THE GREY AREA

INTRODUCTION

One of my grandchild's teachers told her that she should get one of her grandparents to write down their life story as a record of their time. My granddaughter added that I should get it down quickly before I die. Over the years I have been told that I should compile the tales that I have told and put them in a book, they seem to think many would like to read it. Personally I could not see why but felt it might be creative and also help me. Therefore I have attempted to put the stories on paper, warts an all, and made a promise to Freya my grand child. Clearly to understand how one is moulded on your passage through life one has to look to your past to the experiences and influences that has shaped your life, this is what I have endeavoured to achieve in several short stories as working class youngster, who was born in the forties and grew up in the fifties, tales of youth and growing up in that era and trying to become a useful adult and further stories about gaining and loosing on the journey through life.

For one who struggles with spelling and grammar let alone reading, to write an autobiography was a daunting prospect. When reading as a child I had trouble with each individual word printed on the pages in schoolbooks that I did not know what each sentence was about after reaching the end of it, as it just took too much concentration to read just one very small printed word. In to day’s world we are aware there is a problem for some people but in those early days of growing up they were unaware how to teach us differently, I had been labeled along with other children as having word blindness, my mother was informed on a school report that another reason for me being literary backward was due to me being very lazy and slow. It is only in most recent years this form of word blindness has been recognised as a learning problem and labeled as dyslexia.

Clearly today I do believe everyone has a touch of this dyslexic problem. When you ask someone, how do spell such and such a word, they pause and say, “ I’ll just write it down,” they will find a scrape piece of paper and jot the letters down, then they will announce and confirm it is the right spelling of the word you have asked for, so the correct spelling of words do pop out when you see them written down its just a matter of remembering them. For a marked dyslexic person it is one word in every hundred words that we cannot spell or remember, it can be even worse for others.
People like myself will use more spoken words than written words. Our comprehension and understanding of what people are saying is fine, but when we have to come to writing the words down, we limit them to what we think we can spell correctly, as not to make ourselves look foolish in the eyes of others, or we scribble down some illegible marks that we think are nearly correct and just hope to recognize the meaning of the words later, our hand and mind go completely out of synchronisation for a split second, unfortunately nobody can read it or recognize the word at a later date, including ourselves. We try to remember simple rules when we get stuck as others do to help us, i before e except after c. but some of us have another hidden flaw in our make up, we cannot remember, for some of us possess a short term memory problem. We cannot hold a five-figure number from one room to the next; a new telephone number of our own homes will take months to learn. To be given information then asked for it in reverse order is a near impossibility for us after four numbers, it will have taken many of us years to learn the order of the months of the year, so you will not see many of us entering many quizzes or competitions. Some of us also have a problem pronouncing the longer words so we self limit our own vocabulary. Those of you that are hugely talented, who are literate will have made an almost immediate judgement of this writing as you skip and scan the first page in record time, you will have already analysed the quality and possibly joined the ranks of those who think it is all poppy cock and there is no such thing as dyslexia and agree with several teachers who still teach in our schools today, you possibly will cast it aside, where as the dyslexics among us, would have just finished reading the first few paragraphs.
Hopefully if you do persist with the reading you may have a better understand of this difficulty as you clearly see the shortcomings, hopefully you will not dismiss this as laziness on my part and may understand there are many individuals who also have this learning problem. Most of us continue to fight it on a daily bases but have come to terms with it. There are those who are less fortunate and have not come to terms or are not even aware they have a problem, for several individuals they can become a serious hindrance to our modern society.
Ahh, I hear you cry that there are other people at the top end of our society that also have the same problem and it has not held them back, Sir Richard Branson for one. This absolutely true there are those at the top who will shape our lives and society for the better as others do but there are those at the bottom of the pile who do shape our society and affect other people’s lives for the worse. I am informed only half of one per cent of the population have dyslexia related learning problem, on controlled assessment 80% of our inmates in prison, in our secure units and youth offenders institutes have a similar related problems, so they are banging many of us up. Hopefully this book may encourage some of those people should they get a chance to read these short stories to endeavour to write their own story down, if they did I am sure many would make more compelling reading than my own story but if not it may encourage them to have a go at something positive and creative in the life. I believe if those who have failed in our education system were to be channelled in a different direction, and if they used this gift to benefit themselves and others then our society would be a slightly better place to live. I call it a gift, as many I know who are dyslexic are clearly creative people. I am hoping in the near future there maybe some changes for that little horror of a child at the back of the class room, who is spoiling the day for the teacher and pupils and school alike, because they cannot understand much of the national curriculum or what their teacher is trying to do for them, so instead they continue to gain negative attention.

