Ryman Business

Now here’s a funny thing to admit but as a youngster what made me feel the happiest and I confess, the proudest kid in the street, was if some respected adult asked me to help them with a proper grown up job; I mean a real job like planting lettuces, or perhaps mending a puncture in their old work bike. I admit that it is a peculiar thing to say, but what it really meant was that they trusted me to do the job properly, something that parents didn’t always find possible to do.

These are the sort of things that stick in a child’s mind and perhaps why we so often look back at our school days and remember some particular teacher with affection.   With some people it’s the first boss they worked for after leaving school, clearly remembering the first simple tasks they were trusted with. I still remember fondly a particular teacher, Frank Richards, from my days at the secondary modern school in Kempston, an art teacher who taught many other subjects, as most teachers did.  His classroom was always referred to as the art room, possibly because it contained a large sink where we could wash our brushes and palettes.

Then there was the first shop manager who guided me through that mind boggling transition between being a boy at school and the world of paid employment; particularly learning how to deal with the real world which I soon discovered is made up of many diverse characters who depend on your knowledge and whose respect must quickly be gained.

In my case this was also helped by the attitude shown by the teacher I mentioned earlier, who spoke in a language I understood and trusted in my ability carry out such momentous tasks as painting back-drops for school plays as well as encouraging me to become involved in amateur dramatics without questioning my imagination or skill. These were probably not the most demanding tasks I agree but it demonstrated a trust in me that, even after sixty years, I have not forgotten.

I now find it very comforting that after years of filling my days with the necessary essentials of earning a living, I have at last retired and moved back to my home town, only to recently discover, I’m very pleased to say, that my old teacher had the very same political views that I hold and was, I understand, once an active Party worker in my present ward.  I also remember from my youth that he wrote and directed plays, an ‘Over Mighty Subject’ I believe one of them was called and he was a respected member of the long established local amateur dramatic society.

My one regret is that I never had the opportunity to meet him again and only have his reminiscences to read; reminiscences of the town he was born in and lived in for most of his life. To me, however, the most important memory is of the encouragement he gave me and the trust he placed in me as a boy some sixty or so years ago.

Finally, for those of us who were ‘lucky’ enough to go to a secondary modern school in the nineteen fifties and may just have some enduring memory of one particular teacher, I once scribbled down a few short stories about those days at school which I called “The Secondary Years”.  One of these little tales, entitled “A Piece of Plywood” may just jog a few memories as it portrays a teacher I called Frank Ryman, who is very much like the old art teacher who inspired me so much all those years ago. Of course I didn’t always live up to his expectations!


The old red brick walls of the school felt warm, while the tall windows set in frames of brown and cream flared in the bright afternoon sun high above the tarmac playground.  Around the corner of the building, worn smooth by a million fingers, stood a wooden cloakroom connected to the main block by an arched canopy.

Frank Ryman, the art teacher, stood by the entrance with his hands in his pockets glaring expectantly through his huge horn rimmed glasses. He always seemed untidy and chalky and never stopped pushing his specs back up his nose.

“Benson! Use your ruddy eyes lad!” he shouted as I collided with the dusty trouser legs. “Slow down boy!”

Restricted from further movement by a firm grip on my left ear I was instructed to go to the woodwork room and ask Mister Sutherland, Inky that is, for a piece of plywood.

“Tell him, about the size of an exercise book. An off cut will do. Oh yes,” he went on, releasing his vice like grip, “and try not to disable too many people on the way.”

Not a bad bloke old Ryman, dead sarcastic but always good for a laugh.  He often appeared to be grinning when he was ranting at you.

I walked fairly slowly past the new block. No need to rush I decided, after all I was on ‘Ryman business’…….  Read more


The Hint of Wonder in the Everyday

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You’d have to be a pretty vain old grandad gristle to imagine you could write a story that would suddenly stop kids playing games on their phones and soak up every word; maybe even asking for more!  Well perhaps that’s just what every author believes they can achieve when he or she sets their words onto the page of a new book.

I’m sure I do; that is until some kid asks, ‘Grandad, whatever is a rocker box cover?’ or some such question, whereas if you’d have written escape velocity plus factor two, they would have understood immediately what it meant.

That’s the time you ask yourself, perhaps I should pen the stories that kids ask for, the sort of flash-bang adventures you find in most children’s book shops, where the beautifully illustrated covers portray a futuristic world of heroes or giant airborne creatures reminiscent of dinosaurs or domesticated dragons.

Stories we would all love to have written; or maybe not. You see there are people like me who still believe in the value of triggering that hint of wonder that can still be found in the everyday world that surrounds us; the plaintive echoes of a world long gone escaping from a gramophone that has to be wound up, or images of Laurel and Hardy, flickering on a silver screen that still have the ability to make us laugh.

Please don’t gasp ‘that’s just nostalgia’, when perhaps you really mean memories, the true links that bind one generation to the next and without which, quiet moments would be shallow indeed.

