Me, Grandma Paull, Mum, Dad, and my two brothers, Jimmie and Charles, lived near the sea. Our small council house in Gwavas Estate overlooked Newlyn Harbour,
Lariggan Beach, and the beautiful Mounts Bay.
Family walks,
either to the country lanes or down the steep hill to the nearby seaside, in
the spring, summer, and autumn, were the highlight of my childhood. Sometimes,
after the Sunday meat and potato pasty dinner, washed down with a cup of hot,
steaming tea, Mum would put a snack in her big bag and the family would put on
its wellies and head for Lariggan Beach.
If the tide was
out, we’d first look to see what had been washed up on the beach, then stare
into the rock pools, hoping to see a tiny red and blue crab scuttling under the
dark brown weed.
Then, we’d collect
some smooth pebbles.
We’d look for
those shaped like a heart, or, even better, those with a vein of milky-white
quartz running through them.
They were special.
Mum said they were
special because they were wishing rocks.
Finding a wishing
rock made me feel good. I’d pick it up,
hold it in my hand, and slowly wrap my fingers around it. When the pebble felt
warm, I closed my eyes and thought about someone very dear to me…………and then
send that person a very special wish.
Then, slowly, with
a smile, I uncurled my fingers, knowing that a special person, somewhere,
suddenly felt a warm shiver down the spine, just as he or she got my loving
thoughts.
Of course, I
always sent my very best wishes to my mum and to my dad. J
We gave Mum the
best wishing rocks we found and she put them in a tin in her big bag.
Later, when we
were home tucking into bread and treacle sandwiches, Mum put the very, very
best wishing rocks in a old, cracked green glass jar that stood on the mantle
piece. The others were taken back to the beach the next time we went for an afternoon walk.
I kept the first
one I ever found in a small oxo tin. Each day I rubbed it, squeezed it and sent
really big wishes.
As the years went
by and I grew up, as opportunities and challenges came my way, I have wished
and wished and wished – always clutching my favorite wishing rock from lariggan
Beach.
Sometimes it really
works…………….
‘Finding your own wishing rock makes you feel dead good.
You spot it, you pick it up and let it rest
it comfortably in the palm of your hand.
Then, you slowly wrap your fingers around
it and squeeze really tight.
When your fingers warm the pebble, close
your eyes.
Squeeze your wishing rock as tight as you
can - then send a wish to someone very special in your life.
Relax, open your fingers and let your wish
go.
Someone, somewhere, then feels a warm
shiver down the spine, just as that lucky person gets your wish.
When the wish had been sent, put your wishing
rock into a wishing rock tin and keep it safe.
Forever.’
My magical amber
The second week of May, 1947, after a long
winter illness, I started going to school.
Newlyn Infant School for Boys and Girls, a
small Cornish granite building tucked away at the bottom of Trevarveneth Street,
overlooked the beautiful but busy Newlyn Harbor.
Grandma Paull took me to school first
thing in the morning, and, as she handed me my lunchtime snack, told me she’d
be there for me at the end of the day.
The school’s headmistress was Miss Elaine
Harvey. I was in her class, joining a room full of boys and girls, some of whom
had started school in January.
“Ah,” she said, when she saw me coming
through the door, “so you’re Jimmie Paull’s brother, Johnny, Johnny Paull.
Welcome to school. Your ma tells me you been ill. Better now? Good. And, you can
read a bit. That true, Johnny Paull? How many words can you read?” “Yes, Miss,”
I replied, indeed I could. “Just a bit. Just a few words.”
“Good,
good.” she said. Grey haired and bespectacled, Miss Harvey had a sharp, high-pitched
voice and I knew right away she was strict. She pointed to the back of the
classroom, and told me to sit in the only desk still empty, the one next to
Alan Tredinnick. As I sat down on the wooden chair, my feet hardly touched the
floor. Miss Harvey turned to the class and introduced me. “This is Johnny
Paull. His brother, Jimmie, was in this class a long time ago. I hope, you,
Johnny Paull,” she said, staring straight at me, “behave better than he
did.”
Everyone laughed. “OK. That’s enough,
“ said Miss Harvey, “quiet down, everybody. That’s ENOUGH talking for one
day.”
