard of my selection on the BBC World Service whilst on board a ship off the coast of South Africa; also, I was incredibly surprised to see he had watched an 1978 Edmonton Commonwealth Games semi-final whilst in a pub in Oz!

A last and very late memory of him from just before he died over twenty years ago-we were down at Meggetland-Iain and me, plus his son Roddy (from his second marriage)-he was treating the three of us to a Boroughmuir Rugby jersey-we had to hang around for quarter of an hour before they handed them out to us-despite his poor health the four of us passed the time by throwing and passing a rugby ball to one another-it was great fun with much laughter and leg pulling-extraordinarily it was something we had never done as children-I think he knew in that moment what he had missed-for me it's an abiding memory and drew a veil over much that had gone before.

Apart from his Boroughmuir tie, the jersey is all I inherited from him-it's worn so well that my son, Will wears it today. Whilst it may be a perverse observation I sometimes reflect on the fantastic legacy which he left me, for when I had two sons of my own, I knew exactly how I wanted to bring them up and how I wanted to spend as much time with them as possible before they would come to fly the nest!

ps Check out a rather lovely track, My Old Man by Steve Goodman!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GW7xR7WkyTU&feature=share&list=PLDB7718CBFA7443FF

Comment From Liz Blades: Peter, thank you for your extended comments. I was amazed to read that you all came back to my house after mummy's funeral. At first I didn't even recall that I did that, and I'm sorry that I do not remember you being there. The mind does strange things when you are under stress. 
I'm afraid mummy hated that photo of her cleaning the stair. She was embarrassed to be photographed in those particular circumstances. She would be appalled to know that it is now on the world wide web for all and sundry to view! But you can see that grin on her face all the same :)
Love the photo of you and Douglas and glad to hear it was a happy reunion.
It occurred to me that Charles and Ken grew up almost within a stone's throw of one another. I wonder if they ever encountered one another before Oxgangs? Charles grew up in India Street just around the corner from Stockbridge. Liz Blades

Response: Sorry about that Liz-it would be nice to access a better photo of Helen. I had forgotten too-I have very detailed diaries going back over forty years ago, although I have not really referred to them for the blog. Douglas too had forgotten we were at the funeral. After seeing your interesting comments last night I took the 1978 diary off the bookshelf-there is more in there. I was supposed to be in Dundee that morning for something important, but turned the car back at the Maybury Roundabout! Something I discovered fairly recently from Anne Hoffmann was that my Nana Hoffmann was the housekeeper for Lord Aitchison who was a contemporary to Lord Blades-I very much like the paintings by his artist son the late Craigie Aitchison-I enjoyed an exhibition at a recent Edinburgh Festival. I was really quite excited about meeting Douglas yesterday-although I mixed with a wide variety of the kids I always really liked and looked up to Douglas-not just because he was the oldest child at The Stair, but because he was such an interesting character-whether with his collection of records; his call-sign; his interest in transport; and the way he worked very hard-not to say he was a saint of course, because when I needed it he very occasionally told me off too! NEEEP! Peter Hoffmann

Social Relationships at The Stair

Generally social relationships could be neatly divided up-adults and children.

The Stair 6 Oxgangs Avenue

For the most part of the decade of the 1960s, The Stair was a very pleasant place to stay. Although it was a decade of incredible change and liberation compared to any decade before or since, what didn't change was that there was an underlying respect by, for and between the eight families.

Each family realised that they had to live together in the one building and by and large everyone was generally considerate, within certain parameters. I guess at a subconsciousness level Game Theory with its management of conflict and cooperation was being played out.

Any niggles were very small beer-the extent of which was that perhaps the worst sin committed was blocking the chute. If a family managed to block the chute there would be grumblings because it meant that waste and rubbish would build up in each flat-no joke if like the Blades at 6/6 there were as many as ten members of the family living in the household.

Noise was kept to a minimum, particularly in the evening. Any semi-fractious situations might be caused by children-me playing knock door run on Dougal Swanson's front door was counter productive and immature-Dougal gave such a great chase though, that I kept being drawn back to doing it-I can still experience the thrill!

Social relationships were generally kept at arms length between most of the adults-exchanging pleasantries as  they passed one another inside The Stair or perhaps on a bus. Out-with the Duffys and the Hanlons (in later years) the adults tended not to socialise with one another. In the 1970s and beyond I think the Hanlons and the Duffys belonged to a social club where they went on a Saturday evening?

None of the men from The Stair went out for a pint together-The Good Companions pub wasn't The Rovers Return. 

Certainly there were no such things as being invited round for dinner to experience the decade's standard fare of prawn cocktail; gammon and pineapple; and Black Forest gateaux!

