going with the flow

GOING WITH THE FLOW
For two evenings a week my friends and my time was taken up with the youth club. Several enthusiastic young teachers organized and ran the club; slowly we were all getting to know them. One youth leader was Eric Wood he was affectionately known to some of the lads as Timber Wood. He bounced into the classroom where our gang were arguing over the rules of a new card game we were trying to learn.
“Right lads,” he announced in a commanding manner “ Get your names down for a weekend of canoeing and sailing, we are going in a fortnights time; I’ve got the use of some canoes, a mirror dinghy and a national. I’ve got a fifteen man bell tent for you all to kip in, we’re camping in the orchard behind the Fisherman’s Rest pub at Trent Lock.”
He was out of the door before we had time to ask any questions.
“What’s a bloody national?” somebody remarked over the top of his cards, we guessed it was a small yacht.
There were ten of us in our peer group; all agreed to go, I was building a canoe and had the two weeks to finish it off. This double canoe was made out of thin plywood fastened to a pine framework. To finish it, it only required the top putting on and a lick of paint; it was to be ready well in time.
My good friend, Alan, who was nearly two years older was the eldest in his year group and I was the youngest in mine, we decided to paired up for the weekend. Alan was a strong individual who had different opinions and viewpoints on most subjects, he would swear constantly. He was thickset with a curly mop of hair with long sideburns that framed his broken-tooth smile. He broke his tooth one night after we had been scrumping, all of us were running out of someone’s backyard and he ran straight into an unexpectedly parked lorry in the avenue. After this accident he started mimicking Terry Thomas a brilliant comedy actor of our time who had a gap in his front teeth, he was often filmed smoking with a cigarette holder and his catch phrase was ‘You’re an absolute shower.’ Alan could not resist buying himself a cigarette holder. If you want to know how good an actor Terry Thomas was look out for the old take of Tom Thumb in which he paired up with Peter Sellers. While most of our group were doing up racing bikes with plastic mini mudguards, very narrow saddles, drop handle bars and concentrating on lightness, Alan had a classical sit up and beg green Raleigh bike that supported a three coil spring leather seat, a rod braking system, a hub gear change, metal mud and chain guards with a wire basket carrier front and back. He was a powerful lad; he had to be to get his heavy old-fashioned bike moving. Alan and I arrived at the youth club the following week, it was suggested to us we should paddle down the River Trent to Trent Lock on the Friday night setting off from Weston-on-Trent as there was some problem with transporting everyone and the equipment to the campsite. Alan and I agreed. This area was familiar to us, the River Trent was once an artery of the country, it was a magnet for young boys. Our bikes had given us the freedom and opportunity to explore a considerable length of the riverbanks and discover old world names and the history of yesteryear. At Weston close to the river was Black Pool a good fishing pond where we learnt how to fish; further downstream on the far bank was the site of an old monastery at Castle Donnington. At the weir at Kings Mills they had dammed the river to power the water wheel at the birth of the industrial revolution, I expect there was at one time a lock and probably before that a flash lock to allow the larger sailing barges to travel further up the river to Burton-on-Trent. Just a little further down the river was the site of a last drop where a scaffold on which a person in metal cage was hung to rot to remind us all to keep on the straight and narrow path of life, here it is said that the ghostly figure of The Lady in Grey is seen. Further on up near Swarkestone we played in the Bull Ring and swam on the rapids under the bridge, here we usually got covered in leeches, beyond the bridge it is said seven sisters built the crooked causeway over the flood plain so their loved one’s would not be drowned as others had been when they returned home from a crusade. On this longest stone bridge in Britain Bonnie Prince Charlie received the news that an army had set off from London to engage in battle with him, so he turned here to head back to the highlands. A short distance from this point was another play area; the hermit’s caves with its multi-rooms carved out of the rocks on the riverbank, at one time travellers enjoyed a rest here. A little higher up river was the Twyford ferry where we boarded the chained ferry to cross the river for thr’pence per person per trip; this took us over to have an adventure in Ticknall woods beyond. There we would collect the fruits of autumn wood. Still further up nearer to Burton was another favourite swimming spot in the River Dove where it joins the Trent at Monks Bridge; the monks were the first to find the waters in the area most suitable for brewing fine ale. As the river meanders through the country each bend had its own fascinating story to tell.
Eric arrived at my house on the said evening to collect the pair of us; after loading the heavy flat-bottomed canoe on top of his old Morris Minor shooting brake we headed off. The Trent and Mersey Canal runs through Weston Cliff, we struggled to carry the canoe over a little footbridge that crossed it to gain access to the river beyond. Why we did not float it across, I can’t imagine. After carrying it across a large open field, we managed with difficulty to drop the canoe down the steep banking and scrambled aboard. The pair of us settled in for it’s maiden voyage and the bonus was it was watertight. Eric shouted from the high banking,
“It’s now six o’clock you should be there in an hour, you may get there before the rest of us.”
Then he was gone; Alan and I were just about ready to set off when Eric reappeared.
“Do you know about the weir at Kings Mills?”
We shouted back that we did, he disappeared again, we got to paddle a few strokes when he reappeared yet again.
“You will know when you get to Trent Lock as there is a bit of white water just before you get there, it will be fun, it will be an experience for you.”
“Piss off Eric.” Alan said under his breath.
We waved him goodbye, he was finally gone, we tried to get into some sort of rhythm with paddling, but the canoe had a mind of its own. We stopped paddling to see what was happening, the canoe veered off to the right hand side.
“You’ve built a bloody banana boat,” Alan cried out as we struggled to straighten the craft.
I guessed the plank former it had been built on had warped. We agreed to paddle twice on the right then once on the left and were soon above the weir heading towards the middle of it, we paddled hard just on the right side only bringing the canoe around bumping it into a familiar little island above the weir. Throughout the previous summer the gang used to come swimming here on one evening a week. All of us had bet each other that we would be the last one to swim in the river as the winter months approached. In late November nine of us stood on the bank of the island in our swimming trunks with towels round our necks shivering away not daring to go in. We watched John Smith a hard headed lad step forward, he lowered himself in, he lost his breath, he was gasping, he changed colour to deep blotchy red, he started to shiver uncontrollably, when he turned blue he was unanimously declared the winner and the rest of us ran for our clothes. The canoe was dragged out and carried to the bottom of the weir, where Alan came up with the idea of strapping a piece of driftwood to stern as a makeshift rudder to correct the swim of the canoe. The current pushed us off again at speed and to some degree the rudder was working. We paddled for two more hours, the sun was starting to fall, at times we seemed to be going way out of direction as the river meandered back and forth in great loops.
“This is why they built the bloody canal,” Alan moaned.
Another hour went by and the talking had stopped, the sun had disappeared over the horizon, the darkness of the night had crept over us. Not a soul had been seen since we set off, the only company was herd of cows that had made their way to the bank and had waded in the river to have a drink, they all stopped drinking to stare as we flouted past. Our eyes were straining to catch light of civilization; our ears strained for the sound of white water going over a rapid. In front of us mist was rising from the river, soon we were in the thick of it. The dark outline of the high banks disappeared from view. Everything seemed to go deathly silent; the only sound was from the ripples of the river hitting the sides of the canoe and the gentle sound of our paddles as we dipped them in and out. Our vision was now limited to a few feet in every direction, this eerie steamy scary fog had engulfed us, our senses seemed heightened, the smell of the river more pungent. Suddenly a swan came gliding out of the mist giving the three of us a fearsome scare, we jumped at being startled which nearly tipped us out of the canoe.
“Fuck this,” cried Alan breaking the silence, “let’s get the fuck out of this.”
A frantic paddle was made to where we thought the bank maybe, we hit a hard dirty grey concrete side of a power station that loomed high above us. Here the thick bars of the water intake grid were covered in the disgorged crap of mankind and it looked like a huge gateway to hell and it was there to stop those who deserve to be in there from coming back out. You could make out the outline of the cooling towers standing out against the darkened sky like the devils giant eggcups.
“It’s the fucking hot water from the cooling towers that’s making this fog,” Alan said as he dipped his hand in the water. “They’re trying to boil the fucking river.”
Soon we were out of the mist, the river seemed to narrow and quicken its pace. Eventually lights could be seen near stone pillars sticking out of the river, beyond this we could see the outline of a Bailey bridge with the lights of the traffic crossing it. We were at Shardlow, as we knew the old Cavendish Bridge that stood there had been washed away in a flood, they had put a bailey bridge up to replace it. The river seemed to be flowing faster still as we shot under this temporary bridge.
“What time is it?” I enquired.
Alan strained to read his watch, “ Its bloody well gone half past ten,” he curst away, “I’ll give Eric a bloody hour when I see him.”
The darkness of the night and fatigue was getting to us; we were running on nervous energy and heading to yet another bridge, discovering later it was known as long rope bridge to the old bargees who had horse drawn boats, at one time of day they were to shorten their long tow ropes used on the river to the shorter length required for the canal. We paddled under then met odd currents, the Trent and Mersey canal joined the river and came in on our left, on the opposite bank the mouth of the River Derwent joined the Trent bringing us turbulent currents to ride. With the power of two adjoining river we now started travelling at a fair pace on the current, we were tired and thankful and hoped we would soon be there.
“What the fuck is that?” Alan shouted. Both of us stopped paddling, the roar of water could be heard in front of us.
“Get to the fucking bank, fucking quick,” Alan shouted in panic.
Both of us paddled for all we were worth, the current had got hold of us and started pulling us sideways to the white water which lit up the darkness, you could now see the great turbulences below the weir bubbling up stretching the full width of the river.
“Fucking hell we are going to go over,” I screamed.
Both of us dug in harder with our paddles trying desperately to make it to the banking. We were nearly there with just a few yards to go when the current lifted us pushing sideways the canoe lurched with a bang on its side we both plunged our arms and paddles into the river pushing hard against the capping of the weir to stop us flipping over into the rushing water. We were pinned there.
“I’m fucking well out of here.” Alan shouted.
I screamed, “Bloody well hang on, we’ll do it together, you’re not bloody well getting out without me.”
Alan prodded the bottom with his paddle, “We can stand here.”
“Lets get out together very slowly.” I pleaded; I was petrified. As Alan eased himself out and as his weight came out of the canoe, I thought I would end up going over the weir on my own.
Both of us slipped into the river up to our waists; while grabbing at the cockpit of the canoe, we very slowly waded making our way across the top of the weir across to the banking all the time fighting the pressure of water flowing against us. An age passed as we heaved at the canoe that wanted to float over the weir. Somehow we made to the banking, with great effort we lifted the canoe above our heads and pushed it on to dry ground, grabbing out at tuffs of grass above a concrete edging, we scrambled out of the river, safe. Both of us stood there shaking from head to toe as the adrenaline took complete control over our limbs. The river was pounded over the weir, its raging power created great waves below; the noise seemed to deafen us. I sat down and got my cigarettes from my shirt pocket, luckily they were dry, I tried lighting up, this proved to be difficult as the matchbox came to pieces as I fumbled to get a match out, then after having managed to strike a light with shaking hands, I couldn’t keep the end of my cigarette still in my quivering lips. Eventually I calmed down and took stock.
“Bloody Eric,” Alan exclaimed, “He wants fucking stuffing.”
I couldn’t have agreed more with him.
“Where does this go to?” I pointed to a wide stretch of water going down to the left of us above the weir.
“Fuck knows,” Alan, snapped, “ Let’s go and fucking look.”
We walked down the banking stumbling in the darkness until a pair of lock gates came into view.
“The river feeds a fucking canal,” Alan said,“ But I don’t know where the bloody canal goes to, so we’d better put the fucking canoe in at the bottom of the fucking weir, let get fucking going it can’t be bloody far now.”
