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My first memories of Wales are of sounds, smells, chaos and order all rolled into a rather crazy, but loving, working class home, recalls Mary Davies in her reminiscences of life in Cardiff City in the 1950's.
My home was a steelworker's cottage, which had two up and two down rooms plus a lean-to that served as a kitchen. An outside toilet was standard and a tin bath brought out on Saturday nights for washing of bodies, and on Monday mornings for washing of clothes.
It was about ten years before my parents could afford the addition of a bathroom to the house. At the same time a washing machine and television set were purchased, thus raising our living standard into the realms of being 'really posh' compared to a number of my friends.
The first sounds that I remember were the chink-chink of steel-workers boots on the pavement outside the house as they went to and from work, at either 2 p.m. 10 p.m. or 6 a.m. depending upon which shift the men were on. Laughter and male chatter accompanied the metallic marching sound their boots made.
This marching sound was often matched by the screaming of seagulls as they zoomed into the city on their search for food to sustain their greedy life-style.
Another, more gentle but memorable sound was when my father, a steelworker by day and a musician by night, would serenade the neighbours with his trumpet practice. His warm-up piece 'Flight of the Bumblebee' ensured everyone knew that dad was going into entertainment mode.
Then he would play the current trumpet hit 'Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White' by Eddie Calvert. This rendition would bring applause and cries for 'More, more' from the gathered admirers outside the window. My aunt would often accompany him on the piano.
She could play that instrument without being able to read a note of music. Sunday evening concerts were enjoyed by the extended family. Everyone was encouraged to 'do a turn' which was usually greeted with great praise and encouragement, however awful it was.
Smells of malt and baking wafted over our part of the city from the nearby biscuit factory. We were lucky enough to have an uncle who worked there. Part of his labour was rewarded by a free three-pound bag of broken biscuits once a week. They were donated to my two sisters and I. The taste of mixed flavours with milk and dark chocolate have stayed with me to this day.
The smell of wet timber on a Monday morning meant that washing would be covered with dirty smuts from the timber yard nearby. The wives and mothers all knew their hard work was undone and a repeat wash would have to be completed on the next dry day. This made them irritable and cross, a warning sign to keep out of trouble for fathers and children.
Order was brought into my chaotic life by attendance at a very strict school where discipline seemed fair but would never be allowed in today's schools. A cane was used to bring us into line but mostly remained in the teacher's cupboard. The threat of it was enough for most of the pupils.
We lined up for everything and there didn't seem to be much time for learning but we did spend a lot of time in church. I did, however, enjoy school and achieved some success and a love of learning that has endured. I am still wanting to know more even at the age of fifty-nine.
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