Having said all this I have been lucky being just one of those that has bubbled through life with a brain that figures things out with a three dimensional picture process, which until several years ago I was unaware I was thinking any different and had just assumed that everybody thought things out with the same logical process but I understood most could store and hold more information than myself, how wrong could I be and how happy I was when I eventually found out in my late thirties I was dyslexic. We are told there is a revolutionary space age cure for the problem as it is to do with the inner balance in our heads and with exercises the balance will correct the flaw. I do not believe it, clearly I believe it is genetic, but hey I can’t wait to give it try anyway for I would love to be artickqulut, (articulate).

As I sat there in front of a computer looking at a blank screen many people told me to use a voice programme on my computer, all one had to do was speak into a microphone, this sounded a great idea so I rushed out and purchased the latest programme and installed it into my computer. Firstly the programme had to be trained to recognize my voice; it brought up Alice in Wonderland for me to read out aloud. I started to read the story labouriously slowly to get every word correct. With the reading finished, it was now time to get the words down that were racing through my head. I felt good and important sitting in my new imitation leather office chair speaking into the microphone that was strapped on to my head. I didn’t understand much of what came onto the screen as I dictated; words and letters flowed on to the screen as if they were on a child’s game. The screen eventually became stationary, the screen was full of gobbledygook, It seemed as if the computer had got my words mixed up, (the) and (and) were the wrong way around, my computer was now also dyslexic and does what a lot of dyslexics do, that is swap words about as we read, (and the) becomes (the and). Other words on the screen I could not read and did not know what they should have been for I had already forgotten the story line. I tried to correct the programme and read Alice in Wonderland again even more slowly and carefully, when this was done I clicked the mouse to start over my story again. I breathed softly trying to think where I was up to, words were appearing on the screen but I hadn’t spoken a word, it read (pale child appear next cold corpse,) the computer either had a virus or it was reading my sub conscious or someone from the other side of the grave was trying to make contact with me, I gave up and returned to typing with two fingers. So here I go.


THE GREY AREA

“ I’ll tell you a story,” was a catch phrase of Max Bygraves an entertainer in a radio programme called Educating Archie in the year 1950, I was then 7 years old and every Sunday afternoon would glue one of my ears to the loud speaker of the wireless to listen to him and Archie Andrews who was in fact Peter Brough a ventriloquist, what dummy’s we all were at that time. I will now venture to tell you a story of how I saw my world in those informative years.

My home the place I was born was a pre-war built corporation house on the outskirts of Derby Town in the Osmaston area. The three bed roomed houses built there had been allocated to the large working class families. In every house there was at least two children but in many there were far more. The houses built out of poor brick as all were partially pebble dashed, all the doors and window frames were painted with the standardised corporation colour of dull olive green; privet hedges surrounded all the houses marking out the individual plots. The corporation housing estate spread off the Omaston Park Road into Victoria Road, a road that lead to some of the industries of Derby town, the Co-Op Boot and Shoe factory, Qualcast Iron Foundry, Rolls Royce Engineering Works and their Aero Engine Test Beds, the road eventually ran into the open countryside, here around several ponds on the Sinfin Moor, and in the Calvary and Red Woods adventures were to be had.

All though we did not know it we were to be the children of a new bright age, a privileged generation. The avenue was an over sized playground for all young people, we indulged ourselves in creative play out on the green, a fair size circle of grass outside our homes. On the green was a large round empty open toped water cistern standing up out of the ground, a left over from the war years, one may presume this was put here to supply the fire engines with water should the estate get bombed or to supply water to the homes should the supply get damaged, what ever the reason they had not got around to removing it, this construction was many things in our imaginations, on occasions we would lower a play mate prisoner into the tank, it was impossible to get out of it without assistance, mostly it was just one poor lad placed in there who suffered with impetigo, his whole body was covered in scabs which would crack the skin and bleed at his joints, he would be left in there for hours unless his mother came searching for him, how cruel young folk can be to each other.

There was just one little shop supporting the small estate, a shop where very small measures of provisions and groceries could be purchased, the proprietors were Mr. and Mrs. Burrows, they were to be the proud owners of the first car that was to come into the avenue, they were good folk but gave no tick (credit).
Their next door neighbours had a simple-minded girl of fourteen or so who all day long rode round and round the green on her bicycle, she to us was like a second hand on a clock, her constant movement for most part was ignored as was the constant hum of noise in the distance from the factories down the road. Her family were to leave the area but did not take the girl with them and it was said they sold her to the childless Burrows.