I personally was beginning to think we had come down the wrong river or that we had passed our party way back, perhaps in the mist, I had no idea where Trent Lock was. We pushed and shoved the canoe down and along the banking trying to find a safe place to get in, we struggled up and down through deep undergrowth until eventually we came across a little quieter backwater in the banking with no fast current. Alan was in full flow, eff-ing and blinding as I asked the time.
“It was half past fucking eleven last time I looked, but now my frigging watch has packed in, I’ve drowned the bastard thing and I’m scratched to fucking bits.” He went on to curse Eric some more.
After passing under another main road bridge, a footbridge could be seen with folk walking across we could hear shouting.
“Alan, Roger, Alan, Roger.”
“They’ve sent out a bloody search party for us,” Alan whispered, “Don’t let the fuckers see us, lets paddle into the bushes.
We shot into the overhanging undergrowth, the makeshift rudder was lost way back so the bend in the canoe helped us in this manoeuvre, we hid until their shouting could not be heard. Slowly we pulled ourselves out of the bushes then quietly paddled on down the river keeping close into the bank. The boathouse and the pub could be seen, we had arrived and let everyone else know, both of us became nearly hysterical, shouting and yelling at the top of our voices, waking up all the pleasure boaters who were moored along the riverside, they had been long in their berths. Heads popped out from all manner of craft, the owners waved their fists as they threw abuse calling us typical foul mouth yobbos who had no consideration for others, these remarks were returned with kafuffles of laughter and Alan shouted out as we paddled past them,
“You’re an absolute fucking shower.’”
The search party heard the commotions; they soon returned to help us get the canoe out and were to show us the way to the campsite. After changing out of our wet clothing and having a hot drink we were so tired all we need were our sleeping bags. I was soon fast asleep but the night was unkind to me as I half woke in the early hours with a cold sweat, screaming and shouting while trashing around trying to get my arms out of my sleeping bag as I relived the nightmare. Years later I was to read about eight soldiers going over a weir on the river Trent in their canoes, it cost all of them their lives.
The following day the sun shone bright, the group were introduced to the art of sailing. After a few lessons all the lads were in to it, everyone started enjoying the experience. Alan and I were now to take out the mirror dinghy on our own. A mirror dinghy is a little pram shaped sailing boat, there is just about enough room in them for two people. A push off the embankment we were off on our own once more. Sails up and away, the wind was brisk, we skipped along quite merrily listening to the river lap around he edges of our little tub while tacking up steam against the wind and were very happy with our progress. Alan was enjoying being the skipper, I enjoyed crewing, changing the foresail from one side to the other. Alan had been watching the many skilled crews of all manner of yachts that sailed in all directions around us, they were leaving tacking to the very last moment to come about, these folk almost went ashore before they changed course. He said this would be our last tack before turning and heading down stream. He headed into the bank, the centreboard started grinding against the riverbed, we were in the shallows. The centreboard passes through the hull and is the resistance against the wind; it lives in its own holder in the centre of the boat, it is held in place by two large rubber straps.
“Lift the fucking centre board.”
“Oui, môn Capitaine.”
I flipped the rubber straps off and pulled the centreboard up, Alan brought the head of the dingy around, the boom moved over, the wind filled the mainsail.
“Get the fucking foresail across.”
The wind took hold, we shot away from the bank at what seemed a great speed, the foresail was over and the line jammed into its cleat. Alan was fighting the mainsail, while I was fighting with the rubber straps that had got jammed into the slot of the housing of the centreboard, the rubber wouldn’t allow me to push the board fully home. I shouted at Alan as I let loose the foresail.
“Let the sail out, let the bloody sail out.”
“This is fucking great,” he shouted with excitement.
He pulled the sail in more as he leaned further and further out of the tub. The exhilaration was indeed great but with no centreboard our resistance in body weight to the wind was no match, so over we went, we were catapulted into the river on top of the sunken sail.
As we surfaced, Alan spluttered, “You’re a bloody jinx Roger.”
At that moment the centreboard slipped out of its holder and hit him on the back of his head, it was never seen again.
The afternoon came; the dinghy was out of action so I dragged my canoe down to the waters edge. We could launch our canoes with ease in the entrance of the Erewash Canal where it joins the river close to the Fisherman’s Rest pub where Alan had planned to spend his afternoon behind a pint of beer or two. As I dropped the canoe in from the concrete stepping I noticed on the footbridge over the canal a few of the other lads chatting to a couple of girls who were on their bicycles.
I shouted up, “Would one of you girls like to go for a paddle down the river?”
My luck was in; the good-looking one said she would love to. She left her bike with her friend and bounced down the steps and introduced herself.
“Hello I’m Sandra.” She smiled.
“Hi I’m Roger,” I replied as I took hold of her hand, “Be careful how you get in.”
Sandra was a very attractive girl, she had fairly long dark hair that flowed around her shoulders, she wore a white sleeveless vest type t-shirt that showed a small amount of cleavage, she had incredibly short shorts, white socks and bumper boots, the forerunner to modern day trainers. Girls who wore bumper boots or baseball boots were usually tomboy in nature. She had a pretty face with one or two freckles around her nose, but you would have to look awfully close to spot them. Why do attractive girls seem to mate up with a less attractive girl? I wondered if girls looked at boys in the same manner. Whatever, I was glad Alan was not around as this opportunity may not have happened. Soon I learnt her friends name was Maggie, Maggie was a much stronger built girl with a large bosom, I suppose if I was attracted to her I would have called them breasts, although dressed similar to Sandra her top clung to her body showing creases round her middle, her heavy bra strap was on show around her shoulders and her strong legs would not have looked out of place on a rugby field. As I looked up as we paddled under the bridge the lads looked disgruntled, not to worry; I was off downstream to navigate the entrance of the mouth of the River Soar with a beautiful kidnapped prize. Quickly we got to know a little bit about each other, she was sixteen and worked in her friend’s father’s chemist shop. Being only fourteen, I lied and told her I was also sixteen but I was having time out before starting a job in September. This seemed to impress her, as she said not many young people could afford to do that. So I had to lie again to balance the first lie but then had to continue with them to try and impress her further. We paddled away from the Erewash Canal across and down the River Trent until we met the River Soar. The mouth of the river is a pretty place where there are little huts and cabins built along on of its banks against an embankment. One could imagine the well to do would spend their leisure time here as most had boats tied up against little jetties at the bottom of their pretty gardens. Sandra and I spent time talking about how nice it would be to own such a cabin with a boat and other trivial topics. We shipped our paddles to let the river take us where it would, the canoe took us a sharp right, we drifted straight into a tall reed bed where it glided to a halt. I blessed the shape of my canoe when Sandra suggested staying there for a little while to enjoy the sun. With her backrest removed as suggested Sandra moved back a little to lay the back of her head on my chest; my arms were quickly round her, I was a delighted boy who could not believe his luck. Time passed as we talked much about nothing just enjoying the sun, our surroundings, enjoying a mother moorhen scuttling in and out of the reeds with her new family. The smell of Sandra’s hair was wonderful, the feel of her warm skin was pleasant, looking down her top was enjoyable. The pleasures were broken when Sandra said she must go and find her friend. We extracted ourselves out of the reed bed and headed back; as I paddled hard upstream a pain develop in my groin, not an unpleasant pain but a pain never the less. When we arrived back at the steps and lifted the canoe out, there was nobody around, I told Sandra the lads had made arrangements to go up to the café for their tea, and suspected they will have taken Maggie with them. After pointing her in the right direction for the café that was a broken down wooden shack on the river banking, I said I would join her shortly as I needed to brush up a bit. What I really meant was I was bursting for a pee, which I hoped, would relieve the pain I was in. After calling in the pub’s loo I headed back to the campsite, I notice the girls bikes leaning against the picket fencing, as I got to the gate laughing and jeering could be heard coming from the large bell tent. As I reached the tent Alan was coming out through the flap, he grabbed my arm and said with a solemn face,
“You don’t want to go in there Roger,”
“I need to change”
In a truly sombre manner he repeated, “No, Roger, you don’t want to go in there.”
I pushed his arm aside to enter the tent, five lads were holding Maggie down her t-shirt and bra were round her neck, some were fondling her large breasts, and others were attempting to get her shorts off. Maggie looked up at me with big wide –open eyes that showed more white than iris, she had a forced frightened half smile on her face.
I was stunned speechless, Alan followed me in and grabbed hold of me hard and said,
“Don’t be a party to rape.”
“What the fuck are you doing?” I shouted angrily and grabbed at of one of the lads pulling him off Maggie.
Alan joined in, “You lot could be fucking locked up for rape.”
We had joined forces; our words and action must have gone home in the lads’ heads. They all let her go and backed away from her; Maggie got up and pulled herself together. I helped her up and Alan and I escorted her to her bike under a barrage of verbal abuse and chicken calls. We both apologized for their behaviour and said we were sorry for what had happened. We asked if she was all right, she got on her bike without saying a word and she was gone. I picked up Sandra’s bike and started walking with Alan to the café; we walked in silence. How could I tell Sandra my so-called mates have just attempted to rape her friend, I couldn’t do it. I broke the silence and told Alan about Sandra saying she was gorgeous and where we had been, the told him that I had got a worrying problem.
“I've this terrible pain in my groin, it ‘s getting worse and it aches the more I walk.”
Alan laughed out loud, “You’ve got courtiers balls, go and have a bloody whank that will get rid of it.”
He explained, “If you have an erection and you have it for a fucking long period of time and if you don’t get rid of the hundreds of sperms that have built themselves up ready to go walk about and they don’t get the chance, the little fuckers try to blow your bloody balls off.”
He chuckled to himself until we got inside the café. Our sex education was limited as most was passed down from older friends not from parents or teachers as they saw this subject as a taboo topic to talk about, this I found hard to understand as they could talk about your nose, your ears and everything else but never your genitals. Eric was sitting with Sandra they seemed to be in deep discussion. A couple of the other lads were sitting elsewhere, one shouted in a stupid manner.
“How far did ya get Roger?"
He giggled while prating about, then the other lad shouted out.
“Don’t you mean how far did he go?”
I was not amused at all, my so-called mates embarrassed me. Alan brought over our drinks to join Eric, Sandra and I, he soon got talking to Sandra he told her, her friend had gone home. Eric was his usual self and quickly took over the conversation hogging Sandra’s attention, he half listened when Sandra spoke, she was privileged. I couldn’t get a word in edge ways; I felt with these older guys I was a little inferior or inadequate. Sandra bounced up after finishing her drink and said she would have to go. I escorted her out trying to ignore the stupid remarks shouted out from the two lads.
“Going for a ride?”
“How far do you think you will get?”
I was glad to be outside, I struggled to explain.
“I’m not like them Sandra. ”
She jumped on her bike then leaned over the handlebars and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
“It’s okay Roger,” she softly said, “I do like Alan and Eric.”
“Will you come back tomorrow I’d love to see you again? ”
She held my chin in her hands as if I were a little boy and said, “I’ll see.”
She then kissed me on the lips, she was the first girl I had fallen for her so hoped and prayed she would return the next day. The following morning I woke up with an excruciating pain in my groin, I dressed slowly and staggered out of the tent; Eric was sitting in front of his tent leaning over his primus stove cooking his breakfast.
“You’ve just missed Sandra, she called to say she could not make it today, she’s going out with her boyfriend. She said I am to say thank you for everything you did yesterday.”
At that moment I developed even a greater saddening pain high up in my stomach and chest, she had bothered to come back with this message and I had missed her and I knew I would never see her again. My emotions were running high, I wanted out of the place and away from the company. I wished to be elsewhere.
Over that weekend I had learnt a little more about life and a little more about respect.
Respect for the great power of nature, the water, the wind but more importantly I had gained more respect for my friend Alan, I found regard for Sandra, respect for Maggie and wished things had been different. I lost regard and respect for some of my friends and I knew in time we probably would drift apart.


