The Day When ‘Com-Ball’ Came to Town by Margery Gibb
About 1942 when World War II was in full swing, my father swapped his life as a Bank Manager in the city for that of an ordinary seaman in the Navy.
Meanwhile at home my mother was solely responsible for three young children under the age of ten. This was fine until our maternal grandmother decided to join us. It was not a success.
One winter’s morning shortly after Granny’s arrival, when the grass was white with hoar frost, my younger brother and I were sent out into the back garden to play. A washing line had been hung out and on it reposed two of the most mysterious garments we had ever seen. Laying aside our tennis balls we gazed in awestruck silence.
“What are they?” my little brother asked in amazement. We looked at the magnificent white garments, a sort of gigantic vest and pants all in one as they hung there stiffly to attention in the cold still day.
“I think they’re Granny’s combinations,” I said.
We agreed that the combinations were truly unbelievable, but soon began playing with our tennis balls. The sun began to appear and the mist lifted. Soon the grass under our feet became damp and churned up into a glutinous dark brown consistency, where we had run over it.
It was not long before disaster struck. One of the tennis balls, which by now was muddy, hit one pair of corns’ with a dull smacking sound right in the middle of the garment.
“Oh dear!” we said, but giggling at the same time. “What on earth shall we do?”
I had been thinking, and soon a new idea for a game formed in my mind “Let’s play com-ball”, I announced, and my young brother looked at me with a look of pure amazement in his bright blue eyes.
“What on earth is that?” he asked.
I picked up one of the tennis balls and carefully holding the thick soft material, inserted it into the neck of one pair of combinations. We watched in mounting excitement, as the ball rolled down inside, and trickled out through one of the legs, to end up on the grass below.
“Come on” I cried. “You take a tennis ball and have a go”.
The rules of the game were simple. We each had a pair of combinations and a tennis ball and on the command ‘go’ inserted it at the neck of our own pair of combinations. The ball which fell onto the grass first was the winner. We were so absorbed in our game, until it came to a sudden and abrupt end when mother arrived in the garden. She was horrified because all she could see was two very muddy laughing children and horror of horrors, Granny’s combinations which had been snow-white only a short time ago, but now were covered in dark brown marks.
“Whatever is your Grandmother going to say?” she gasped. “I shall have to wash the ‘coms’ again”, and she rushed over to begin taking them off the line.
We begged to be allowed to do a quick ‘war dance’ round them, before the combinations were taken indoors.
Disconsolately, we watched our mother return to the house with the muddy garments over her arm, and looked around for a new ploy to occupy us. We heard the upstairs toilet flush and remembered being told that all the sewage went to Portobello.
Moments later the silence was shattered by a cry of annoyance from Granny who had entered the scullery and was shouting at Mother.
“Why on earth are you washing my combies?” she shouted. “I washed them earlier you know”, but Mother, ever inventive, replied.
“The washing rope broke” she said, as she squeezed out the by-now sweet smelling white garments, which were steaming in the cold air. “I’m just giving them a little wash through”.
Feeling it was safe to enter the house we saw Granny standing there, dressed in a smart pale blue coat, dark blue hat, gloves and shiny black handbag, and she suddenly announced.
“I’m just off to Portobello”.
We gasped. Was she really going to flush herself down the toilet? We were soon enlightened when Granny added.
“How much is the number 11 tram fare, is it still tuppence?” Obviously Granny had opted for the long way round and all hopes of a soaking wet Granny landing on Portobello beach were dashed. When mother later handed us out glasses of milk and crunchy homemade biscuits which melted in the mouth, there was just the hint of a smile on her face as we thanked her for saving the day, but we didn’t believe that Granny would understand our game - grown-ups never did.
