Early October evenings were cold and sometimes damp. Hull Fair week brought sunsets that were pink and purple sinking into grey clouds darkening to black. As we left the kitchen mum's voice pursued us from the steaming scullery.
‘Don't you bring home any pot dogs Walter.’
Muffled in coats and gloves we hurried from pool to pool of yellow watery lamplight, around the corner, past Bevin’s sweet shop window, for once not pausing to gaze at Fruit Salad, Blackjacks four a penny, nor Sherbet Flying Saucers nor Rainbow Drops. Our gaze tonight was reserved for other delights.
Into the Boulevard and among the shadowy trees, heading for Anlaby Road, only slowed by the irresistible urge to kick the fallen leaves and hear the crunch and rustle, watching them fly away with our laughter.
Dad plodding along with his trilby firmly placed to cover his thinned and greying hair. The street lights occasionally glinting on tortoiseshell rimmed glasses. In the distance a glow lit the sky and faint sounds of mingled music wafted towards us. As we approached West Park familiar smells, odours of excitement filled the dampening air.
A policeman with a megaphone guided us safely to the start of our yearly adventure. Walton Street's rich mixture of sights and sounds and smells assaulted our senses. Brightly lit and gaily coloured stalls offered fantasies for any boy or girl. At the entrance to Walton Street, first stall in, the collectors for the Sailors Children's Home rattled tins but our eyes were drawn beyond to the coloured bulbs and noisy music. On the way down the street we would examine all the stalls that sold toys and novelties, looking for value for we knew that when we passed homeward, we would be allowed a parting gift. Josephine and Christine eyed the plastic dolls dressed in gaudy lace. I examined the bows and arrows with red rubber safety suckers.
Ever onward, passing the sweet and the savoury. Candy floss and brandy snap, nougat and toffee apples vied with hot dogs and burgers to draw us by the nose to buy. Never on the way in. Inward was for looking, drinking it in. About halfway down, near the little chapel on the left with its microphone wielding evangelists, a lorry was parked in the ten foot. From its tailboard a man with a headless hammer or mallet sold crockery, banging on the table to draw attention and to indicate the fall of his prices.
‘Not thirty shillings, not one pound, not even ten and six. Five bob the lot.’ Bang went the headless hammer and the cups and saucers rattled and bounced. We spotted the pot dogs and dragged dad firmly away.
Onto the fairground to hook a duck, stick three cards, on the blue line six and five, sixty-five, the clang of metal figures falling to airgun pellets. We'd didn't go on many rides as such, the waltzers made me sick. Perhaps the bumping cars with dad at the wheel, the only time of the year he ever drove. Up the steps of the helter-skelter, clutching a rough coir mat and trying not to look down. We liked the sideshows and the slot machines. We flicked the silver lever to make the ball whizz in a circle and drop into the right hole, penny back and a free go. Dad liked the tanks, line up the metal tank on the green felt, watch it loop its way down, end over end, always to snag on the doorpost. Josie liked rolling ping-pong balls and counting the score aiming for the big prize, never won. We all watched the Grand National, balls rattling, bells ringing, lights flashing, shouts of encouragement, hands behind the wire please.
The Ghost Train too, was a favourite. Its tawdry paint and screeching sounds always drew us fearlessly in. But the coppers in our pockets dwindled to nothing and we began to head for home.
We hardly ever called at Carver's for chips though we sampled the smells gratis then called in at our local chippie which was cheaper.
On the street we made our annual calls and purchases. A coconut with its rough haired remembrance of the helter-skelter mats would be shaken to be sure it contained the proper quantity of milk; brandy snap and nougat from Wrights and perhaps a pomegranate or two with shiny skins, lovely to look at but hard to eat. Josie and Christine clutching the most expensive dolls they could wheedle out of dad and me with my bow and quiver with its two short arrows.
Away from the lights and the noise and wearily homeward with faces flushed and hearts high, dad clutching two large brown and white plaster spaniels.
Boy was he in for it.