Miss Harvey began the day, for my benefit,
I think, by going over the class rules. If anyone got into trouble for talking
too much, fiddling with something under the desk, spitting out the
mid-morning’s dose of cod liver oil, eating his OXO cubes in class, or leaving
his desk without permission, then, she said, they were in for it.
As Miss Harvey talked, she kept looking at
the thick blue wooden stick that lay conspicuously in the middle of her desk.
She picked up a storybook and began to read aloud, reminding everyone to listen
carefully. Then, suddenly, she barked loudly: “ Stephens. Billy Stephens!
You’re not listening to me. Again! Come out here. NOW!” Billy walked slowly
towards Miss Harvey. “C’mon,” she said, “Now, hold out your hand.
Turn your hand upside down. I want to see the BACK of your hand. NOW!”
Miss Harvey picked up the blue stick,
gripped it tightly, stared hard at the boy, and pretended to strike him hard on
his knuckles. Then, she grabbed hold of the other hand. “If you talk again,
that’s where and how I’ll hit you next time. Now, go and sit down.”
Ouch! Everyone in class winced as Billy
Stephens grimaced, bit his lips, and wiped three big tears dripping down his cheeks.
No one, especially Billy Stephens, misbehaved for the rest of the day as we
focused on reading and basic number exercises. Well, not so Miss Harvey could
see, anyway.
Just before playtime, everyone stood in
line, taking turns to swallow a spoonful of sticky cod liver oil, quickly
followed by a swig of orange juice.
At lunchtime, I opened the paper bag that
Grandma had given me. Inside was an OXO tin, filled with four small meat cubes
that I quickly sucked and swallowed before going out into the yard to play.
At half past three, Grandma Paull was
waiting for me near the school gates, and I told her right away about Billy
Stephens almost getting whacked on his knuckles. “Well,” she said, “Billy
must have deserved it. You go to school to listen and to learn, so, let that be
a warning to you.”
“Yes, Grandma,” I replied,
deciding then that I wouldn’t tell Mum and Dad about poor Billy Stephens nearly
being whacked on the hand, just in case they said the same thing to me.
The next day was a repeat of the first day
and was repeated the following days. I soon learned the routines and the
expectations.
In almost total silence, Miss Harvey told
us to be quiet, taught us how to read, how to write, and how to add and
subtract.
There was one day, though, that was
different. On the day of my fifth birthday, Monday, July 14, a week before we
broke up for the summer holiday, I was really surprised when my dad, not my grandma,
met me at the end of the school day. Dad had never picked me up from school
before.
He was in his driver’s uniform so I knew
he’d come straight from work. My stomach turned over – was something wrong? Was
Grandma ill?
Standing by the iron fence, Dad smiled when
he saw some of the kids rush out of the school yard, up to the street corner, and
turn and slide down back towards school, skidding on the cobble road, sending
up a stream of yellow sparks from their hob-nailed boots. He took my hand and
we walked together in the afternoon sun towards the harbor.
Dad said we were going hunting for pebbles
on Lariggan Beach.
Just my dad and me. Pebbling. On Lariggan
Beach. After school. On my birthday. Could it get any better than that? I felt
so special, and knew in my bones that something magical was about to happen. It
was, after all, my 5th birthday treat.
And what a memorable lifetime treat it
turned out to be.
We walked hand in hand on the cobbled
street to The Fradgan, past Uncle Steve and Aunty Flo Green’s white cottage,
past the tall icehouse towering over the small inner harbor, and crossed over
to the open fish market. We reached the small stone bridge by the Fisherman’s
Institute at the end of Newlyn pier, where the Coombe River runs into the sea.
We leaned over and saw the swans and the seagulls dipping their heads into the
refreshing, bubbling blend of fresh and salt water. Grabbing Dad’s hand again, we
walked around the corner by the Austin and Morris Garage onto the seafront,
then down the six smooth, worn, granite steps, onto the beach.
The sky was bright blue, and the sun a shimmering
yellow. St. Michael’s Mount, way off in the distance, looked very majestic, its
fairy-tale castle catching the late afternoon sun setting behind the Mousehole
granite cliffs. The tide was out and the smooth, black and grey and white pebbles
were wet and shiny. As the greeny-blue water lapped back and forth, herring
gulls squawked and squabbled as they looked for food scraps. As we stepped over
the pebbles, avoiding the slimy brown and yellow strips of seaweed. Dad reached
in his pocket and brought out two of his OLD HOLBORN tobacco tins.
