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A Story at the heart of the song Katy Rose
About ten years ago I had the best job in the world.
I was an entertainer working in all the old peoples homes in the midlands. My services were much
in demand, and I loved everyday's work.
Having
said that, it could be quite a tough job - very demanding physically. And for some of the audiences you
needed to call on something special within you.
One such place was in a backlane of Derby. The
home's residents were very distressed - both mentally and physically, and you had to work extra hard and concentrate to
get a response. The place was usually at the end of my working day, so maybe
I had done three other hour long gigs that day, when I came and sat down next to the old man. Usually after
a gig, I set right about dismantling the PA equipment and putting my guitar back in its case. But on the
evening in question I must have felt the need to sit down and rest for a while. I performed at the home every month and the old man wasn't someone I'd seen before.
I suppose I started by asking him what songs he liked, then I said - what was it you used to do for a job of
work?
He chuckled, I was a park keeper, he said. In
the war, I met my w3ife and she was a Derby lass - so I came to work in Derby. I worked in all the Parks - I used wear a cap
and carry a stick - and if any of the kids were making a nuisance, I'd chase after them and hit 'em with the stick.........
You couldn't do that nowadays...., I said.
I know that! and if there were any lesbians or homosexuals hanging round the
lavatories - I'd hit them with the stick as well.....
I guess the job will have changed..........I murmured.
Then the old chap turned to me and fixed me with a cunning grin - .were you
ever hit with a stick? He asked me.
Three or four times
when I was a kid. I was at a school where that sort of thing went on....I answered.
Aha! the old man said gleefully - now we'll hear something! What did they hit
you with a stick for?
I had an untidy desk.
Then he said suddenly serious -, My Dad used hit me with a stick, something
cruel....
That's not very nice. I said.
He explained, I was born and grew up on Cider farm just outside of Taunton.
Have you ever been on a cider farm?
No,
I answered.
Well you see, on a cider farm they have big presses and squeeze
the apples to make cider. You get cider apples from the orchard and you squeeze out as much cider you can.
You press and press. But the best cider is from the first pressing. The most beautiful
drink in the world. So beautiful..... it takes your breath away. And I used to steal
this first pressing - steal it from the barrel, And if my Dad caught me, or suspected I had been stealing
- out would come the stick!
I'm sorry.....
Well it was a long time ago now, but ......it does taste beautiful, that
first pressing - I wish I had some now to drink....
I stood up, and the ritual started of putting my music gear away in its various compartments and cases.
When I'd finished, I said to the old chap thankyou for the conversation - I enjoyed it, I've got to be going
now.
Don't forget - its the first pressing - not the second
or third .....the first pressing!
I won't forget, I said,
And I didn't. Next month - I turned up there to do the gig with four cans of Scrumpy
Jack for the old feller. I didn't know if it would please a conoisseur palate that had grown up on
a cider farm,but I was looking forward to finding out.
Unfortunately
the old man had died about a week before. One of the staff had been to take him his morning cup of tea
and he was sitting up in bed, quite dead. A shock for the young orderly.
Try not to be too upset, the matron said, he was very old...... nearly ninety. You
can drink the cider yourself...., she added somewhat superfluously.
Anyway, that night I raised a can to my.......not really a friend. More an acquaintance.
I was sorry for all of us - do we all spend our last days pondering acts of cruelty from years before.
Move ten years on. My ill health has forced my retirement and I
retire to heart of the cider industry - the South West. On the first night I'm
here, there is a cider on sale in the pub where I am (The Lugger Inn in Chickerill). The cider is called
Katy Rose, and that is what I call the next song I write and the old man is there in one of the verses.
Oh Katy Rose you're the one
I think
of apple trees at dawn
The memory of your scarlet dress
And what you gave me at our first press
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