Lunch with Aunt Doris

Manchester in 1948 wasn't the most affluent place in the world to live. I was 11.
My new school (Yew Tree) provided a communal hot lunch in what was called a canteen in England. I was a partaker - in the beginning. The building was huge, barracks type, with long, well-pounded tables that could seat about 15.

Large bulbs suspended on long flex dangling from the ceiling  illuminated the gloomy interior
- but not enough. There was a counter where middle-aged women fluttered around in white garb and hats and did their best to resemble chefs at the Hilton.

We all had to line up at the counter to take away their masterpiece.  A sullen-faced woman sat at the end collecting the sixpence. "Next please" she'd say in that sad, expressionless way. I often wondered if her husband had died in the war.

If you  wanted a quiet half hour the school canteen was not the place to be. Girls standing
quietly, but boys jostling, pushing, shouting, taunting their less gregarious pals.

The intention was good but the end result failed as far as our stomachs and the food were concerned. It was horrible! Most times it was the beloved-of-Brits favourite - sausages and mashed potatoes. The sausages we suspected were cooked the day before and warmed up, and the potatoes were always half cold anyway.

Added to that were soggy peas that made you feel ill just looking at them. Dessert usually was trifle, which itself wasn't bad, but it was usually smothered in custard which had lost its liquidity and always seemed to have some kind of gooey film on it.

On special occasions - the King's birthday and such - we got apple pie, still with that awful custard though. I was too young and shy to say I didn't want any.

Manoeuvring the food onto the table required all the skill of Blondin on his tightrope over
Niagara. Dodging, weaving, ducking, all the time keeping a hold on that precious(?) plate.

Then the bedlam continued, everyone trying to talk and stuff in the food at the same time.
Maybe I was just too delicate for it all. So I had to start thinking of a means of escape.

It came in the form of my Aunt Doris who lived about a ten minute walk from the school. She
only worked half days and she looked after my grandfather who was old. She said one day "Our Rodney, yer Mam's been tellin' me about the school meals. You can 'ave yer lunch at my place."  Great. Yippee, I thought. Whingeing to Mum had worked!

"Yeh Aunt Doris. When do I start?" I gasped. "Termorrer lad," she replied. So the next day was lunchtime paradise. I half-walked, half-ran to my Aunt's house. She was almost as good a cook as my Mum. Roast potatoes, crispy and hot served with ham or corned beef, and sometimes delicious tomato and cheese sandwiches. She always varied the menu.

I was the envy of my classmates. When the 12.15 bell sounded I was always first out. Goodbye school canteen!!