“Here,” he said, giving me one, “take
this and fill it. Just wishing rocks, mind you.” With a broad smile and a
knowing twinkle in his eye, he said, “Bet I fill mine first.” [1]
The competition was on. We walked along
the seashore, stepping over the brown sticky seaweed, and we looked and we
touched and we talked and we collected. The beach pebbles were so endearing,
small, round, smooth, and warmed by the afternoon sun.
Soon my tin was full of wishing rocks
and heart-shaped pebbles that I wanted to take home to show Mum and my brother.
I wanted to tell them I filled my tin before Dad filled his.
Just as we were leaving, I spotted
something different. There, lying with all the other pebbles was a bright
yellow object. It didn’t look like any of the other pebbles. It was so
different, more like a small slice of pineapple.
Whatever was it? It stared up at me,
wanting, I felt, badly to be picked up, wanting to be touched and admired. By
me! And that’s what I did. I bent over, touched it, picked it up, and held it
in the palm of my hand. It was lighter than a pebble. It was a magical moment.
Wide-eyed, I showed my dad. Because I knew he knew everything, I asked: “What’s this, Dad?” He looked down at it, smiled, and then,
half-closing his eyes, frowned. Dad had no idea what I’d found. “Dunno.
Never seen that before. Good, though, in’t it?”
I thought that was really funny, because I
knew he had seen everything there was to see. I couldn’t believe that Dad had
never ever seen anything like the yellow stone before – and he’d been to the
beach over a thousand times in his life. But Dad did know it was different,
and, therefore, very, very special. “Take it home, “ he said, “and show your ma. She might know.”
I stared at my orangey-yellow, rock-like, magical
find. It looked soft. Not wanting to scratch it, I wrapped it up in my
white hanky and put it in the other pocket – it didn’t seem right to put such a
special rock in the OLD HOLBORN tin with the other pebbles I’d found.
Dad took my hand and we made our way back
up Chywoone Hill. As I walked up the very steep hill, I kept feeling the Old
Holborn tin in one pocket, and checking the lumpy hanky in the other. I
KNEW I’d found something very special. I KNEW it was lying on the beach waiting
for me to come along and find it. It was something that I KNEW belonged just to
me – and would, forever. I KNEW it was a special day. I was excited! My
discovery made my head glow.
When we reached 17, Trevarveneth Crescent,
I skipped up the back garden path, past the three gooseberry bushes (one for
Jimmie, one for Charles, and one for me), pushed opened the glass door, and ran
straight into the kitchen. Mum and Grandma were standing by the white enameled
cooker, waiting for the kettle to boil. Charles was sleeping in Mum’s arms.
Jimmie was tucking into a jam sandwich. Beside myself with excitement, I
shouted, “Mum, Mum, Grandma, Jicky, I beat Dad. Filled my tin first. see
what I found. It’s brilliant.”
I took out my OLD HOLBORN tin and showed
them what I’d collected on the beach. ‘And look at this,” I said, as I
unwrapped my hanky. I knew then by the look on Jimmie’s, Mum’s and Grandma’s
faces that the yellow rock I had found was special. And I found it on my
birthday, too.
“Where’d you find THAT? Dad, where’d he
find that? Did you give it to him?” Jimmie asked. Dad shook hid head. “’E
found it.”
“What a birthday surprise.” said Grandma.
Mum looked at it again, sitting in the palm of my hand. “THAT beautiful
yellow rock was waiting for yo, Johnny,” she said, “just for you. It’s a
treasure. A real treasure. Put it in one of your OXO treasure tins, Johnny, and
keep it there, forever. Forever. You hear me? Forever and a day.” I
squeezed my treasure tightly in my hand and took it into the kitchen. I
had never held such treasure before. I turned on the hot water tap and
washed off the grainy sand with hand soap, dried my special rock with
newspaper, stroked it, and looked at it again.