The very first canoe I built.

RETURN OF THE CIGARETTE BARON

THE RETURN OF THE CIGARETTE BARON

Having spent most of the time away from school I had now been caught out. Unbeknown to me a truant inspector had traced the family to the tobacconist shop, my mother was in a convalescent hospital, my eldest sister Janet was told if I did not return to school the following day I would be found and taken into the care system and my parents would be taken to court. The whole family made a hunt for me; eventually my sisters found me working late at night in the plaster casting workshop in a broken down old house in Eagle Street. After my sister Janet had finished ripping a strip off my work-master she threatened to treat me like a little boy to take me by the hand to school and sit in the classroom if I did not do as she said. I respected my sister therefore obeyed her. She and Ron had moved out of the family home as they had fallen out with my mum, but she still found the time to sort me out.

On entered the school gates a little late; the late monitor was waiting behind the tall brick pillar of one the double gates.
“ What’s ya name?” he enquired in a voice of authority as he held his book and pencil up at arms length.
With no uncertainties I told him he was not having my name. If you were late for school three times you got the cane from the Headmaster, I had, had enough of the caning.
“ I’ll find out ya name.” He shouted after me waving his pencil at me.
I turned round and went back again and put my face a few inches from his own.
“ If me name ever appears in your bloody little red book I’ll promise you I’ll break your bloody fingers.”
He must have believed me, as he was never to ask for my name again.
I entered in to my form class.
“ Who’s the new boy Sir,” some joker shouted from the back of the classroom. I was greeted once again with laughter but I was old enough and big enough to take it now.
Mr. Christian the form teacher said with a kindly nod, “ Sit down somewhere Sharp.”
Where I had sat some time back was now occupied. One lad waved over to me pointing to the empty seat next to him. The desks seemed much smaller than I had remembered them.
Luck was in, Mr. Christian was our new form teacher; he was a good teacher, a good man and a professional teacher, however he also labelled me as a slow learner, but he was the only one who had not caned me for it to date, I never saw him cane anyone for that matter. School got better for me, we were at the beginning of my last but one years schooling, I suppose my secondary school was the same as all secondary schools of my time, we were fodder for industry and manual work. The grammar school boys mostly went into white-collar jobs. They spilt the schools population two or three times, once when you reached the age of eleven with the eleven plus exam, which you could have ago again at thirteen years of age, you could try another exam if you wanted to go to art school. This art exam I past but my parents did not encourage me to take the place up, whether this was because they could not afford the uniform or whether they were not interested I do not know, but I always regretted not going as art had played an enjoyable part in my school life. As far as art was concerned I stayed a big fish in a little pool, but felt I should have been a little fish in that big pool of the Joseph Wright School of Art. I felt as if I would have loved it but it was not to be.
In a few years time they were to close down the secondary schools, the art and music schools, and the comprehensive schools were born. I expect some middle class adults who were in a position of power who had children were disappointed their off-springs had failed the eleven plus exam, I firmly believe this fact brought comprehensive schools in quicker, as they did not like the thought of their little darlings mixing with the riff raff of the likes of the majority of us whom were bound to end up there, they not only had power they were snobs. These so called experts of the day stating those of us, who had attended the secondary schools, left us with a feeling of inadequacy because we trailed behind the others. Most of us had no such feelings as we remembered well the eleven plus exam, they like I stared at the exam paper and could not understand much of what they asked, I doubt today I would pass if I were to sit this exam again. I knew some of my friends had brighter academic minds, they past in flying colours then went on to grammar school, when we meet up after school they would talk on subjects I did not understand, I never felt inadequate because of this, they would have been completely lost in my school as I certainly would have been in theirs.
In this last two years of my schooling they started teaching us and educate us in a different way that suited my particular learning difficulty and many of my peer group. They were preparing us for industry, with double lessons in all practical subjects, plumbing, woodwork, metalwork, art, engineering drawing and sport, all the other subjects were single lessons, at the practical subjects I excelled and was for the first time in this school very happy the weeks sailed by. At the end of the first term back I had accumulated a bedside cabinet, many drawings and paintings, metal scrollwork, metal boxes, pewter jewelry, large engineering drawings, elaborate wall plaques, and even lathe turnings and an adjustable spanner. These were all on show on the open night, I would have been more proud of them, if only my parents would have shown, I always did expect them too but they never did in my whole schooling years, from forty third out forty four in the class I was now second in the class but still could not spell properly. At that point in time I found I had an unusual gift, I could enter a room then leave, hours later recall from memory and draw the shape of the room with the main fixtures and fittings and when checking the room measurements against the scale of the drawing, it was less then two feet in accuracy, although this has help me throughout my working life in those days I had a wild dream of being an arqutec (architect). Clearly I see policy makers trying to emulate what we had in some senior schools today but they can only make a cellotape dispenser as the godforsaken national curriculum states they should make one of these, I expect the pupils get really excited about it. One lad in my class had no interest in woodwork but he did like mice, the teacher got him to design and make a box, you’d never seen such a beautiful glass fronted three-storied mouse box. He eventually became top in woodwork so I pour shame on the policy makers.

My school life had turned around but home life remained the same. Our house was a busy house, with not very private living accommodation, I slept in one room with my brother and farther having never known my parents to sleep together all but for one night when my father was invited into bed by my mother, my sister Nora and I had heard him go into her room I jumped out of bed full of glee and went into my sister Nora’s bedroom we started running around her bedroom and jumping up and down on her bed stifling our giggles and silently clapping our hands together. They had parted physical company shortly after I was born but remained in the same household together we wished something else for them but it was never to be.
We had my senile great aunt Nelly living in the front room. It was Nora and I who now had the job of looking after her. At times I would find the house over bearing, especially when my mum and dad started one of their frequent rows, I would run upstairs, lie on my bed and punch hell out of my pillow then put it over my head to drown out the shouting. As often as I could to I would escape to my elder sisters home, she had moved out of her lodgings and had just got a new council house on the other side of town, it was quite there and my sister fed me well. Ron was an expert decorator, he too had little in his life and so it was both of them were becoming house-proud, they soon had the house immaculate.
Things had been looking up for my mother over the last year or so, she had taken over the tobacconist shop which belonged to my grandmother on my fathers side after she died nobody else in the family wanted it. She had a rise in status, she was now a businesswoman and she was happy with this, she claimed in brought in an extra income for the family, I am sure it did.
After a month or two of me being back at school, she announced the profits were down. She never expected that this could be mainly put down to me. The tobacconist shop was my Aladdin’s cave, no other shop had this magical rich smell, the cigarette packets carried exotic names, Passing Clouds, Sobronie Cocktail, Black Cat, Craven A, Dunhill. Capstan Full Strength, Woodbine, Park Drive, Players Weights, Turf, Robin, Woodbine, Senior Service, the list went on and on, all of them displayed in ten and twenty packets. Then it was on to the pipes and pipe tobaccos, rolled or flake, the cigars, king size panatelas and miniatures, chewing tobaccos, Snuff, cigarette rolling tobacco, lighters and matches, spills, tobacco knives, cigarette holders and cases, a truly wonderful treasure cave, was this little shop which was perched on the top of Green Lane hill near the town centre.

The Tobacco Baron had arrived back at school, stealing became all too easy for me. My mother was later to introduce sweets to boost up the profit margin. Another colourful array of bottles, jars, blocks and boxes of chocolates and sweets arrived in my cave. Eating these and the smoking did not help my health; I became fatter and coughed more. In my infant days and junior days at school, rationing was still around after the war, we only had a half penny or penny to spend on sweets which were limited in choice, we used to go to the corner shop with our weekly coupon to buy what we could, this usually was a stick of Spanish root, a bag of tiger nuts, or gob stopper or humbug. Most boys and girls had the same. Now the coupons had gone the sweet manufactures started making all new kinds of goodies for us to eat. To day the nations children were never going to be as fit again or our dentists so busy. I personnel cannot recall one fat child in all my school days up to this point in time, on most of us you could pinch an inch, we were as fit as butchers dogs but I was now renamed the Fat Cigarette Baron.
Instead of practical caring for her family, my mother was now too busy running her little emporium and had berried nearly all her time in it, I was now getting spoilt, and was fobbed of with extra pocket money, when calling in to the shop she would send me home on my bike to fetch some coal for the fire in the back parlour. I would ride the three or so miles home, fill an old rucksack up with coal and ride back only to find the fire out. She would say it did not matter as she was closing the shop anyway. Whether she did it to get me out of the way or to keep me busy as to not get into any trouble I can not say, but in trouble and in danger I did get, for I stopped going to the shop, except for the times I needed to build up my stock levels that were hidden under a loose floor board inside the built in cupboard in my bedroom.

