Ralph Oswick: Sweet memories

Iwas born in a very small village. Walking the length of the main street would take all of two minutes, but that street was absolutely crammed with useful businesses.

My dad had a market garden and commercial orchard just off the main drag.

Opposite our gate was a car repair garage incorporating a petrol station and coach hire business.

Starting at the post office, one would pass a hair salon, a greengrocer, two pubs, two, yes two, butcher’s shops, and a proper grocer with bacon slicer, coffee roaster and staff in crisp white coats.

There was a cobblers cabin, a Barclays Bank, a doctor’s surgery and a branch of the British Legion.

For community activities there was a village hall, a small Jubilee Hall for the Girl Guides and a beautiful church overlooking a vast village green with a cricket pitch.

There were infant and junior schools and just on the outskirts, a posh girls’ boarding school.

However, the centre of my small world was the sweetshop. Run by a genial granny called Mrs Pett, it was the candy emporium of one’s dreams. Hardly an essential business you might say, but to me it was a crucial part of village life.

My mum would send me round there with a threepenny bit to buy a tuppenny cornet.

If I was brave enough to face a wigging, I used to shell out on the far superior tuppenny-ha’penny cornet.

My auntie lodged with Mrs Pett in those days, and what with her being only a few years older than me, I regarded her with awe. A child that lived in a sweetshop, a dream to which I could only aspire!

Strolling around the village recently I noted the changes.

Remarkably the posher butcher’s was still there, mostly promoting its range of game birds rather than the cheap post-war chipolatas of yore.

The Barclays logo, made to look like a pub sign, still swung in the breeze, but the pub next door had gone.

The bigger grocers was now a mini mart. No bacon slicer, just plastic packs of streaky.

No white coats, just a diffident boy sat playing with his phone at the till.

I suspected the coach hire firm had hit the dust when I saw their ancient single decker restored and gleaming at Bath’s vintage commercial vehicle rally (and later, thrillingly, in an episode of Miss Marple!)

All the other shops had long gone, even Mrs P’s emporium had reverted to its former incarnation as a twee country cottage.

Particularly saddened by the latter, I had to admit that the once thriving hub had become a mere dormitory village for the larger towns nearby.

However, all is not lost! A quick glance at the village website reveals that some brave person has opened, yes, a sweetshop in the main street.

There’s no indication that Mrs P’s has risen phoenix-like from the commuter carnage, and I’m not sure if their business plan would hold water.

But it does mean next time I visit, I can treat myself to a brace of pheasants and a bag of gobstoppers.

Ralph Oswick was artistic director of Natural Theatre for 45 years and is now an active patron of Bath Comedy Festival