I put it on the dinner table, next to my
birthday tea treats - the big blue and white plate of bread splits, a jar of
jam, Cornish cream, treacle, and yellow saffron buns. “What is that, Dad?” asked my brother,
Jimmie, again, looking at Mum and Dad. Jimmie picked it up and stroked the
yellow pebble. Mum and Dad shook their heads and said they didn’t know, but, as
Mum explained, the yellow discovery was something very, very special. Beside
himself with curiosity, Jimmie exclaimed, “T’ain’t heavy. Ain’t a pebble, is it, Mum? I
ain’t never found one like that.” “Don’t say ‘ain’t’, Jimmie, please.” Mum
said. “Don’t worry. You’ll find one next time we go pebbling. Just have to
keep looking.”
Dad’s story, when we settled down after my
birthday tea, was about his Dad working in the tin mine in St. Just, digging in
tunnels deep down under the blue sea. “Bet he never found a yellow rock like
yours, Johnny,” he said. “Found good stuff, though.”
When I went upstairs to bed, I put the treasure
into an OXO tin, slipped it under my pillow, curled my fingers around it,
and, slept with a smile on my face. I fell asleep. What a birthday it had been.
As I dressed in the morning, I put the
small OXO tin inside a in my left-hand trouser pocket, next to my favorite
small seashell, to take to school to show my teacher, Miss Harvey.
Dad reminded me as I went out the door
with Grandma. “Got your yellow rock for your teacher, Johnny? Don’t forget
it. You know what your ma said. Got your dinner, them OXO cubes, too?”
I couldn’t wait to get to school to show
Miss Harvey. Even before all the boys sat in their seats, I was standing by her
tall desk, the OXO treasure tin in my hand, spluttering, “Miss
Harvey, Miss Harvey, see what I found! I found it on the beach, after school,
yesterday. You know, next to the harbor wall. I found it on Lariggan. Went
there with my dad. You know, when the tide was out, when you can see what the
tide brought in.”
Every word came out in a rush.
As Miss Harvey looked inside my scratched
OXO tin, her eyes widened! It wasn’t, apparently a rock at all. It was ancient
fossilized tree resin, and, she said, it was called amber. Miss Harvey
knew that amber was millions of years old and came from the inside of trees.
Resin? Fossilized? Amber? Ancient? What
beautiful words, I thought. I rolled the words around in my head. Resin.
Fossilized. Amber, amber.
Miss Harvey held my beautiful amber in her
hand, smiled, looked down at me through her glasses that balanced on the end of
her sharp nose, and said loudly, so everyone in class could hear, that it had
come from a far-off country. It had probably been washed ashore after a long,
long trip in the sea. “And Johnny Paull was lucky enough to find it.”
Miss Harvey held my golden amber in her
hand, smiled, looked down at me through her wire glasses that balanced on the
end of her sharp nose, and said loudly, so everyone in class could hear, “THIS
is amber…..it’s fossil tree sap………it’s been washed ashore after a long, long
trip in the sea. Johnny Paull found it.” Miss Harvey handed the amber back
to me and then wrote the word A M B E R on the board. “Show it to everyone,
pass it around.” Miss Harvey said. “Share it – that’s what scientists
do. And, Johnny Paull, you’re a real scientist!”
What’s a scientist, I wondered? Is
that something dead good? I turned a little red as I faced everyone in the
room. As I held out my hand and showed the class, everyone stopped chattering.
They were curious and wanted to see what I had found. I handed it to Johnny
Hoskins. Almost immediately, Edgar James hissed, “Pass it ‘ere, boyo. Quick.
Lemme see!”
“Quiet, everyone, quiet!” Miss Harvey said,
turning to me, “Johnny Paull, why don’t you draw a picture of your amber?
Here, here’s some white paper. Use this. Don’t just draw the amber, draw the
other beach pebbles, too. Just as you remember. Can you see them in your head?”
Closing my eyes, I remembered just how the
amber looked when I saw it lying on the beach with all the other pebbles. I
couldn’t wait to grab some yellow, black and brown crayons from the big biscuit
tin lying on her desk.
My head glowed. It was
on fire. I was a scientist – whatever that meant! That was it. I was
hooked. I’ve been a scientist - and a treasure tin
collector - ever since, thanks to my mum and dad and my teacher.
I proudly turned to face everyone in the
room. As I held out my hand and showed the class, everyone stopped chattering.
