CoveyOfCockneys

HOUSEHOLD HAZARDS

Survival of the fittest or, how to be aware of the dangers that lurk unseen.

The most marvelous thing I can say about our upbringing, is that we survived.  Forget the incident of World War II and all the bombs that missed us, I’m talking about everyday living.  I'm talking about just waking in the morning and still being alive when it was time to close our eyes at night.   Looking back on that aspect of our lives I thank the cockney gods for looking after us, although I did wonder if what we experienced was normal so I asked Mr. Google. He seemed to think that the top nine household hazards were: #1. Falls, #2. Fires, #3. Carbon Monoxide Poisoning, #4. Choking, #5. Cuts, #6. Poisoning, #7. Strangling, #8. Drowning, #9. Burns.  Having this cautionary list may have helped us., but that’s a debatable point.  We made our own lists. We faced our dangers as they appeared and we dealt with them.

I don’t know if it is still the custom in Britain, but, when our little Covey lived there it was a really big deal to reach the age of 21 years. So much so, that you always received a birthday card with a large silver coloured cardboard key affixed. 

This signified that you could now have a key to the front door; the benefits of which would enable you to come home at whatever time you wished.  It might have been merely symbolic in some families, but for us it was an actuality. We children were not given a front door key, or any other key. If you happened to come home at a time when no one was home, then you waited outside until a key holder returned, and a key holder was always a parent!

Obviously, this was an inconvenience, however, that was all it was.  Inventiveness runs heavily in our Covey and the mere lack of a key did not stop anyone, especially the agile LS. Her method of choice needed the top window of the boys' bedroom to be unlatched and open for air distribution. British windows did not at that time have insect screens. She would then scale the brick facing of the building, reach through to the inside latch of the larger window, open it and crawl inside. No key, no problem. Hazard # 1, met and dealt with.

Of course, not everyone had LS’s agility, nor was the small upper window always open, so, while this was not a method available at all times, it was not a total hindrance. 

I know that in the past, houses on this side of the ocean came equipped with cute little doors whereby the milkman could deposit milk from outside that the homeowner could reach from the inside.

  A similar but slightly larger mod-con device was installed on our apartment to handle the delivery of coal.   Yes, I know what you’re thinking and you’re right.  It was possible to crawl through this opening to land on the coal in the cupboard which opened into the front hall.  Well, it did open, provided that the safety latch had not been engaged. And there, as Shakespeare said “is the rub”. If the inside latch was open then you emerged inside the apartment, somewhat blackened with coal dust, but victorious. Conversely, if the latch was on, as it should have been, then you spent a very uncomfortable time in the dark because the way in was just that: a way in: it could not be traversed the opposite way.

Without success, I tried to tie this hazard into one of Mr. Google’s warnings.  He seems not to have heard of this danger. Perhaps, like the milk cupboards these alternate entryways are no longer in service?

This might be a good time to mention that these memories come from the very strong nudges of my Covey, (these are from LS) because, my personal knowledge or involvement in any of these hazardous activities has completely escaped my recollection, or as happened with “The Secret Tunnel”: I know it occurred, yet at the time I was blissfully unaware as I went through life in a dreamlike state.  Such must have been the case when LLB was fixing a motorbike in his bedroom, (yes, inside, in a bedroom!) and he contracted a very serious infection in his arm. Or, when LB nearly blew up the entire building when the beer he was making, exploded.  And, I certainly don’t remember a huge fish in the bathtub.  So, in all of these retellings, I must be held accountable for any errors or mistakes. Nonetheless the following story I do remember occurring, but as usual I wasn’t directly involved.

Perhaps you’ll recall that we at one time lived in the lower half of a two-story house.  Quite an ancient house, with a back scullery that contained a large corner boiler (for cooking clothing), a sink with running cold water, and a black gas-cooker (known today as a stove). 

This story took place on a Sunday afternoon. I was not there of course.  I was probably out with my cycling club. Dad was undoubtedly adding a few coffers to the local publican’s till. LB and LLB were off doing whatever young boys do, LS sat in the adjoining kitchen planning her next endeavour, and Mum, well, she was in the scullery cooking the Sunday roast! And that is where our story begins. 

Things usually worked out fine if the cooking was left to Dad, but for whatever reason, on that day it was Mum’s responsibility.  She was getting concerned.  The roast was not cooking.  But it was O.K. she’d figured out the problem: there was no gas.  The meter needed a shilling. 

Electricity and gas were not billed, they were paid as used via in-house meters with little coin slots in which to deposit shillings.  Now I know for a fact that many people actually deposited a few shillings in advance of need.  We didn’t.  Mainly because we never had enough shillings to spare.

All that was required was for her to find a shilling and put it in that hungry meter.  That’s not an easy task in a household with very few extra shillings. And remember it had to be a shilling.  Two sixpences or twelve pennies wouldn’t do. Searching her purse, she hit zero.  Then she checked coats on the very outside chance that maybe, just maybe, someone had left a lonely shilling in a pocket.  All to not avail.  Finally, after running around the house searching every nook and cranny, miracle of miracles, she found a shilling!  The meter could be appeased. Clink, turn the knob, gas was restored.

She ran to the scullery, knelt down, lit a match and BOOOOM!!!  LS watched as the explosion blew Mum from one side of the room to the other.

When I returned from cycling I remarked at how strange she looked. And she did for the longest time.  No eyebrows, no eyelashes and no hair on the hairline.

Proving once again the Mr. Google has no idea what the top household hazards were for our little family.