I was now back in with my old school mate’s full time, I was popular as I was the only one with a constant supply of cigarettes. They had told me they had found an excellent hide out, in the form of a railway brake truck that was in the sidings near Peartree Railway station. The brake van had been left there for some time on the rusty lines in this little siding; they had broken into this and made it their head quarters. I could not wait to join them and arranged to meet them there in the evening. I rushed home to check on my aunt who was getting worse by the day, it was hard for me to not get angered at her, she had become an embarrassment to me, especially when friends called round to call for me. Today she was waiting at the gate with her cossets being worn on top of her black dress which was covered in white wash, I had got into the habit of locking the side gate to keep her in the garden, as she used to go wondering off, I must have forgotten on this day. She told me someone had been in pinching the coal out of the coalhouse, so she had white washed the coal. I steered her past the mess in the coal house into the kitchen, on the stove was burning potatoes in the bottom of a pan, my sister and I were now preparing all the families meals each day, the night before we had left the potatoes in water on the stove, my aunt had switched the stove on, to top this catastrophe she had crapped in the bottom of the bath.
“ You need to go,” I shouted at her in a very unpleasant manner.
Without an expression she replied“ Yes George.”
“ You need to clean your own crap up.”
“ Yes George.”
She could never remember my name,
I was too young to take care of her and was becoming close to getting to really hate her one felt I could easly give her an overdose of something. My sister Nora arrived back home from work and we sorted her out; I grabbed a sandwich and was gone, leaving Nora with the remains of the terrible mess.
I went over to call for my friend Alan who’s house was across the street, they always made welcome there, I sat down and waited for Alan and his family to finish their evening meal, which made my mouth water, his home was a comfortable place, his farther owned one of the few cars in the street and they were the also first to have a television set, we were fascinated by this new invention and starred at this large box with a magnifying glass screen. Alan was only allowed one mate in at a time to watch it, we would watch old films of Hop-along Cassidy, most of these we had seen before at the tanner rush, the Saturday morning children’s show at the Regal cinema, a tanner was six pence, in today’s money it represents two and a half pence. Here they sometimes put on talent competitions, we once persuaded our comedian friend to get up as he knew every joke going around, to our surprise he got up and was introduced, he stood in centre stage, he went on to start telling bawdy jokes but was quickly pulled off the stage we were all thrown out of the cinema. That night Alan quickly ate his dinner; we were soon off out in to the darkness of the evening to the new hide out.
We made our way down the railway embankment and climbed aboard the brake van, this was a double ended type, it had two little seats on each side where the guard could sit and see down the sides of the train out of little windows, these became good look out points. The wagon even supported a pot bellied stove although we never light it, as this would surely attract attention. The rest of our little group soon arrived; mostly we sat about talking and sometimes came up with ideas of things to do. We got to know what times trains past and wondered where they were heading for. We learnt the types of deferent loco’s we memorized the fancy names of the iron monsters that bore one as they steamed past, we got exited when a large berergarate loco came trundling past us.
“ Another namer coming.” some one would shout and we would all rush over to see if we could catch it’s name as it thundered past travelling to somewhere we could only dream of.
This was to become our second home for several weeks, nobody ever looked over the bridge parapet down on to this little siding, if they had they would have surly seen the comings and goings of our little band of street urchins.
Behind the brake van was a string of old fish vans; we decided to break into them .One by one we made our way down the line to see if there was anything in them. In several of these vans we found empty wooden ammunition boxes, all boys love boxes, one by one they turned up at our homes, we started selling them at school. The trade dried up, we became bored once again, one night we sat in our head quarters, the nightly goods train stopped across the main lines in another siding to wait for the London express train to pass. The signals would change, and this 060 type black steam engine would puff into action making its way out of the sidings, clanging all its wagons as they were taken hold of.
“ Lets go train ridding on it tomorrow night,” someone bright spark suggested.
“ We don’t know where it’s going,” somebody replied,
“ I bet it bloody well stops out side Derby station,” Alan said in his knowing voice,
“ We can find out tomorrow night.”
We meet the following evening on our bikes, we all rode down to London Road bridge just outside of Derby station, we propped up our bikes against the tall parapet of the bridge, climbed on the frames of them and stood on our saddles to hang our heads over the high bridge wall, we waited in anticipation for our goods train to appear. Right on time we saw it heading our way, the signal rattled and banged into action the goods train came to a halt outside Derby Station where it waited for another main line passenger train to puff its way out of a platform.
“ Look out for the guard,” someone shouted, as our goods train started to move.
As it went under the bridge the smoke engulfed us and we strained to see if there was a guard or not. We had an argument on the way home, as to whether they did or not carry a guard.
“ What the hell,” Alan said, “ it will be bloody dark so he wouldn’t see us anyway.”
So it was planned to ride the goods train the following night.
The following evening I meet up with Alan we both smiled when we saw each other, we were both dressed up in black as we had both dug out our old balaclavas, we looked and felt like cockle shell heroes. We reached our hide out, only three out of the eight lads had turned up, the others had thought better of it.
“ Well let’s go.”
We dropped out of the guards van ran across the two main lines over to the siding line and dived into the undergrowth. Time now seemed to go very slowly as we crept along the banking to where we had judged the middle of the goods train would be, we sat down and waited for our train to arrive. I could feel my heart pounding as the train was heard coming in the distance; every thing now to me seemed to go in slow motion. The mighty steam engine rolled past us blowing steam over us, the wagons rattled by, I began to wish it would not stop, but stop it did, the three of us scrabble aboard a flat plate wagon using the wheel bearing boxes as a foot hold. We all lay down flat on it; it seemed an age before the express passenger train came hurtling through. We stated to move and be on our way, the train crawled it’s way down the line under the several bridges down to the signal outside of Derby station, I just prayed it would stop, and began to wonder, why on earth were we doing this, we also had not figured out what we were going to do when we got off. Thankfully the train did stop and we were off quickly running across another rail and another until we found ourselves alongside the backs of a long row of heavy industrial factories. We started to make our way down this line of factories, the way we had come from, we looked into these lit up factory’s were furnaces and metal pouring was being carried out, we saw the night sift worker sweating away in front of cupolas, which crackled as their jaws opened to except more food that was shovelled in my these men working the night shift, nobody seemed to noticed us as we crept past these large wide open doorways. We were distancing ourselves away from the train we had arrived on. A night express train came charging by us at great speed, which made us jump even though it was on the opposite lines from us. I wanted the hell out of there, it was not fun. We soon came up to the foot bride where we knew a fence was, here we use to train spot from, we were quickly over the fence and safe. We were never to do it again.


School carried on, the caning for poor English had ceased and being asked to read out loud had stopped, they now knew I would point blankly refuse to do this and caning for that was not going to make me do it. I had found some mutual respect; I think they half understood why I could not grasp something’s. The teachers stopped calling me thick or stupid but still added I could do better on my report, even after I had moved forty odd places up the form position, I was achieving in other areas and I had learnt some strategies of how to cope better in maths, I still did not know off by heart or parrot fashion my six seven, eight and twelve times tables but I knew my elevens fives and nines and could add and subtract and in science I starting drawing more pictures to explain processes and abbreviated the spellings of the chemicals etc. Even my hate of doing competitive sport was not an issue, the last period on Fridays was football, I could not kick or catch or throw a ball, my coordination did not work as other boys, I was to join the D group for this period, a small group of none ball players. We all use to head down to Brackens Field Park with old man Leaversly, a man I was happy to call Sir, he had no interest in sport either, so all our little group sournted slowly making our way to the unkempt park where the grass was as high as our knees. Throwing a couple of jackets down, we just had a kick about; we didn’t even have to have any kit. The jackets disappeared somewhere in the long grass as did the ball, we stood around as nobody ran, if the ball just happened to land at your feet you just gave it a kick in the direction of our coats, others may go and look to see where it landed, that’s if they were interested. The old man sat quietly having a cigarette on the bottom of a children’s slide waiting for the time to pass, inevitably he judged the time when he thought it safe to call it a day and let us go which was usually early, as we walked home through the better Osmaston park we would catch the end of the other teams games.
As we all moved up to the big boys classes, those who had bullied us had now left school, we had become in charge of the little kids especially in the canteen at the dinner tables, were we to control what they ate, dishing out their food keeping the larges portions ourselves. We employed gofers, to fetch and to put things away and go to the shops for us but we did not bully them as we had been. I adopted a scruffy scorny little kid who looked under nourished; I made sure he had a big dinner for his reward in attending to me. School was now all right and I had no problems now of attending and of course had the additional incentive of making extra cash each day. This did not go unnoticed by the headmaster who added on a note with my school report stating I was a strong member of the smokers union. His comment, strong was a positive word for me.
My evenings and weekends started to be more productive as we started building bikes up, on the odd occasions when we needed a new wheel or other parts we would head down at night to Rolls Royce factory with a few spanners, to pinch our spares off a nightshift workers bikes in the bicycle racks conveniently provided out of sight. When we were short of money we would go bottling, that is climbing into the backyard of a public house steal their empty beer bottles only to take them round to the front of the pub, to their off licence hole in the wall to reclaim the deposit back on them. We then started collecting scrap metal, stripping it down to none furess metals and feress metal and weigh this in on Saturday mornings. This was so lucrative we started collecting items from our homes and others people’s property, we all got in trouble with our fathers and neighbours as one or two lawnmowers and garden rollers had gone missing. The local gardens had become devoid of any metal, our supply had dried up. This activity helped me loose weigh and gain several inches in height.
Having put this thieving behind me I turned my skills into building my first canoe. We were now older enough to join the local youth club, which was held on two nights a week, and our interest had turned to going there and to girls.
The social life now revolved round the youth club, here the gang would meet and have an hour or so playing cards, snooker or billiards, after which we would head to the hall to listen to the rock and roll music and to watch the girls dance with the older guys for the last hour. The peer groups spread around the hall, with no one going into any one else’s territory, except for the big guys who had been our bullies at school would invade the girl’s areas. At first we were worried about these guys, but they must have thought we had reached the required age of none bullying so they never bothered us. All of us had grown up and had gained a little more maturity as we entered our teenage years. The profits were to go up in my mothers little shop; she claimed it was her business acumen.
The girls were pretty and Rock and Roll was in.

