The Bristol Times is a supplement in the Evening Post which appears on Mondays. Recently, there has been correspondence about Bristol South Baths which was used for other activities rather the obvious. I sent my contribution which appeared on Monday 26th July

“Your letters about Bristol South Baths brought back memories happy and sad. As well as roller skating they used to have pantomimes there with the performers amazingly strutting their stuff across the boards laid out over the water. My mother took me and my little brother, by bus from Kingswood, in the early fifties. The strapping “principal boy” was a traditional thigh slapping female and perhaps the pantomime was “Dick Whittington” for I remember joining in singing the bizarre “Open the Door, Richard”.

As to roller skating, about six years later, when working as a petrol pump attendant at Jack Lamb’s Garage in Downend, I became friends with a boy called Barry Turton who worked in the butcher’s across the road. Once a week we would roar off on his motor bike, me on the back, through the freezing fog of the winter nights. Arriving at Bristol South we would join the queue to hire the unwieldy skates which had to be strapped on over your shoes. The most decrepit and ancient pair, with a broken leather toe piece and/or missing laces always seemed to be reserved for me. Some “posh” people had their own skates. What luxury! The noise was deafening: the shouts and screams as people fell over, the racket the wheels made on the wooden boards magnified by the ever present swimming pool echo. I was a useless skater and stuck close to the side but Barry, who was very handsome, treated his fans to an exhibition of fancy footwork in the middle of the arena.

The next summer I went away for six months travelling round Europe (I was a little ahead of my time) – and when I returned home in the autumn of 1959, I heard the tragic news that Barry had been accidentally killed in a motor-cycle accident. He was nineteen.”

Last night, the 28th July, I was delighted to receive a telephone call from Barry’s younger brother, Roger, who by coincidence is visiting the UK from Australia where he now lives. We were able to share a few more memories of Barry. He told me that his mother died a few years ago but that she would have been very happy to know that he is still remembered with affection. 

My father in law went to sea at the age of fifteen. A note in his log book says “Daddy asked me to get him a monkey.” As he could not find a suitable monkey, he brought back an ethnic water jar made of thick pottery, slightly listing to one side, with two jug eared handles sticking out from the neck.

“Daddy”, our grandfather, Arthur Lindegaard, a naturalised British citizen who had returned to his native Denmark was pleased with the souvenir and commemorated the voyage by writing “MED “MINSK” TIL ALGIER 1923” in black ink round the swelling of the bowl and drew imagined scenes from North African life round the belly. Long after, in the 50s or 60s, somebody attempted to turn the pot into a table lamp: the result of this regrettable enterprise, a broken electrical plug, is still stuck in the neck. Aesthetically, the thing is hideous. So far so ordinary.

The 1960s come and we inherit the pot. In between Arthur’s decorations, his squatting Arabs, donkey riders, camels and so on there is tiny faded writing. We can see dates, starting in 1940, and recognisable words: Curfew, Mussolini, Afrika, “Kbhn”, Casablanca, Leningrad…..

An English-Danish Dictionary is called for. On 20^th March 1940 the “Minsk” was torpedoed and sunk; Arthur wrote it on the pot. He expands his idea globally. He somehow manages to listen to the BBC news. He writes notes, one after another on the pot. It becomes a history of the Second World War. Armies march across Europe and Africa and around the pot. Stalingrad, Tunis, Casablanca, Tripoli, Naples…. Then “Invasion Normandiet 6 Jun 1944” he records, followed by a verifiable list of Allied successes: “Rumania, 23 Aug, Paris 24 Aug, Bulgaria, 26 Aug, Athens, 14 Oct, Belgrade, 20 Oct.” Only “Finland 3 Oct” seems out of place in the world picture. It is easy to check. Arthur seems to have been shocked that on this day three “Soviet infiltrators” were shot in Helsinki. He was happier on 20^th October when Yugoslav partisans and the Red Army occupied Belgrade.

The entry for “15 Nov 1943” is particularly poignant. “Kirke Kionkerne i Englund Ringede” he writes. It is “Ring the Bells”, Churchill’s order after El Alamein, when church bells were rung for the first time since 1939. Churchill famously said it was “not the beginning of the end but the end of the beginning”. Tears come to my eyes.

So I see Arthur crouched over a crackling wireless set. It is in occupied Denmark. It is our grandfather’s little resistance in a mad world. My thoughts run riot.

How did he even come by a radio? Where did he hide it? Where did he hide the pot? His courage astounds me. I worry for what could have been.

Sadly, Arthur died suddenly on 14^th March 1945, aged 68. He never knew the end of the story.