As ever, the women of The Stair were more sociable than the men. That's common as a generality, but at The Stair there were also perhaps specific reasons for this, because the men were quite different.

Charlie Hanlon (6/7) and Eric Smith (6/5) were friendly-both were non-skilled workers; Mr Duffy was at one stage a salesman (?) before having to settle for more menial work; again he was friendly with Charlie Hanlon.

As mentioned Charles Blades had trained as a doctor before dropping out and as the son of Lord Blades was an oddity in The Stair so to an extent was a fish out of water-to me he always seemed remote and I don't recall ever speaking to him, but my mother, Anne Hoffmann spoke warmly of him.

George Hogg was the one skilled tradesman in The Stair but always seemed a very quiet man who was either working or at home-he's quite a phantom in my memory bank! Again, as mentioned, by nature of work as a policeman, but also by dint of personality and incline, Mr Stewart kept himself to himself as the saying goes.

Dougal Swanson was a real family man who spent most of his leisure time with his family and would never have considered going out for a pint-like Charles Blades, George Hogg and Mr Stewart, Dougal didn't socialise whatsoever. As a grocer's shop worker, albeit possibly the manager(?) he was at one level the same social class as many others, but he may have regarded himself as being of a different class and having little in common.

Ken Hoffmann was another oddity, who had next to nothing to do with the other men in The Stair. I suspect he wasn't popular at all-at that time, rather sadly, we kids didn't like him so I don't think anyone else could have thought differently. I see him back then as being serious and grumpy-amongst his peers, there was perhaps a grudging respect-he wasn't someone to mess with! And yet as a keen sportsman playing cricket and rugby he was clearly very sociable-indeed there were a few Saturday evenings when he turned up with the whole of the cricket team!

To an extent, like Charles Blades, if it hadn't been for his alcoholism, things would have worked out differently-he would have been a captain on a Ben Line ship and we would have lived in a middle class area in Edinburgh. Anne Hoffmann was different too, being the only woman who had gone into further education having been at Edinburgh University in the early 1950s. Women straddle different worlds better than men, so. although there might be Latin textbooks or stories of the Greek Tragedies on the bookshelves, being a young mother trumped everything, creating a shared sensibility amongst the women of The Stair.

The seasons and the weather had an influence-when the sun came out, then Helen Blades came out-there's a nice correlation there! Helen loved the sun and grabbed any opportunity to sun-bathe and get a little colour.

Peter; Anne Junior; Anne; and Iain Hoffmann
6/2 Oxgangs Avenue back garden suntrap
(circa summer, 1962)

At the rear of 6 Oxgangs Avenue our back garden was a sun-trap and was of course quiet compared to the front of the building which was north facing, with the road, vehicles and passers-by. Helen Blades; Marion Dibley (4/4) and Anne Hoffmann would often sit out in the garden on chairs or blankets with their backs to the shed wall and the sun on their faces, enjoy a cigarette and blether away-as Anne Hoffmann says who could ever forget Helen's marvellous, deep throaty, laughter. Anne and Helen were quite friendly, but with young families usually always too busy to spend much time together. We children often sat around to listen in-I can certainly recall the likes of Liz Blades sitting out too; after a while I'd get restless and go off and run around.

Helen Blades

Anne Hoffmann was also on friendly cordial terms with Molly and Dougal Swanson, but more at the level of having a blether if they met on the ground floor; out-with that it would only for important, serious or emergencies issues that Anne would knock on their door.

Looking back, it was more of an arms length social relationship culture which evolved-it wasn't one of the oft spoken types, of borrowing some sugar or milk from one's neighbours, but neither was it one often spoken of in the 21st Century, where one didn't know one's neighbours. I think there was a nice balance there which was effective-I also think it was broadly similar to The Stairs at numbers 2, 4 and 8 Oxgangs Avenue and beyond.

Working At Bairds' Newsagents-The Darkness and The Light-The Darkness

Mr Andrew Baird, the son of the founder of Baird's Newsagent
(Photograph courtesy of Louise Baird)

From behind the keyboards it's too easy to romanticise the past. And it's ridiculously too easy to romanticise getting up early to do a morning paper run and reflect upon its character-building qualities. 

Getting up early in the dark was rarely easy; even if you had gone to bed early the evening before. However, once you had got over the initial shock of the Big Ben repeater alarm going off and got a bit of tea and toast into your system, the travelling down to Baird's Newsagents, Morningside Drive for our paper rounds on the 6.00 am Number 16 bus wasn't too bad in the winter months - the bus was cosy - the company of Liz, Fiona and Gail Blades and Christina and Maureen Hogg was good and the craic between the conductor and the cleaners was funny. 

Once inside  the shop you were out of the cold, the wet and the dark. For half an hour it was quite Dickensian - like a small factory through the back of the shop where we folded the newspapers on the worktop in preparation for Pamela Baird arriving later to make up the paper runs.