A PAINFUL PRACTISE

My parents did not seem to mind or care about which school I was to attend for the next phase of my education. My brother Colin and my elder sister Janet had attended Pear Tree School my other sister Nora went to Homelands Grammar School. I was to go to Allenton Secondary Modern School; fortunately I was going with a few school friends who also had failed the eleven plus exam.
This time around I did not have my brothers cast off clothes, as the school uniform was slightly different. Here they wore black blazers with a yellow stripe around the lapels and blazer cuffs, I put the brand new blazer on with pride over a brand new white shirt, school tie, pullover, with new shoes and socks. I was made up and set off to school, which is a fair walk away from my home; this walk usually took about forty-five minutes, that day I had half ran half walked eager to go into the big school to enter a big boys world, I rushed in to the school yard, horror struck me, every one was in long trousers, immediately I turned on my heels and ran all the way home again cursing my mother for not buying me any long trousers. My mother turned me around, but I refused to go unless I had long trousers, she went up stairs to go through my brother’s clothes returning with a pair.
“ Here try these on,”
They were terrible; I had about a foot spare around my waist and they were far too long. My mother got the scissors cut the bottoms off; she gave me a belt to put on. I felt stupid, but she pushed me out of the door anyway. Slowly I walked back to school then hung until one o clock when they went in for the afternoon’s lessons. I did not know which class I was to be in or where to go. All the lads disappeared into their classrooms I was left standing alone in the corridor, A teacher came past and asked me why I was not in my classroom, I explained I did not know where to go, he asked me who my teacher was I said, “ I duna no know Sir,”
“ What form are you in.”
“ I duna no know Sir.”
“ What’s your name?”
“ Sharp Sir,”
“ You don’t know much do you boy, follow me.”
He went into two or three classrooms to ask if they had anybody missing,
“ Right boy you must be in 1B.”
We walked up to the next classroom,
“ This is yours,” he said as he pushed me in.
The form teacher bellowed from behind his large desk, “ What’s your name boy?”
“ Sharp Sir.”
“ You are not very sharp are you boy,”
The lads laughed.
“ Where were you this morning?”
“ I couldn’t find the school Sir,” the classroom fell about laughing.
The clown had arrived and he was in costume too.
The introduction had started off badly and it continued. The school operated under a strict raceme, corporal pushishment was the norm. Every teacher carried a cane even if they were teaching away from their own classroom. Baxter the English teacher carried his cane around down inside his trouser leg and would pull it out like a duelling sword when some lad was challenged and ready to be punished. In their own classrooms they had an assortment of implements with which to punish you with. The music teacher had a full set of slippers ranging from size six to size twelve, depending on the size of your misdemeanour, depended on what size he would use on you, for laughs he would add a swastika in chalk to the soles which would transfer into print on your backside. The science teacher preferred straps, but the worse offender by far was the art teacher Mr. Green he had a whole cupboard door full of corporal punishment tools hanging on hooks, slippers, straps and canes all hanging on a neat display, he took it one step further, he had names for them all, named after snakes they were labelled on the door next to the hooks. He could bring tears into the hardest of boy’s eyes. Lucky for me I was good at art and only fell under his wrath once, the beating I received from him was nothing to do with discipline.
He started a quiz off in the classroom on football clubs; it came round to my turn to answer a question,
“ What is the team name of Wolverhampton? ”
I hadn’t a clue; I had no interest in football what so ever.
“ I don’t know Sir,”
“ Right,” he shouted, as he stood up, he seemed angry with me for some reason,
“ Go and fetch me the Blackmamber.”
I went to the cupboard to collect the largest of all slippers,
“ Bend down boy,”
He would lift your jacket tail and fold it over to expose your trousers.
With each stroke he beat the name on my buttocks,
“ Wanderers,” he yelled.
Each time the slipper landed it would knock me off balance to send me lunging forward, finally collapsing at the bottom of the wall under the blackboard.
“ Wanderers”
I remembered the information but what use was that to me,
“ Wanderers.”
I pick myself up again for the third time; I squeezed the muscles in my buttocks together as hard as I could to control the pain in them. I walked back to my seat agonizingly slowly holding my breath in a silent classroom that became out of focus as tears flooded my eyes. I possible believe to this day I was beaten either because my artwork was better than his as he never corrected or commented on any of my work or he didn’t want me to feel I was being treated differently to the other lads who had fallen under his wroth or that he just felt like doing it or even worse enjoyed it. He should be nowhere near young people as far as I was concerned; he seemed to relish making boys cry.
Most of our teachers had returned from the war they had been retrained to become teachers, Greeny was no exception, once a year he was taken down with Malaria. He would start to shiver; he would put his ex army grey coat on then sit next to a radiator shaking uncontrollably. I do not think one boy in my class had any sympathy for him.
The majority of the teachers had seen the harshness and horrors of the war, even after the punishments that they dished out on us; they had our respect for what they had been through for king and country, and for ourselves, clearly I had no respect or regard for old man Greeny.
Mr. Leaversely, a tall gaunt man with little flesh covering his bones, it was said he had been a prisoner of war in Japan, he had been tortured he had a piece of his tongue missing, if you sat at the front of his Maths class you got sprayed as he talked, he would constantly be wiping his lips with a handkerchief. How could you not respect this man, no one ever made fun out of him, if one did, the rest of us would beat them up. His caning was fair in every instance he was only administered it if school rules were broken and he never hit you too hard. Unfortunately we had many rules that were easily broken, late for school, dirty shoes, noisy in the corridors, swearing, rude to teachers, fighting and bullying. Other teachers made up their own rules, looking out of the window, talking in class, not paying attention or doing your work, running in the corridors, chewing in class and for anything else that up set them.
They use to take us to Reginald Street Swimming Baths once a week, it was old Victorian baths which incorporated slipper baths for those folk who did not have a bath in their homes. It was a place I did not care for much, most of us could not swim properly as our previous school or our parents did not take us swimming too often. In my first year I could not swim very well, in the fifteen minutes free time the teacher left us without supervision, two big older bully lads ducked the smaller kids, I fought them, but they were much stronger, I tried shouting for help under water and blacked out. I think they might have realised what they had done and dragged me out for when I came around I was on the side of the pool. They shipped us there in a double decker bus, after our swim they piled us on to the bus back to school again with no supervision, one lad started to ring the bell on the bus continually, this was reported to the school. The next morning three teachers rounded up the whole bus full of us in the hall then asked who was ringing the bell, our unwritten code of not snitching held good, so the three teachers, each gave the whole lot of us, two stokes each on both hands, by the time they had finished they were pouring with sweat, we all spent the rest off the day trying to hold our pens with swollen throbbing fingers.
Mr Woolly, who had a club foot which we reckoned was trench foot but really did not know his story he may well have had one all his life, he also had his way of keeping your attention in his classroom, he would take the long window pole, a pole with a hook on the end made for opening the high up windows, he would swing this at desk level, if you did not duck below desk level it would crack you on the elbow, the further back you sat in the classroom, the more it hurt, there was always a rush for front and the corner seats in his classroom. His other party piece was when administering punishment was to make us balance a wooden ruler across our closed thumbs, if we could move our hands apart as he picked up one end of the ruler to bring it down again on your thumbs, you had escaped punishment, which very few did, for if he missed your thumbs he would bring it back up again then hit you on the head with it.
One a big lad was brought out in front of the class for talking in the music lesson, he was told to bend over to receive his punishment, he refused, the teacher grabbed hold of his neck and forced him to bend over. He received what I can only describe as a whipping, violence provoked violence so the lad was pulled out of the classroom by his hair and was dragged to the headmasters office, as our classroom was stunned into silence we listened as he received twelve extra cane strokes, the boy did not return to school the following day, I had became to hate the school. I felt the same may happen to me as in this first year as I was getting into great difficulties, the lines had stopped, the cane had taken their place especially in English, I am sure they thought I was playing the fool. It seemed to me some teachers were trying to beat information into me. It also was not just the teachers I was having trouble with, it was my peer group, who had started to make fun of me, I dreaded being called upon to read out loud in the class, the last time I was ever called to read out loud, we were reading the Wooden Horse a great true story of escaping from a prisoner of war camp, the class fell about laughing as I tried to read, the teacher joined in, I expect I had a reading age of six or less, I closed the book, threw it across the classroom, walked out of the classroom and out the school. Then on days when English was on the timetable I never went to school. Punishment was administered on the following days for having no note from home, which was twice a week. I got a friend who went to grammar school to write me a sick note for days I was away stating I had asthma attacks, this worked a treat as it got my out of cross county running and sports as well. The funny thing was, I had started to develop chronic asmere for real. The doctor said it might be brought on by fur and feather, so my mother changed my pillow for a hard flock one and threatened to kill the cat. I put it down to nerves as I had also started wetting the bed, which was clearly embarrassing. The school quickly caught on to the fact my mother had not written the letters so double punishment was administered. As I looked at my bare bottom in a mirror it looked like it had been sown on with red darning wool, so time at school got less and less. I had decided I would only accept one caning a week then later felt they couldn’t caned me if I wasn’t there at all.
My grandmother had died; my mother was looking after a tobacconist shop she had owned, so she spent much of her time there. I pretended to go out ready for school then hide and waited just inside the park gate, once she had left for town I sneaked back home. This became very boring so I used to go out for a walk about around the area, I was soon to come across other latch door kids who were also playing truant, we got into mischief and petty thiefing from corner shops then generally became a nuisance to folk. My newfound friends had a friend who use to knock about with us in the evenings, his name was Reg. His parents were very busy people who had their own business making and selling plaster cast figures and wall plaques they used to sell them on Birmingham Smithfield market on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Rex was to have a short life, as he was cycling to school one morning something snapped in the back of his neck, he was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital. I attended his funeral and was invited back to their home afterwards. Rex had an older brother Alan, he a pretty adopted sister, they fought like cat and dog; I became a friend of Allen and was to spend much of my time at his home. His kindly parents took me under their wings, whether this was anything to do with loosing their loved son or not I do not know, clearly I felt for the family, they always put a good meal on the table for me. They seemed not to want to know or care why I was not at school, life became exciting. They first took me to the Saturday market; the market was a wonderful place for a young lad. I quickly learnt how to become a gofer, go for this and go for that, go for their teas and bacon butty’s, go for change, collect boxes from the van, clean the area up and load up the van after a full days work. I did it with pleasure; I believe Alan was pleased I had taken on his younger brothers role.
“ What’s Tuesday market like?” I enquired.
My mother now had split her time up between home and the shop but spending more time at the shop, we had the added problem in the family; my senile great aunt who had moved in was getting worse. Her husband had died some time ago, she had no children and no relatives to care for her, she had alziaimas decease. She had lived in Bolton all her life; she had started work at the age of nine as a cotton picker in the mills, working on her hands and knees underneath moving loom machinery clearing them of loose cotton, she worked up to running her own loom, she stayed there for fifty-four years, she did not have one day off apart from holidays and did not have a grey hair in her head. I went with my mother to pick her up and clear out her little terraced house in a cobbled street with a looming mill at the end of it. Her husband had been a clock repairer, so the house was full of every type of clock you could think of, these were going to be given the neighbours who had been keeping an eye on her. I took a pillar clock off the mantle piece but could not resist having a look inside, to my surprise I found a roll made up of a ten shilling notes full of sixpenny pieces, the hunt was now on, I recovered two hundred and fifty pounds and one hundred and forty packets of soap hidden all around the house. This was a vast sum of money in those days; my mother must have thought she had won the jackpot. Before we left Bolton my mother steered my aunt down to the Co-Op to collect her divvy money, “ Sign at the bottom, there,” my mother told her three times, over came the money some three hundred pounds or so, I had never seen such large amounts of cash; my aunt had truly lost her marbles. My mum treated me to cream cakes on the way to catch the train home. Once we got her home the family started to disperse, my elder sister Janet and my brother in law Ron had left the house hold, my brother went off to do his national service in the RAF, my farther who could not stand my aunt took to going out more. Which left my sister Nora and I to fend for ourselves. This suited me down to the ground, as nobody knew where I was. So the following week was Saturday market, down to London to pick up some lampshades on Sunday, workshop on Monday, Tuesday market, casting on Wednesday, spray painting on Thursday and Friday off, I was in full time work and had been missing from school for nearly two full terms, I was pleased as it was only two weeks away from the schools summer holidays in case they were looking for me.
One morning as I was about to leave home to go to the workshop, there was only my aunt and I in the house, I saw an official looking man with a brief case coming down the garden path to the front door, I steered my aunt to the front door, ran in the front room, now my aunts room and dived into her bed fully clothed.
The front door knocker rattled, my aunt on cue answered it.
She greeted him, “ Hello Mr. Brown,”
“ My name is Mr. Bradshaw I am from the School Board.”
“ Come in, would you like a cup of tea.”
“ No thank you, I have come about Roger, he has not been in school for some time.”
“ I’ll get the rent money,” she said.
I shouted from the front room in a croaky voice, “ Who is it Aunty.”
They both entered the front room, “ What’s wrong with you,” the inspector asked,
“ I don’t really know but they wont let me climb the stairs.”
“ Oh, dear,” he remarked,
My aunt leaned over to collect her handbag off her bedside cabinet, took her purse out, counted out five pounds and offered this to the inspector, she asked him how Mrs. Brown was. He waved a hand at me and asked her how long had I had I been in bed.
She looked down at me, “ I think twelve years.” She replied, at that he left.
When I thought the coast was clear, I jumped out of bed, and said to my Aunt,
“ Oh. Dear he forgot t’ take the rent money,” I took it out of her hand,
“ I’ll go un catch him up and give it t’ him.”
During my time off school I had learnt a lot, how to make moulds, how to mix casting material, how to cast, how to spray paint, how to buy and sell to a make profit, as well as how to lie, steal, smoke, gamble and drink beer. The bed-wetting had stopped but the asthma lingered on.