The long warm days of the summer school holiday were coming to a close; in those early September mornings my anxiety was increasing as the sense of panic and fear returned for I knew the time was shortly due to for me to return to school.

One day it was my turn to be called in from playing out with my street mates by my mother to have my hands, face and knees washed and scrubbed with a rough flannel then to be taken to Derby Town Centre to the Co-Op Department Store to be partially kitted out with a new school uniform for my new junior school.
This department store was large, they clearly seemed to supply every school in the county with school uniforms, for in the window was displayed every single one of Derbyshire schools badges; my mother moved her leather gloved hand over the large glass pane and pointed out Nightingale Road Junior School badge, I stared intently as if interested at this little embroidered badge that depicted a flaming beacon.
We entered the store through the large, heavily etched glazed doors which were furnished in heavy polished brass handles and plates, it did seem that every mother in Derbyshire with their sons and daughters were doing the same type of clothes shopping, it was crowded with children being dragged about by their mothers, most seemed to show the same lack of eager enthusiasm as myself.
The store was full of drab coloured clothing, grey socks, grey short pants, grey long pants, grey jackets, grey shirts, grey pullovers and grey caps. For the big boys and girls going on to senior schools there was more desirable coloured clothing, black. Only one other colour was present, the dark navy blues of the girl’s gymslips and the regulation school mackintoshes. The smaller items for sale were placed in glass fronted drawers with various sizes marked up on them, they reached high up in huge wooden cabinets placed round the walls, items capsulated inside were made accessible by a sliding ladders attached to the cabinets. Above us hung a large brass and glass globe electric light which gave out a yellowy glow, below all the young people were being tugged about as clothes were held up against them and they were being pushed this way and that as caps and hats were being roughly forced down on their heads. One by one the girls and the boys were kitted out then ushered by their mothers armed with clothing to the high highly polished wooden counter where our school badges and ties were selected. My mother purchased the badge and tie. I had been told my elder brothers old blazer would have to make do; I just knew somehow I was going to hate that. We stood at the counter watching the smartly dressed poker faced shop assistance dressed in a white blouse with a frill round her neck take full control of the little group now in front of her, in a high pitch voice that carried a learnt plumb in the mouth accent, she seemed to hover above to talk down to all the mothers telling them what they required and reminding them about the sports wear which was in another department at a different level in the store. As all youngsters do we fidgeted about as we watched her take the money, put it in a cylindrical holder, close it up and post it in to a pipe and flip a lever, you could hear a hiss, the cylinder rattled round the bend and shot up the pipe that was coming down from the ceiling, the pipe joined a maze of other pipes coming from every department in the store, one imagined there was a little man with bottle top glasses sitting in a little room somewhere high in the building, who was being inundated with hundreds of pounds that arrived on his deck in cylinders. All would then have to wait patiently for the change to come back. The small group stood about waiting and listening for the cylinders to arrive back at the counter. Our sales person flipped the lever, the pipe made a hissing noise again as the vacuum released and the cylinder would fall with a metallic clunk into a brass wire cage basket, with a twist the shop assistant would undo the cylinder read off a little yellow strip of paper then shout out the divvy numbers like a roll call over the heads of the mothers and children. Every child in the store knew their number; it had been drilled into all of our little heads at an early age, for me this number took some considerable time to put it to memory so it was written at my eye level in pencil on the architrave around the doorframe of our front door. The cooperative society gave a small dividend that one could collect every now and then, it was about a half penny in the pound, if we were sent to the local co-op shop, you had to remember your number, the grocer wanted it, the butcher, the coalman, the bread man, the milkman all wanted your number, the co-op seemed to supply the entire needs of the post war families like mine.
The sales assistant looked down her nose then shouted out through her heavily painted red lipstick, “ 58442;”
“ Thank goodness.” We could now escape out of this store and go into the market hall, where a vibrant atmosphere was to be had, where a pikelet man sold his wares at the entrance from a three wheeled box bicycle, there in the fish market, fish were laid out on cold marble slabs as a beautiful cholarge of ice and dead flesh, next door was the meat and poultry, it was here we would make a yearly pilgrimage on Christmas eve to get our treat of one chicken for our Christmas dinner, this was the only time we ate chicken, my mother would have us wait around until the end of the days trading to purchase one of the last of them as they were sold off cheaply. In the main bustling hall my mother purchased a pound of loose broken biscuits selected from square glass topped biscuit tins without producing the war ration coupon, a few of these biscuits were nibbled like a mouse knobble by knobble as we rode the number 31 trolley bus back home.