Mum’s parcel didn’t halva worry Sarge!

FIFTy years ago, as a raw, young recruit at helles Barracks in Catterick Garrison, I was ordered down to the troop office.

This usually meant one of several things: a rollicking for a breach of orders, to inform you of a death in the family, or a chat about your future in hM’s Royal Corps of signals. on entering, I was confronted by my troop sergeant, his two corporals, the squadron sergeant major and troop officer. standing rigidly to attention, I heard the barked command: ‘signalman Levy, what is this?’ on the table was a large, round cake tin, now unwrapped and still sealed with sticky tape. Mum had already written to me and said that she would send some of my favourite food. ‘It’s halva, sir.’ ‘what the **** is that?’ I explained exactly what it was: an eastern Mediterranean sticky, sweet, after-dinner treat. The reason they were a bit twitchy about large cake tins in the post was that at the time the IRa was bombing the UK mainland. once it had been opened, I was asked politely: ‘well, what’s it taste like then?’ how could I refuse? Bits were handed to all. The reactions varied from disgust — ‘It’s like sweet sawdust’ — to ‘Nice, what’s it called again?’

I was sent back to our six-man room, where all the lads had a taste, with ribald comments. Now, 50 years on, I still like the taste and texture of halva, but it’s not a mainstream confection. when I do get some, all the family get to taste what, half a century ago, I thought would get me court-martialled.

Tony levy, Wednesfield, W. Mids.