OW"T OUT O"TNOWT

Junior school was becoming a real concern not only with my learning but I was getting picked on by a lad who was in a higher form, who came from a well to do family he had an evil streak, he made mine and other young kids life a misery, one day he caught me on my own on the way to school, he dragged me in the woods and kicked the hell out of me, he was a nasty piece of work. Many years later I was to bump into him in a pubic house in Derby, he was inebriated and obnoxious, I reminded him of his seamy past, telling him what a bully he was and embarrassing him in front of the perceptive smiles of the regulars, he did not deny it but said he could not remember me. School was difficult for me so it was I couldn’t wait for the weekends to arrive so I could live in a safe haven for a couple of days. On the Fridays after school I would rush through the Osmaston Park to my very crowded home, practicing another word I couldn’t say properly, trying to pronounce it over and over again,
“ Rorry, shit, lorry, lorry lorry, rorry shit again.”
This was a simple word, not one of my usual longer words that could not be pronounced. I could not pronounce it correctly for more than three times on the trot, “ rorry,” it sounded like baby talk, I kept thinking about how stupid it must sound to other kids at school, once at home it did not matter any more until Monday morning came around.
On Friday nights the house was hustle and bustle, my mother would be collecting the house keeping money off all the working family members. My eldest sister Janet and her husband Ron who had just moved in, my brother Colin who had just started his apprenticeship as a pattern maker, all would sort out our family’s finances.
My sister Nora and myself always hopped the electric meter man had been to read the meter during the week, so we too may have some pocket money to spend. We would enjoy watching this man when he called in the holidays, he would empty it of the pennies, sixpences and shillings on to the work surface of the kitchen cabinet my dad had made, he would count out at great speed the coins stacking them up in columns, he would check the amount against the meter readings, the meter was set at a higher amount to the price of electricity. He would slide this money due into little paper bags and seal them with a flick of his wrist, drop these in his leather bag then dash off to his next call leaving the extra amount in small piles. My mother would divide these up into piles decreasing in size, one to put back into the metre, one for her and two for pocket money for my sister and myself, this was all we got for pocket money until he called again; I always hoped we had used a lot of electricity so there may be extra high piles of coins in the rebate.
Usually I could not wait to see what my dad had brought home from work for the caravan he was building in the back garden.
My father had decided to build a large six-berth caravan, my uncle who was in charge of the millwright section at Rolls Royce had started to build one. My mother must have told my farther he could easily build one as he was a coach body builder at carriage side, the name given locally for the British Railways Coach Building Works. It was interesting how these two men tackled this job, one from an engineer’s perspective and one from a joiners view; one had metal struts for a framework the other timber. My uncle Roger built his inside a garage in two half’s lowering the top half on to the bottom half as it would not fit in one piece in his garage. My father had started the project sometime back and was now reaching the fitting out and finishing off stage, the project was moving on quicker as my brother Colin and brother in law Ron were giving him a hand. To fit this twenty-foot caravan into the back yard he had demolished his work shed and the greenhouse then started building a chassis out of an old axle, springs and bed irons from old metal beds from a scrap yard. Visits to various scrap yards were common, from one scrap yard situated in the middle of town tucked in behind Cockpit Hill where they specialised in scraping old trolley buses, he purchased the middle section, the floor of upstairs the ceiling of downstairs of one of these buses, a huge amount of material in this one section contained all useful stuff with which to build with.
Cockpit Hill was a fun place to visit on Saturday market, a visit to Sid Sharrots the pet and tropical fish shop who had branched out upstairs into a model shop, here all the kids would go and stare at the rows and rows of model railway engines and rolling stock in locked glass cabinets, a visit here to see them was never missed although knowing full well we could not afford any of them. On Cockpit Hill the market trader’s set out their stalls and folk would gather round as they shouted out touting for business, offering cut-price goods. Nobody was as good at it as Mad Harry, he would do his usual act every week, and nobody knew what he was going to sell you next.
“ I’m not asking four pounds, not three pounds not two pounds not even one pound.” slapping his hand down on the goods ever time the price was lowered,
“ I am asking one pound ten shilling for these beautiful bed sheets and there are four in a pack.”
The ladies would clabber forward to buy these, my mother included; he took six pounds off each of them. On getting them home she discovered they only fitted a two-foot mattress, I could see the look of disappointment on her face, but she made out she knew and said they were for the caravan. My mum was always a sucker for Mad Harry’s chat, she was to replace our round cider stone pot bottles we used for hot water bottles with rubber ones from Mad Harry’s, she was please as punch with her purchase until she came to fill them up, the sealing washers were missing on their screw caps. My farther sorted them out so we could enjoy this new luxury that we could hold between our knees in bed after they had cooled down a little.
My sister Nora and I did miss our nightly race across the living room floor balancing and rolling on our old pot bottles like log roller’s on the Mississippi river, it was apart of the nightly ritual after she had her rags put in her hair to curl it for the next day and after we had our toes smeared with black ointment to help cure our chilblains. After our race it was supper, the stale bread that had been placed in the range to be baked to a crisp was covered with dripping from some part of an animal my mother had cooked and saved the fat drippings in a beaker. The range was the focal point in the house, built with two ovens either side of the fire, it had little flue covers made in cast iron all around it s main casting, it was soon to become my job on Saturday mornings to dismantle the entire range, empty the soot out and clean the whole range with Zebra stove blacking.
My dad returned home always dead on the dot, five forty five, never a minute early never a minute late, the old wall clock’s chime struck-out three times to announce his arrival, I did not know how he did this; I peered from behind the clothes maiden that was covered in steaming clothes that were hugged round the range fire, he took a hidden bundle of wood from under his heavy mackintosh tied up in thick string, which he had made a loop in to throw across his shoulder, he lowered the bundle to floor. My father was a giant of a man with a square chin and huge hands a real gentle giant, he took his pay packet out of his jacket pocket counted out some notes for my mother then replaced the packet back into his pocket, my mother never knew how much he earnt, a topic of many an argument. I undid the knots and rolled up the string, everything was saved in those days, my mum took it off me to place in a tin marked string, this would be used at Christmas to tie up the linen on top of our home made Christmas puddings, I knew she would be soon asking me to return the sixpenny joeys that I had found in the puddings last year to stir in with the mixture this year while making a wish. I played with the pieces of timber making an imaginary fort out of them. My dad nipped out to his shed and brought in a wood chisel, he picked up the largest piece of flat wood, he prized the chisel into the end of it, to my surprise out of the plank end slid a mirror, the kind you got in the toilets on railway carriages which had etched in the corner L.M.S, with the remaining pieces he placed round the mirror to frame it.
He told me I could go with him the next day to collect a barrow full of timber he had bought from the scrap off cuts at work. The following day we were in the carriage side works loading up a four-wheeled trolley the type that they used on stations that had a big handle you steered and pulled them with.
This was loaded high; we headed for the gate, “ OK Fred.” The man said, as my dad gave him a chitty.
As we pushed and pulled it out of the gate, I could see the pleasure on my dads face. After getting the trolley home we unloaded it and he started again with his chisel on long lengths of timber, many were hollow, out poured the goodies, sliding track, strip brass and aluminium, screws and screw cups, nuts and bolts, door catches and the like. Also on the trolley were bundles of maroon painted destination boards with exotic names sign written on them EDINBOUROUGH dash LONDON, NEWCASTLE dash BIRMINGHAM and other cities of the country. These boards use to fit on the roof of the maroon and custard railway carriages of the L.M.S. the London Midland Scotland railway company, my dad smiled again as he sanded one of the boards, and ran his hand over the fine red grain of the timber, “ Do you know these are all made out of Brazilian mahogany” The caravan indeed was taking shape at the expense of British Rail.
I was privileged to have such a clever dad, who could with scrape and a bit of pilfering make something out of nothing. There was kids around who had nothing, some others who had a far worse deal, there fathers had died during the war or left their mothers and their mothers had abandon them too, eventually these poor kids were asked to line up in some schools in front of cards, marked New Zealand, Australia, and Canada, and bluntly told to pick a country, then were marched off to have their tonsils pulled out and shipped out overseas, some thanks to some of their dads for dying in action. My father had escaped going to war, he was the eldest in his own family and he was fairly deaf, the family raised their voices an octave or two when speaking to him. Before the war he was a model builder for Rolls Royce on the car manufacturing side, building full size wooden models of new cars, then during the war he worked away from home doing long hours, he must have had a little time off or I would not be here today. His own farther had died in an accident on the LMS railway where he worked. The London Midland Scotland Railways had an orphanage in Derby town, Saint Christopher’s for railway children, his mother now left on her own could not afford to feed all her children my farther volunteered himself to go there. Here he suffered. Every individual had their head shaved on arrival then given harsh hardwearing clothes to wear. He told me he would have never survived those days if it weren’t for his friend, as he could not hear the wake up bell in the mornings. His friend woke him up and helped him through the long days then in the evening his friend told him what he had missed throughout the day in lessons, a true friend. He learnt how to use his hands in the woodwork classes, he excelled at this, and this helped him in his future work. A few weeks before Christmas you would never see him, he would be out in his shed making Christmas presents not only for us but also for our cousins. The best toys he made always seem to leave the house, large rocking horses, wooden trains, small brick trolleys, wooden rattles, wooden guns that fired elastic bands, farmyards and dolls houses, forts, model theatre stages and the like.
I had been told my eldest sister Janet had received a sack of ashes one Christmas for being naughty, I could never imagine my sister being naughty, my sister more or less looked after me since I was born. I awoke this Christmas to find an empty sack at the bottom of my bed, I could not think what I had done wrong. I stepped out of bed and stood on a small white cowshed, a trail of small building lead out of the bedroom down the stairs, I found the last piece with all the farm animals in front of the large range. My dad was fast asleep in his chair still holding a paintbrush, I knew then who the real farther Christmas was. I was pleased to have him, although as a youngster he hardly spoke to me, I did not get to know him very well until I was eighteen or so. This giant of a man was only ever to hit me once, we had our cousins around for a weekend I had a crush on my cousin Unise and thought she was beautiful, she was my sister Nora’s age, the girls did not want to play with me, I got upset, hit my cousin then ran out of the house, my dad was soon in hot pursuit, I ran down the garden, jumped over next doors hedge and jumped and dived over the whole row of hedges in the avenue I thought I had lost him but he followed me over the lot, he caught up with me, gave me a walloping and dragged me home by the scruff of the neck crying. Mum and dad had another argument over it; these were commonplace in the house they happened over the smallest thing, they even argued about where furniture should go.
“ We’ll have the settee over there Fred.” my mother would say.
He would move it,
“ No, over here.” he would move it again,
On the sixth time of moving it backward and forward an argument erupted, my giant of a farther picked up this heavily made three-seater settee to shoulder height and flung it across the room, it bounced off the wall and fell to the floor.
“ It can bloody well stay there.”
He then stormed out of the house, but this argument was of my making, which made me feel worse.
“ How dare you hit my child?” She shouted as if he had no authority over me.
Later on in the evening my dad pulled me to his side, even though he was not a tactile man who had few words for his children he said,
“ Son, in your future life promise me you will not ever hit another girl or women.” I vowed I wouldn’t.
I got to thinking it was my sister Nora’s fault anyway so one day I waited upstairs in my mothers bedroom window for her to come out of the back door and dropped an old encyclopaedia on her head which knocked her out, I thought I killed her. I found this encyclopaedia on a piece of furniture that very few homes in our avenue possessed, that was a bookcase, most homes in the area were devoid of books, my mother was really middle class and had this set of books before they were married, my father was working class. Even today this meagre item of furniture and what it contains draws a line within our social structure and standing differences.
My mother also contributed to making things out of very little. Most of our clothes she made for us, she took in extra sewing for other folk. On one occasion when I was a very small child, she was asked to make a small boy a satin shirt for a wedding, after she made it, it was modelled on me, she like it so much before the woman came to pay for it my sister and I were whisked down into town to Jerome photographers to have our pictures taken. She taught us all how to knit, to sow and how to darn our own holes up in our woollen socks with the aid of a wooden mushroom. She made rag rugs to cover our flooring, in winter months we would drag these on to our beds to be used for extra blankets. My mother wore outlandish clothes for the times and continued to do so throughout her life however she had become a frail short woman who had a lot of medical problems so spent a lot of time in hospitals; she seemed to enjoy her visits there, I dare say it might have been the bed rest, I thought it part of my education visiting those hospitals scattered around Derby, I started making a list,
Nightingale Women’s Hospital,
DRI, Derbyshire Royal Infirmary,
Manor Hospital,
City Hospital,
Bretby Hospital where a trip into the country was to be had.
She would come out of hospital and proudly showed everyone the latest operation scar. I don’t know what they did at her but it must have worked for she lived until she was ninety-four. Like most women she could do several jobs at a time, even when convalescing she could read a book, listen to a play on the wireless, knit a jumper keeping up with the knitting pattern as well as tell me off for drawing rude pictures in the ice on the inside of her bedroom window. She loved little children but did not seem interested in us after a certain age, so as a small children she looked after us all well but my sister Janet was the constant influence in my life as she was around when my mother wasn’t.
My mother took on a part time job working in a children’s home and if she was working over the weekend I was dragged along to stay with her. In the home were abused little children of my own age; I was fed, bathed and bedded with them. At times they terrified me, I was playing cowboys and Indians with them one night as we got ready for bed, I tied a little black boys wrists up with his pyjama cord, as I was playing a cowboy who had captured an Indian, he screamed the house down. I could not have known he was a twin to his sister and they had been tied up and left by their parents, the twins were a bad omen for this family. I did not know I had done wrong but was chastised by another residential care worker who said I should know better, she roughly pushed me out of the room hurting my arm, I asked to stop going there, my sister took over once again.
My mother enjoyed party times and always made sure we had plenty in for Christmas, everything was still on ration so she saved a little of something each week throughout the year for this celebration. She would store this up in the top cupboard; no one was to touch it until a week before Christmas. I would go along with her on her weekly shopping expedition to the local Elton road co-op. The co-op was spacious building with long counters down each side, diary produces and the like down one side, fruit and veg down the other. Behind the counters was as busy as in the front of them. You would start at the door to work your way around, my mother clutching her ration book in her hand.
“ Two pounds of sugar please.”
This would be weighed out into thick blue bags, folded neatly at the top dabbed with a little glue, placed upside down while the glue dried.
“ Anything else?”
“A half-pound of butter.”
This would be cut with wire from a large block and battered into to shape with a couple of grooved wooden butter pats and wrapped up in grease proof paper which we also saved for greasing cake and pudding dishes. After each purchase my mother would hand over a coupon to cover them,
“ Has the brown sugar come in yet?”
“ Yes but your only allowed a pound of it.”
It seemed everything was weighed out unless it came in a tin and there wasn’t many tins, the only item you could get without a coupon was a limited amount of broken biscuits or not so fresh greens. At the far end of the store stuck high in the air like a pulpit in an old church was the cashier sitting in a box, from this box was wires stretching out either side down to the counters some ten in total to above the shop assistance heads, when your shopping was done the assistant placed your money along with the coupons and your divvy number in a brass cup that screwed on to a holder on the wire, the assistant would pull this back against a spring then would release the cup and holder by pulling a handle, your money would be catapulted up the wire to the cashier in his ivory tower, your change would return by gravity.
The posh folk got the delivery boy to get your goods home on his big black and white painted bicycle with a big basket on the front, no such luck for our family I had got my trolley made out of our old pram. A quick stop in the butchers department next door for a small joint for Sunday, my mother was one from last generation to know every cut of a cow, sheep or pig and would explain to the butcher in detail the very little piece of the anatomy she wanted.
One item from the shopping, usually the hard to get hold of like brown sugar, sultanas, raisins and the rare tins of fruit were placed in the top cupboard for a Christmas feast.