Being Morningside most of the newspapers were broadsheets. Liz and Fiona were like robots - the speed at which they folded the papers was uncanny - they were like lightning. I could never keep up with them. When they weren't about I enjoyed appearing fast to the novices. When we had finished, our hands were dark and dirty from the ink.

Pamela Baird

I liked Pamela and warmed to her; I also admired the way she assumed responsibility for the business after her father died. She wasn't an early morning person so it was a struggle for her too; and running the business must have placed a heavy burden upon her at that time - in the afternoon she could be fun. I wonder what became of her in the decades after the shop was sold?

She came from a different class to us; Fiona and I would give one another knowing smiles and glances when Pamela answered the telephone and put on a posh accent for the benefit of her customers - there would be exaggerated pauses as she said 'Mmmh, yaass....mmmh yaass...mmmh yass'. 

I liked working for Baird's, however, the thing which brassed me off slightly was that although we arrived at the shop half an hour earlier than the children from Morningside Pamela would make up their runs first - I always felt this was class discrimination; I assumed they were the children of friends and neighbours and who attended more local schools such as George Watsons School. However, Fiona was smart as a whip and actually memorised her run so she didn't have to hang around.

I did the Morningside Drive run which was one of the biggest runs at the shop - I had to collect a second bundle of papers from Pamela's brother, Stuart, who dropped it off on the garden wall at St Clair Terrace from his little Triumph Herald car; what was even more irritating was that he was always late!

The Baird family with Stuart and Angela at the front

Although this was effectively a double paper round, Baird's paid well at a pound a week it was double the going rate and our bus fares were paid for too. We also felt a certain ownership too - despite the size, length and time taken I regarded the Morningside Drive run as mine, (until I took over the City Hospital from Douglas Blades) and took a certain pride in ensuring the post got through no matter the obstacles. Was it Tuesdays or Fridays that were the worst because the Daily Telegraph had a magazine insert in it which considerably added to already heavy bags.

Saturday bags were also heavier, with a weekend magazine, but somehow, Saturdays were never a struggle.

Once you had set out from the warmth and company of the shop we cut lonely, solitary figures - the winter mornings were dark and often quite bitter - Morningside Drive was quiet; the graveyard was on the opposite side of the road for a stretch - lovely mansion and town houses by day were surprisingly spooky and shadowy in the dark, especially when the wind blew through the swaying, leafless branches of the big old trees that lined Morningside Drive.

Looking back it was certainly character building - athletics training in such conditions in later years I took in my stride, probably because I had been steeled and inured in those earlier years working for Baird's. And whilst I do see a certain value in the overall experience, it was not conducive to performing well at school and reaching one's potential - when d'Artangnan asked me a few years ago if he could do an early morning paper run I admired his chutzpah and work ethic, but I said no, because I wanted him to get as much sleep as possible to grow and to be fresh for school; and today I guess we're more aware of the health & safety dimension too.

More in later blogs on life at Baird's and observations and reflections - under The Light where I also want to mention a poem Happiness by Raymond Carver.

Postscript

Much to my delight, on Saturday, 17^th March, 2018, I met up with Pamela Baird for coffee at Burr & Co, George Street, Edinburgh for the first time in at least 46 years. She looked very well - vibrant and chatty - it was absolutely lovely to see her once again and to catch up on what happened to Baird's Newsagents in the years after I stopped working there.

Pamela left the year after I finished working there (1971) to get married in 1972 and she moved away to West Lothian where she has lived since. The shops (there were three adjoined - a toy shop and a card shop too) were sold on to an American, who only ran the businesses for a year or so afterwards.

In many ways Pamela was glad to move on as managing the newsagents placed a heavy burden on her young shoulders - she was only nineteen years old when her Dad died in 1966 and she had to leave working at the bank to take up the reins and the hours were long. Prior to this, she used to give her dad a break from the shop for an hour to allow him to nip home to watch the wrestling on a Saturday afternoon, so she gained some experience then of running the shop.

It was very gratifying for me to be able to convey my thanks to her for being able to work there - I loved working for Baird's - they were good employers - it was an important part in my young life for three years - it left a deep impression upon me and taught me much about the values of discipline, hard work and resilience and depending upon yourself as well as being part of a team and of course the importance of earning your corn.

ps Pamela mentioned to me that one of her younger sisters, Angela, who lives in Australia, said she recalled me taking her out to see the film, Grand Prix, at the Dominion Cinema and being young, nervous and naive that instead of taking her for a coffee afterwards, spotted a number 16 bus saying ‘Oh, here’s my bus home’ and leapt on - I don’t recall our date, but it sounds just like me!