For me, these are the building blocks for stories, searching out the tiny and sometimes insignificant pictures trapped within our memories and fashioned into a beginning a middle and an end.

Of course, tales that can transport a child into some wondrous adventure in the outer reaches of space, or create the brave immortal heroes that will save the world from destruction, are valuable stories that need to be told.

But so too are the chronicles of the quiet creatures that inhabit the ordinary world, even the strange inanimate objects that are given a voice by so many authors and find a permanent place in our memories, objects such as little blue locomotives or even a fork and a spoon that once, we were told, jumped over the moon.

There are no dragons to be discovered along the track to Crosswart, or evil wizards poised to cast a spell on the unwary traveller passing through Aarons wood.  Only a very sad snail.  Even the Companions collecting the magenta liquid from the wood violets offer no threat, but may just help us to understand how our memories may triggered by the scent of violets carried on a summer breeze.

Working on this assumption it appears that I’m still a vain old grandad gristle who believes that such tales may just have a smidgen of value; simple stories that I love to write and very much hope will continue to be told.

Barry Freeman






Through the cobweb curtains

     Hands up anyone who has ever owned a shed and never been greeted by a handsome cobweb curtain draped across the window.  It’s as natural as discovering that a colony of greenflies has just taken up residence on your favourite rose. So it seemed a good idea to use Cobweb Curtains as the title for a series of little tales about the collection of unusual objects that had taken up residence in Morris Wainwright’s garden shed.

scrao box hall
Scrap Box Hall

    Of course, I’m talking about Rusty Nail and her friends Sprocket and Young Pinion, as well as Wingsey Nut, the cross threaded wingnut, Springaling and the Two Faced Nut, whose constant arguing with himself often drives the others to distraction.

     These strange but endearing characters sprung to life out of some of my earliest memories, often recalled through a vale of cobweb curtains, when as a child in the late nineteen forties, I would delight in exploring the secret place below the bench in my Grandfather’s garage.

     I never ceased to be fascinated by the shape and feel of objects such as discarded sparking plugs, or mysterious acetylene lamps that I was told had once lit the way for an Edwardian cyclist.

     All this I discovered by the dim light of the sun, bouncing from tins of washers and split pins or an ageing oil can standing on the dust covered sill, as it peeped through the tiny window half obscured by a curtain of cobwebs.  I need only add the aroma of a warm radiator and a hint of petrol and I would be back there, sitting on the chrome bumper of the old Bantam that had just been put to bed by my Grandfather.

      I’m a child of the post war years and realize that since then the world has changed out of all recognition except, of course, for the cobweb curtains.  Whether the old spider lives under a broken flower pot, or perhaps in some dark corner of the window frame, our eight legged companion still demands the same respect. In my opinion it’s a brave man indeed that dares to brush away its silken trap with his bare hand.

     I imagine that the dark corners of sheds, barns and garages still grip the imagination of many youngsters eager to find some long forgotten cricket bat, or a Hornby with a string of red and cream carriages, only to be deterred by a great silken web draped across their discovery like a portcullis guarding a castle gate.

     In the same way perhaps, the old spider ensures the long term survival of Rusty Nail and Sprocket in Morris Wainwright’s garden shed. It would be comforting indeed to believe that such a delicate and intricate creation as a cobweb curtain was in some way responsible for keeping the secrets of Rusty, Sprocket and the others safe, that is, until now!

Barry Freeman

Cobweb Curtains


Tussell Fleabane

It was at least three decades ago that I first conjured up Tussel Fleabane.  ‘The Protector, Apply Within’, was written on the little brass plaque attached to his cottage gate post.

My intention was to highlight some of the pollution problems that were coming to light at that time and make them understandable to children through the adventures of this mythical little creature.  These were issues that I was personally becoming concerned about, such as the extinction of certain species through loss of habitat and the pollution of our rivers and seas.

When I first began writing it meant printing the stories off on long strips of computer paper using a word processor and sending the manuscripts to children’s book publishers, always optimistic that eventually one of them may turn my ramblings into a book.  However, it wasn’t long before one after another, the big brown envelopes began to return and along with the manuscript was the usual pleasantly worded but standard rejection letter.

It appeared that Tussel’s adventures had not yet captured the imagination of the publishing houses and the stories I had so much hoped the youngsters would have the opportunity to read, or at least have read to them, must wait a little longer for their time to arrive. Tussel had to go back in the cupboard.

Thirty years or so later many of the issues that concerned me then are still at the forefront of many people’s minds, but the methods and opportunities of getting the stories into print has changed dramatically.  This has encouraged me to resurrect Tussel and his friends and to self publish Beyond the Goosebarley Bush.

So who knows, the adventures of Tussel Fleabane The Protector may yet have the opportunity to inform and inspire the children of a new generation.

Barry Freeman