My farther later in life said my mother was mutton dressed as lamb, but at least I thought she knew the cut.
My mother said my father could have made more of his life, to me he made everything.
At one time when they first met things must have been different for them both, it would seem that my mother was a beautiful little feisty temperamental red headed girl who fell for a placid tall dark and handsome young man with a motorbike, they both shared an accident on it, nursed each other back to good health and later married, although they stayed together for life it would seem both of them nursed dispirited hearts.

The adults in the family worked hard to finish the caravan off, a site was booked at Ingoldmels Point near Skegness on the east coast.
The only problem was we did not own a car to tow it there.

NIGHTINGALE ROAD SCHOOL

Monday morning arrived far too quickly, my mother had spread my new school clothes out on the bed, my brothers jacket drowned me, the sleeves hid my hands, the new badge had been sown on but one could tell there had been another one on before, I tried pulling the strings of cotton around it out.
My mother remarked as she squeezed the shoulders in, “ You will grow into it.”
After a slice of toast she forced the new cap down on my head pushed me out of the front door and told me to be good at school. As if flatfooted in the stiff new durable shoes I walked up the avenue listening to the soles flopping on the pavement and already I could feel them making new blisters on my heels. Soon I was into our local park that had to be crossed to get to the school. To be less noticeable I struggled with the jacket sleeves trying to turn them in on themselves, I felt stupid but there was a worse problem, it was the first time I had worn a cap, it seemed to be digging in as the perspiration gathered on my forehead, I hated it. Jumping on the stand-on roundabout in the park, I felt if it went three times round at speed it might propel me faster in the direction of the school, this became a compulsive daily ritual, then with head down and hands in my pockets pressed on to the wooded part of the park, here I met up with a couple of boys I knew who were sitting on the exposed roots of a large elm tree.
“ Hi ya Rog,” they greeted, “ we’re going to the crater t’ throw our caps away, are ya coming? ”
In the woods was an old bomb crater, a mark left over from the war. The tale had been told, the German Loufwaffer had been trying to bomb the Rolls Royce factory, and one bomb had gone astray. This great hollow was now our play area; we used its sides as a slide, we had imaginary war-games here, the park keeper and corporation workers use to throw all the grass cuttings and pruned branches of trees and other rubbish into it so we had great material to make dens. The three of us stood at the top of the crater after a count of three we skimmed our caps into the air, the boys watched them hover to the bottom of the crater, while I watched my hand disappear as a sleeve of my jacket came unfolded; we then slowly and silently made our way to have our very first day in junior school.
We were apprehensive waiting to go in, we stood there hanging on to the dark green heavy wrought iron railings of the school gate. Having hated every minute of the infant school I wondered however was I going to cope. One remembered my very first day at infant school, my mother pushed me through the gates with my sister Nora who was three years older, that was the closes my mother ever got to any of my schools. She had told me to wait for my sister when school finished, as she would bring me back home. The teachers name was Miss Frost, one felt she was Herr Frost who had been working behind enemy lines for the Germans, one could believe she was taking her revenge out on as many small children she could for Britain winning the war. Her weapon was a black pointer she never let go of it, with white knuckles she would wave and waft it around as if casting a magical spells, pointing at charts pinned to the walls of the class-room with large brightly coloured spots on them, when doing simple sums she would smack the pointer on a desk if the class did not chant out the correct answer all together.
Herr Frost, pointed, poked, prodded and whacked herself across the classroom via the knuckles of every small child, whom were all wondering why they were there.
It was,
“ A,”
Poke,
“ You boy,”
“ Err.”
“ Wrong,”
Whack.
Sob, “ B Miss.”
Next prod and poke for twenty-four more times before she reached her desk again, then she would start at A again, my knuckles were sore from the constant tapping from this witch. Those many times of running home sobbing were far too frequent. Indeed I was pleased to leave that hell-hole, but was now back at the gates of hell again, Nightingale Road Junior School, a pre war built school with a concrete yard surrounded by high walls and spiked railings put there to keep people out or keep you in.
My worries now were I could not read or write and I did not know the alphabet but far worst more serious and embarrassing I still could not tie my shoelaces properly.
The school faced the Rolls Royce works offices and factory, more council houses backed right up to these works, the only bright thing around was inside the foyer of the offices, a large stained glassed window depicting a young air pilot standing on a globe of the world which had wings on, I thought this to be beautiful, when feeling low I would try to get a better view of it through the doorway but mainly bumped into the commissionaire who was dressed up in his grand black uniform, a peaked flat military cap with a white cover, his shiny black leather belt and boots, he always said the same words, “ Bugger off.”
The school bell rang, all the older children formed lines in the playground, all the new kids stood around in one big group, so we joined them. The teachers filed out of the school, the neat lines of little boys were marched into the building, the girls had already been segregated from the boys they had there own entrance their own playground they were to attend their lessons up stairs. Our names were called out, the sticks and stones and puppy dog’s tails of the little boys formed new lines. All of us were marched in to our new classrooms; we were never see the sugar or spice of the girls until we walked home after school.

This first year however surprisingly turned out to become my best ever year in all my schooling life, for fortunately I had found this one teacher who seemed to understand my learning problem, she knew what was required. The teachers name was Mrs. Draper, although she will now be long gone, I will always be grateful for the time she gave me that year.
“ Be neat Roger,” she said, over and over again.
“ If you are neat you will escape,” at that time I did not know what she meant.
“ Build on your artistic flare” she told me, “ you’ll be all right.”
I did become neat with my work even though I did not produce much of it. The year was a happy one; winning the only prize I ever won in any school, a progress prize, a small tin plate globe of the world. Mrs Draper said, “ Roger you will find this more interesting than a book.” She was right.

Over the half term holiday a girl had also come to my rescue, she showed me how to tie my shoe laces in another way by making two loops out of the laces and tie another knot with them, she explain it was not the proper way but nobody would notice. From that day onwards as we held hands I noticed girls were softer to touch and unexpectedly had started to appear very pretty.
The school labelled me as slow but it was a happy abuse free year; I felt I had achieved something.

All too soon it was over, I was to leave Mrs Drapers class and shortly would learn the next two teachers at this school were to make my life miserable, the dread of going to school quickly returned. My English was appalling, my maths much worse, I was to find out I could no longer do the sums in my head as the calculations were getting longer and one had to start recording numbers down on paper. Chastisement was received for putting 6 and 9 the wrong way around and for not knowing b from d. I was having difficulties pronouncing words, these would be practised on the way home, saying them over and over again, if I could not get them right, I tried to stop using those words.
My family used to laugh at my farther he always-mispronounced words, they would correct him time and time again, on occasions I could see him get angered with frustration. I did not want people to do that to me, they said it was because my farther was partualy deaf that he pronounced words incorrectly, today I wonder if he was inflicted with the same problem. I continued practicing.
The only things I hung on to at this school was my art and neatness, the only areas I excelled at.
Having reached the age of realization, I found myself different from the majority of boys and had written thousands of lines out on reams of paper to prove it.
I am a stupid boy who does not know his d from his b, b is for ball, and d is for drum and other such lines.
Each day I joined the classroom clown to do lines, his lines were ‘I must not fool around in the classroom,’ he enjoyed lines he always did extra for the next time, he seemed to have exercise books full of them.
For me lines were a serious punishment for I was a very slow writer and the concentration to get them correct was tiring.
One teacher known as Old man Butler was the worst of my nightmares, he was ex RAF, he wore his obligatory wings under his nose and would twist the ends of them with his finger tips, he would call me out to check on the lines, as I walked up to his desk he would hum and play the dam busters march on his teeth with his finger nails, all the class would laugh. He would take my very neat lines tear them up in front of me then throw them straight in his waste paper bin at his feet without even looking at them.
I would return to my desk and write.
The douncing dome dlew up the bam, in yet another essay, then I would repeat yet another hours exercise in line writing.
I somehow managed to escape corporal punishment in this school, as only the headmaster administered this, I had been sent to see him many times. Fortunately for me the head masters office was opposite Mrs Drapers class room, if she saw me while I was standing waiting to see the head master she always came out of her classroom to enquire why had I been sent to see him yet again, I would hand her the note from Mr Butler.

This boy is distractible and he is not paying attention in class again.

