"It was not until he was dead and I was forty that I realised my father was once in Holy Orders," Roy Hattersley tells us in the opening pages of 'A YORKSHIRE BOYHOOD'; so setting the tone for an elegant, continually surprising book.
A somewhat precocious only child, Roy grew up surrounded by protective, ever-anxious adults, equally determined to expose him to books and to shield him from germs -- second-hand books were decontaminated by a sharp session in the oven. Uncle Ernest, a timber merchant's clerk celebrated for his skill at 'fretwork and the manipulation of Indian clubs'; a ten-year feud with the next-door neighbours; unwavering devotion to Sheffield Wednesday - all the pleasures and pangs of northern working-class childhood are magnificently evoked as Roy Hattersley takes us through the hardships of the Thirties and the Blitz; and into the 1940s, the 11-plus examination and Grammar School.
Completely updated, 'A YORKSHIRE BOYHOOD' is an autobiographical essay of unusual wit, eloquence and candour.
It’s difficult to reconcile the precocious little boy growing up in Sheffield in the 1930’s, with the highly respected Labour politician that Roy Hattersley became.
This wasn’t a little boy who played outdoors with his mates, on the contrary, he spent most of his time surrounded by adults. His was a household that was determined to educate Roy, mainly with the help of second hand books , but those very books were the source of contamination, a vessel for harbouring germs, and for that reason the books had to spend a carefully timed session in the oven to ensure the death of said germs!
I really enjoyed this memoir, it was an engaging read that takes one back to another time and place, not only that, but it was rather amusing to boot!
The author’s autobiography from cradle to acceptance at university. Passed on to me a friend who gave it no particular recommendation. I found it so dull I was rarely able to clock up my usual 20 pages minimum at a sitting. It’s detailed and informative, and there are some interesting anecdotes, moments of humour, and evocative images, but Hattersley’s relentlessly clever phrase-making and circumlocution keep the book’s feet in the mud. I skimmed the bits about football, cricket and the local Labour party. Also, though I didn’t dislike him exactly, his account of himself as an often ailing, cosseted, and in many ways mediocre, only child wasn’t altogether endearing.