the rummy - simon collinson

Spare us some slummy Mummy, please. I need some for the rummy.

Nan says a rummy is coming up.

Our nans had all encompassing knowledge of who was up in court, who was carrying on with who, who had dirty windows, who cheated at bingo and above all, where the best rummys would be held.

So bring forth your strong bags tucked into your broad shoulders and heaving arms. Come the evening, stand shivering outside the church hall car park for what seemed like hours.

Mummies and their mummies milling mischievously around.

Lots of scarfed heads and shoulders bobbing and weaving. Waiting impatiently for the doors to be opened. The restless ones in woollen coats and scarfs eyeing up for any chink of light emmerging from the rattling doors.

“There, they’re open!”, a sharp eyed mummy shouts.

“At last!”, several mummies groan.

See a slither of a shivering pale old padre hovering near the doorway.

The queue surges forward at a brisk pace. Shoulders jostling. The anxiety of being behind someone who hasn’t got the correct change. Grumbling about someone moving too slowly. The fear that someone else will take the best bits before you get inside. So begins the mummy race. As mummy goes up against mummy in the mad mummy walking dash.

Got to get to that door first.

“Come on, come on. We haven’t got all day!”, the ones at the back shout.

Your mum spots someone they know, “ It's her in the next street, she thinks she’s cock of the block. I’ll knock her block off if she gets in my way.”

There is something about the occasion that turns mums into manic mummies. It's all muscles and tussles in the rummy mummy rumble.  A mass of mummies eddy and swirl round the tables. Just don’t get in their way. They take no prisoners.

We pay our ten pence to enter and look around and browse, drink weak tea and even weaker orange juice. Tonight we’ll be rummaging in the church hall rummy with our mummies accompanying their mummies.

The regulars are out tonight.

Doris Karloff is standing menacingly by the door, next to Big Brenda.

Whatever you do, don’t tangle with Maggie Mangel.

There’s wild Winnie whizzing round the stalls, hair flying around behind her as she goes.

Hand me down Liz and Ragerty Ann form a team. One scoops up everything into both arms, as the other checks the stuff for the good bits. Make sure the others don’t get those items first. Now count, count them up! Count them up quick! Then bag them up!

Hurry up! Hurry up! We haven’t got all night.

There’s Edna and Fag ash Lil each grabbing hold of the same item and no ones letting go. Both are strenuously tugging and pulling till…RiiiPPPPPPPPP!

And even Solomon wouldn’t be able to solve that one.

As usual there is honest Pauline and her good friend Pauper Annie. Doing their best to avoid Manky Mandy and Coughing Molly.

There’s “knock off” Nettie near the one who's got hair like Elsie Tanner.

London Tess stands tall and aloof from it all.

“Ah she’s just a tuppenny duchess. All airs and graces, fur coat no knickers, dressed like a dog's dinner.” says mum.

And then  the crowd parts as the notorious Brennan sisters stroll in.

Give them a wide berth.

Stay away too from Bad breath Betty.

And if I were you I’d  sure keep well away from second hand Sue.

“Oh, there's Titty forloree.' She leaves nothing to anyone's imagination.”

Says mum disapprovingly.

Nan’s alright tonight. She’s sorted.

She doesn’t have to scrap and barge to the front.

She has got a lot of friends on the stalls who keep the choice bits hidden under the table ready for her private inspection later on.

Tables overflowing with fabrics of all shapes and sizes and hues that would adorn Joseph.

Mums all marching the grim fast walk to  get to the front of the line with a steely far away look in their eyes fixed on the prize. Jabbing and jostling, bustling for position, elbows at the ready. Bludgeon their way forwards. Brutal, but effective.

No quarter given. Or asked.

From the back I can see a wall of mummies arms flailing like a windmill at full pelt, tugging and pulling with all their might, gripping, bumping, a right ruck and maul. With many bumps and knocks given in the melee.

 “Oh excuse me, sorry queen”. But keeping their position in the front and centre, eyes on the prize. When she really was thinking, “get out the way”. Do it again and I’ll deck yer”.

Nan tells me to use both my elbows to squeeze my way to the front of the tables and have a good root.

Keen eyes , strong arms and stout backs are vital in this scrummage. The mummies circle and size up the tables like a predatory pack of lionesses.

Nearly all ignore the white elephant stall.

Unwanted by givers and buyers alike. The tombola is given a wide berth as well as the gobby ones who just hold you up from the serious business of searching for bargains.

The plant stall half decked in weedy , insipid specimens is also given short shrift.

It's the clothes stalls the mummies are seeking. That's their gold.

Mummies going round and round the rummy in search of clothes. Bags bulging with bargains.  

Scamper back to mummy. Trying to implore her to part with more slummy for that plastic clockwork train spotted “made in Japan” or that plastic adding machine (made in Hong Kong). I’d spent all my pennies buying a bundle of Beanos and a Hotspur annual.

Nan gives the signal. Time to leave and heave those heavy bags home.

No one in our street minded wearing someone else’s castoffs as every kid on the block wore them and when you were finished with the clothing it could be traded for a balloon or some other cheap toy with the rag and bone man.

Mind you, your heart sank when your mum pulled a hideous mustard coloured jumper out of the big bag saying, 

“Oh I think that’ll look lovely on you”.

But you wore it.

You knew what you’d get if you did as you were told and you knew what you’d get if you didn’t.

Mummies were not to be messed with in those days.

 Years ago clothes were made to last and not much got thrown out or wasted.

That was just around the corner. As well as the end of the “Rummy”, mourned by mummies and nannies everywhere.

And me.

Simon is a writer from England.