They really wanted to see what I had found. Johnny Hoskins put up his hand and
asked: “Where’d you find that, Johnny Paull?” I looked at him and told
him: “Down at Lariggan, Johnny, you know, when the tide’s out,” I
answered. “You’ve been, ain’t you? Stacks of pebbles everywhere, you know.”
“Course I have.” he said, “Been every day. Ain’t never seen one of those
yellow things, though. I’m going there. I’m goin’ to get one of them. Wos it close
to the harbor wall, Johnny?”
He looked around. “After school. Les
go. Anyone goin’ wiv me?” Four boys quickly put up their hands. “We’ll
come!”
Miss Harvey, sternly, told the class to be
quiet, “OK. Fun’s over. Back to work.” She turned to me and handed me some
white paper. “Johnny Paull, why don’t you draw a picture of your amber? Use
this. Don’t just draw the amber, draw the other beach pebbles, too. Just as you
remember. Can you see them in your head?”
Closing my eyes, I tried to remember just
how the amber looked when I saw it lying with all the other pebbles. Yes, there
it was. I could see it in my head.
When I’d finished my drawing I showed it
to Miss Harvey. I could tell she liked it. “Good drawing. Good color, Johnny
Paull.”
Quickly, she glued the picture onto some
black paper, then taped it to the wall close to my desk, and wrote my name and
the date underneath. Wow! It felt so good to see my picture on display so that
everyone in class could see it – a teaching lesson I was to remember time and
time again much later when I worked as a teacher with young children.
As I was drawing another picture of one of
my wishing rocks, Miss Harvey came next to me and, with a broad smile,
said, very emphatically so that everyone could hear, ”Keep it, Johnny
Paull. The amber. And that wishing rock! They’re wonderful. Keep them. Keep the
amber. Keep it in your oxo tin and save it. Save it forever. And, you, Johnny
Hoskins, go and find your own. Go and find your own amber on the beach, the
next time you’re there.”
When playtime came, everyone wanted to see
and touch the beautiful, yellow amber. Roger Symons said loudly, and with a
note of frustration, he’d been down to Lariggan a million times. “Ain’t
never found anything like that. Let me touch it, go on, let me touch it. Wish I
found it.”
I told him, and Johnny Hoskins, in a
secretive whisper, that I was going to save the amber forever, safely, in a treasure
tin, just as Miss Harvey told me. “Wassat?” asked Johnny. “Wos a
treshure tin?”
“Come over ‘ere,” I said, “I’ll
show you.”
I took my OXO tin out of my pocket and
told him my mum said if you
keep things in a tin, they’re safe, just
the same way as pirates kept their treasure.
At first, he wasn’t impressed. “That
ain’t no treshure tin – it’s an old OXO tin. Got plenty of them at my ‘ouse. But,
I can make ‘em into treshure tins, right?” He giggled. “That’s funny.
Makin’ treshure tins. And I can use my dad’s ciggy tins, and his baccy tins, right?
Don’t matter which, right? Your dad gits you his baccy tins, right?”
That evening, that’s what he did when his
parents were reading the newspaper, showing me the very next day his own treasure
tin, filled with golden-yellow banded snail shells. “I’m gonna find some
amber – these shells are just keepin’ my tin warm ‘til I do. Good, though,
ain’t they? ’Olidays next week. Tide’s out in the afternoon, too. Stacks of
time to find amber. Bet I’ll find a bagful.”
He didn’t. Johnny searched and searched
Lariggan Beach but never found a piece of amber. Neither did I. He did, though,
find some dead good wishing rocks.
In September, when school reopened after
the summer holidays, I took my amber to school and, standing in front of the
class, told Miss Harvey that I hadn’t lost it. Johnny Hoskins put up his hand
and told Miss Harvey that he hadn’t found any amber. “And I’ve searched the
beach a million times. Sure you found that amber thingy down there?” he
asked.
He turned to the class. “Johnny Paull’s dead lucky.”
For well over 60 years, from my very
special 5th birthday day, the smooth, yellow treasure, my amber,
resides in the OXO tin.
It’s a big part of my life. Sometimes, the
precious, magical amber’s in my right-hand trouser pocket, sometimes in the
left.
I touch it a million times a day – just to
make sure that it’s still there, just to make me feel good. I touch it and I
remind myself of that magical birthday all those years ago.
The
next thing I took to school, though, didn’t bring the same reaction from Miss
Harvey.