Each time Mrs Drapper would speak to the headmaster, I would return unscathed to the classroom to the annoyance of the fight lieutenant Butler, he to be not out beaten would make me stand on top of the desk until the end of the lesson, I can imagine I must have been very frustrating for him.
Mrs Draper was rewarded every time with a bag of apples from the trees in our back garden when in season, at other times I made a home made card with a picture I had drawn for her.
Once I did manage to get some recompense with Battler Butler. Britain was having a very busy period, we had seen the death of the King, at his funeral we had pomp and pageantry this country is never of the likes to see ever again in our history. We had Kings, Queens, Heads of States, Presidents, Prime Ministers, Princes, Princesses, Ambassadors, Earls, Barons, Counts, Countesses, Lords and Ladies, Knights of the round table and all the military entourage plus all the hanger on’s of each one of them who turned up mostly supporting greying beards and moustaches in their dress uniforms of gold braid, fancy feathered headgear, medals and swords. Flags were called for; they placed the Kings Coffin on a gun carriage covered it over with a flag of the union jack and dragged him through the streets of London. All followed him on foot or in fine horse drawn carriages, all of them seemed to have popped out of our history books from yesteryear and will never ever reappear again.
Then we had the conquest of Everest, followed by the Crowning of Queen Elizabeth the second. For this we had a street party, we were given at school a half crown as well as a spoon with the queen’s head on the handle. Later in the year we had some time out of the classroom to be taken to the cinema to watch two films, The Conquest of Everest followed by the Coronation, a three an a half hour marathon sitting. Every child in the county was to go, ours was a morning slot, after which we arrived late back at school, our school dinners were plated up for us to save the kitchen staff time. We were handed our plates, they had put swedes on mine which I hated intensely, I ate around these leaving them on my plate, I stood up to hand my plate back in,
“ Eat your swedes Sharp,” Butler bellowed,
“ I don’t like em, Sir.”
“ Eat them;” he yelled again,
“ I‘ll be sick if I eat em Sir” I protested.
“ I do not care, eat them,”
So I stuck my fork gingerly into them, heaved and heaved then took a mouth full, swallowed then immediately did a projectile vomit, which hit him square in the stomach then ran down his front. He took a swing at me, I ducked down low behind my plate, which he caught with his hand sending it hurtling down the dinning room hitting another boy on the head, he immediately started crying out in pain. The remaining Swedes on my plate mixed in well with the blood coming from the wound on the boy’s forehead.
The following day I picked up 500 extra lines, I must not waste food. I was getting to be very good at neat lines, so the school entered me in a national good hand writing style competition.
Relief from the classroom came at break times or when the health visitors came to check out every child in the school. We were called out of our normal lesson, to line up in the hall. The nit nurse had arrived, she was examining every ones hair; we waited patiently for our turn. No sooner as one child was out of the seat another took his place, his head would be pushed backward and forward, then to one side then the other as the nit nurse pulled at their hair as if plucking feathers from a turkey. By the time it was your turn you had convinced yourself you had head lice, the line of boys were all scratching their heads. Robert Ormsley a school bully whispered, “ If you've got um ya get your ead shaved then they give ya a bath in disinfectant.”
On return to our classroom I was told to immediately report to the headmaster’s office, the classroom murmured as I left. Surly I thought they were not going to cut my hair off and give me a bath.
Baths at home consisted of getting into the dolly tub after the weeks washing was done, I could sit in the bottom of the tub then spin round and round in the soapy grey mixture clicking the groves on the sides of the tub with a wooden clothes peg. I wondered why the block of carbolic soap my mother used on my hair had not have killed the nits.
I was to join six other lads standing outside the headmasters office, some younger some older.
An older lad said, “ If ya joining this group ya ad not better laugh at me or I’ll do ya,” he showed me his fist.
The lad already had short hair; I thought they might have cut it off the week before and that he was only to have a bath this time. I will protest, I will tell the headmaster I have one bath a week, on every Sunday night. I was getting worried and would certainly not laugh at this big boy.
The headmaster’s door opened, we were all called in, we were handed different reading books. I was given an Old Lob reading book others were given different coloured books of Dick and Dora. I thought we had left these books behind in infant school. I liked Old Lob the artists work in them was great as the pictures told the story, all one had to do was remember the names of the animals, Dobbin the horse, Percy the pig and so on. All the other lads read aloud to the headmaster, now it was my turn. I started, got stuck on a word, glanced at the picture and guessed what came next. I looked up at the Headmaster, he was leaning on his desk with his head buried in his hands; he raised one hand to wave us all out of his office without saying a word.
I think my class was surprised to see me return with a full head of hair. I told Ormy that I had been to sort out the nits but they had made a mistake, I had a tick next to my name but I had noticed his name had a cross against it, also adding, “ They don’t cut your hair off, they use a chemical to kill the nits but it dyes your hair bright green.” Orme looked horrified, he was a bully but I was bigger than him, I knew one day I would have to fight him so it might as well be today.
Our other health visitor was the dentist; we followed the same procedures but this time you were attacked with a dental mirror along with a sharp pointed instrument that was dipped into the same solution each time a new boy sat down in the chair. To pass this exam all you had to do was not flinch as they poked your teeth, very few past this test of nerves, green cards were issued to take home to our mother’s to attend Mill Hill Dental Clinic.
On the day in question, mothers would wrap up their children then make their way to the dreaded hill. On one side of the road was a stream of parents dragging the kids up by their arms, on the other side coming down was a stream of kids who had their mothers arms around them, each kid had a scarf wrapped round their head or mouth. I knew why that day I just happened to be wearing one.
Mill Hill Clinic was always packed solid, nearly every kid in Derbyshire some time or other must have been sent there. There was queuing up the stairs in the stark passage to get into the waiting room. Children would be tumbling past you on their way out with their mothers, all were pale some were crying others looked in shock, all were holding handkerchiefs or scarf’s to their mouths. The surgery waiting room was worse; long rows of mothers and children, their height varying on the seats, from some of the lower levels sobbing could be heard. Two seats were kept vacant near the surgery door for those coming out after treatment. Those coming out had protruding rolls of cotton wool sticking out of their mouths they would flop into these seats with vacant expressions on their pale faces, then start to make strange faces as they tried to count with their tongue how many teeth they had got left.
Two kids at a time went in, you were made to climb up into the big black dentist chairs that had a plank of wood across the arms for you to sit on. Your head was yanked back and held in place by an assistant, the dentist would screw a clamp to your upper front and lower teeth, and then he would turn another screw to jack your mouth wide open until it hurt your jaw where it connects to your skull. The next you know is this hissing mask heading your way and someone is saying count to ten, which is impossible, the huge horrible indescribable smelling rubber mask was forced on to your face, the gas hits your nose and throat, in seconds you are out cold. Next someone is slapping you round the face telling you to wake up, you don’t know where you are, but you do know you are falling. Your picked up off the surgery floor then dragged to the waiting room recovery chair, you would have a cold sweat with two pieces of cotton wool sticking out of each side of your mouth, you are unable to control the saliva and blood, and it over-flows over ones bottom lip as you stare blankly at all the rows of strange faces looking at you, you try as you twist your head and tongue round to count how many teeth you have got left.
The daily relief at school was the dinner break or play times, we all played the usual games of marbles, some owning glass ones, others have clay ones, those who’s fathers worked in engineering turn up with huge steel balls from bearings called steely's but some of us played with aniseed balls. For one big steely you could swap it for ten glass or twenty clay marballs. Fag cards games became the craze, everybody would raid the new Kellogg’s packet or have the pre-war cigarette cards which we would skim against the wall to land on someone else’s in order to enlarge our collections, snobs or jacks and other playground games were going on in each corner of the school playground. We also became experts in the making of small hand weapons, we had a list of arson from pea shooters, dobbers or catapults, throwing arrows, an arrow we could throw with a piece of string, sling shots, bows and arrows, wooden guns that fired elastic bands, to staffs and spears, the majority of which we hid in someone’s privet hedge close to the school before entering the play ground but on occasions we hand grafted new ones with a little pen knife somewhere out of sight in the school yard shelter. In today’s world young people will find it surprising we had knives at eight years old, all I can say they were as common as snake buckle belts and everybody wanted a snake belt. I clearly remember one teacher saying, “All boys should carry a pen knife, a piece of string and one shilling.” As we moved on up to senior school the size of the pen knife increased along with the skill of using it, at 12 years old the craze was to intricately whittle pieces of square hard wood three eighth of an inch square by six inches long into chain links, miniature totem poles, cages with carved balls inside, animals and other pieces of art work. Groups of us would stand around during breaks addicted to the pass time.
We were quite fit kids to be attending school, others who never made it there were in isolation hospitals suffering with illnesses there was not a real cure for at that time. Due to rationing our diet was controlled, but we did suffer from some vitamin deficiency as we did have many boils, warts, chilblains, sty’s and cold sores, most were taken control of by the school clinic on Friday afternoons, we would line up for a mouth full of malt extract, be given a bottle of cod liver oil to take home or supplied with a bottle of concentrated orange juice. For warts or other marks on our skin we were dabbed with blue iodine, most small boys had grazes or scratches all over so we left for home looking like a bright blue alien race.
Boils became a playground pastime, for those of us who had been referred to the family doctor; had no desire to return again with another one. The doctor had a quick way of getting rid of these; he lanced them ready or not. He would jab in a hollow needle then suck the puss out, it felt like it had taken half your face or any other part the boil happened to be growing on with it. So the boys were in to do it yourself, we would sit around in the playground inspecting each other’s boils. That one is not ready yet it is only pink, that one is coming on nicely its turned red, that one is ready it has turned a bluey red and has got a nice yellowy white head in the middle. Everyone would gather round to have a look. Should you have one that was ripe and everybody agreed you were instructed to peel the head off with your fingernails; you hooked your fingernails on the top then pulled as hard and as quick as you could. Your best mate would take his two thumbs place them either side of your boil and squeeze, the others would gather round to watch as the puss coiling out,
“ Ya gota get blood ort of it,” some enthusiastic kid would shout,
“ If ya dun’na get blood it will grow again.”
The worst dread was to have one on your nose as this operation made your eyes water, this could be easily mistaken as you crying and that was not on in our boys world

We all wore the regulation grey short trousers, in the winter months we tried to keep our long woollen socks pulled up but inevitably the elastic in tops was worn out so we used elastic bands to do the job, these however tended to cut your blood circulation down giving you pins and needles in your toes and you would see an occasional kid as they stood up to cross the classroom hobbling to the point of nearly collapsing.
This time of year we had the additional chaps on our bare legs, mostly this was our own fault as when visits to the cold outside toilets we could not be bothered to undo our buttoned fly’s, we would yank up our trouser legs to go, inevitably the drips would run down your leg to be dried out by the frosty air, the course grey material of the short trousers would irritate the area leaving sore red blotches on our upper legs.

On occasions at add hock times we also escaped the classroom for a short time when the factories tested their air-raid sirens or the schools fire alarm was set off, but back in the classroom we tried to keep our heads down and out of trouble, you would at times be lulled in to a false sense of security then you would receive a clout on the back of your head for sucking the end of your pen. One poor lad with leg irons who used to constantly chew the end of his pen was a challenge to Battler Butler, the end of his pen was wrapped in elastic bands dipped in mustard; the boy grew fond of rubber and mustard.
You would glance up from your book at times to watch the teachers favourite blue eyed boy, go to ring the school bell, fetch the milk, hand out papers, fill the ink wells up, attend to the nature table that was usually full of dead leaves and acorns then watch him receive another gold star to put on the chart for doing so. At the end of the term Butler would announce he had got nineteen gold stars, fifteen silver stars and was given a book voucher, I had only got three blue ones and one green, I believed he announced this for the stupid boys like me who he thought that we couldn’t see the large chart with them all on. The lads farther owned the bookie shop down the end of the road.

I still did not know the alphabet, I knew there was 26 letters but did not know what order they came in, I would write all the letters I could think of down, then count them then spend the next fifteen minutes figuring out the ones that had been missed.
I still did not know my times tables. Exams and tests came and went. I was informed that if I did not pass the eleven plus exam I would be moving on after my schooling here to Allenton Secondary Modern School, a school with a reputation, of being hard on its pupils, where the teachers ruled by the fear of the cane and the school was said to be filled with very hard-nosed bullyboys. I couldn’t say I was looking forward to it.