SIX WEEKS TO SUNDAY
BOOK 1 OF 3
CHAPTER LISTING
SIX WEEKS TO SUNDAY
A POOR MAN’S LOT
DAY ONE
MUSHY PEAS, THEATRE AND ALAN HALL
DAY TWO
PICKING THE SEASONS AND SHATTERED ILLUSIONS
DAY THREE
GOD & MY FIRST DRINK
THE PARTY SEASON
DAY FOUR
CAROLS, COINS AND CATHEDRALS
THE UNCHURCHLY WARDEN (TOTTY’S LAST STAND)
DAY FIVE
THE WINDS OF CHANGE
THE BIG MATCH
DAY SIX
BRIONY, BEER, BOWLS AND BIG GINGER
DAY SEVEN
NEW HOUSE AND HOLIDAYS
DAY FOURTEEN
A NIGHT TO REMEMBER
A SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS
TO BE A WORKING MAN
DAY TWENTY-ONE
A CLOSE SHAVE WITH NASTY HARRY
FOUR WEEKS IN
MY FIRST REAL DAY AT WORK
SIX WEEKS TO SUNDAY
SIX MONTHS TO SUNDAY AND TWELVE MONTHS TO SUNDAY
OTHER TITLES BY JOHN HARE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Memories can oft be a selective panacea to the truth,
so I beg indulgence from those
who travel with me in this story,
should their recollection of events
in any way differ from mine own
John Hare
Despite the numerous proof readings and edits undertaken by the writer, I fear errors of both
punctuation and grammar will still lurk within these pages for the discerning reader to
discover. For such oversights I most humbly apologise, but would urge you who would
undertake this journey to overlook such shortcomings and focus on the potential of your own
wellbeing to come.
Hare
SIX WEEKS TO SUNDAY
“For I’m drunk today,
And I’m seldom sober,
I’m just a rover
from town to town
Ah, but I’m sick now
and my days are numbered.
Come all ye young men
and lay me down”.
Van Morrison singing Carrick Fergus drifted out to the restaurant balcony where I sat
drinking a cold bottle of Becks. Sitting opposite me, Becks also in hand, was Debby, my
girlfriend of some twelve months; tall and beautiful with long, blonde hair wisping around
her face; her dark glasses reflecting yacht masts bobbing up and down on a glistening sea.
‘Perfect,’ I hear you say. Well, my friends, nothing could be further from the truth.
Debby is an aspiring alcoholic and I’m just an ordinary one, or more accurately, a
professional drinker of some thirty-five years’ standing. We both felt like shit at this
particular moment in time; the effects of three days’ heavy drinking were seriously starting
to kick in.
Summer Sunday lunchtime, or was it late afternoon? Who gives a shit anyway? We
didn’t care, we didn’t really know; we were both suffering from acute alcohol fatigue - that’s
the only way I can describe it. In my case it wasn’t a hangover as most people would know
it, or that’s what I surmised; I have never experienced blinding headaches, nausea and the
like. For someone who had forged a life-long devotion to alcohol in just about all its tastes
and varieties I, my friends, had been truly blessed by the Almighty with a metabolism that
gave me a constitution the envy of the professional drinking-classes the world over.
In short, from my teens onwards I’d developed a capacity to drink copious amounts of
booze and not suffer the after-effects usually associated with over-indulgence. A great asset
not only for the party animal, but a big plus when it came to the extended business lunch or
company dinner, and believe me it certainly came in handy on many occasions - or so I
thought.
Debby shifted in her chair, drained her glass and lit a cigarette. I looked across at her
and asked if she’d like another. She didn’t answer straight away; she continued to stare out
at the shimmering water. Then without turning her head she spoke.
‘I think I’ll give it a miss today.’
‘Are you serious?’ I said.
‘Yes. I think I’ll give the old system a day off.’
I must say that the way I was feeling the idea certainly had some appeal, but as everthe-competitive soul I just couldn’t leave it there.
‘I think I’ll abstain for a month. You know, give the body a complete rest.’
‘Steady on!’ said Debby.
That was over a year ago.
And before you heavy drinkers, secret drinkers, reformed drinkers, wannabe reformers
etc put this book down in the hope of avoiding something you didn’t want to be reminded of
- DON’T.
As you read on you will discover that this account is not just another drinker’s
testament; for it is not. What it is, is an analysis of how and why I started my professional
drinking career, why I pursued it and why, at the moment, I have stopped. The latter has been
achieved not with the influence of doctors, abstinence groups, the Sally Army, or religious
would-be saviours, but by a form of self psychoanalysis, the results of which will become
apparent as you follow me down the drinkers’ road to glory, whatever that may be.
A POOR MAN’S LOT
I was born in Grangetown in the north-east of England on a cold November morning in
1946. Number 16 Cheetham Street, where we lived, was a house not untypical of its kind:
two-up, two-down with a sort of lean-to tacked onto the back which doubled as a poor man’s
kitchen-cum-utility room; we called it the “shed”. This, in turn, led into a small yard with a
high wall, a coal house and an outside lavatory, which as a child was a place of fear and
dread on dark winter nights. It had no light and, aged around four or five, I would kick up
merry hell about having to go down the yard in the dark and into that lavatory, where I knew
the daddy-long-legs family lived. Many a night my poor old Mam would have to stand
outside in the pouring rain; I can hear her now, ‘Hurry up, son! Hurry up, son!’
These were the streets, my playground as a child, built by the steel barons Bolckow
and Vaughan whose names, on cast-iron plaques, adorned two of them. Other industrial
luminaries of the day had got in on the act; Bessemer Street, Vickers Street, and streets
named after the engineers Wood and Laing. The streets themselves represented a form of
capitalism that even the likes of Margaret Thatcher would not have dared aspire to. They
were built by industry barons as the vast steelwork complexes were being constructed, with
the specific purpose of housing an itinerant workforce needed to produce what was then a
low-cost but highly profitable product. In those times, the prospect of a secure job and a new
home into the bargain was a huge “come-on” to lots of working folk, and they flocked to the
banks of the River Tees from all over the British Isles. As in many industrial areas the wages
paid were, by today’s standards, menial; enough to make ends meet so to speak, but only
just, and therein lay the trap. Hours were long and conditions poor - but even the hot-headed
Irish contingent learned very quickly that to speak out could not only cost you your job, but
also the roof over your family’s head. In short, the master had his man firmly by the balls
and, for the men with wives and children; it was a case of hold your tongue and swallow
your pride, regardless of the rights and wrongs involved.
I mention capitalism, for that’s what it was in its purest and most insidious form; a
kind of paid slavery that kept most people a step above the breadline - but woe-betide those
men of the 1920s, ‘30s and ‘40s who thought their labour was worth a little more. Don’t get
me wrong; I have nothing against money or making it, and in my working lifetime to date
I’ve profited by employing many a man or woman’s labour but, hopefully, knowledge
handed down by my mother and father forged in me a deep sense of an individual’s worth
and a thankful appreciation for any man or woman who has given me their all in the course
of their daily employment. This, for the most part, was not the case back in those days.
Wages were generally paid out on a Friday afternoon and, in between the hours of
5:30 p.m. and 8:30 p.m., the master’s rent men would be round to collect a large proportion
of what had been brought home but a few hours earlier. Perfect! Work a man sometimes to
death for a pittance and within the space of a few short hours, give it with one hand and take
it back with another. However, in those days and in general, the situation was accepted by
the majority as almost a fait accompli. Families always pulled together and neighbourliness
and generosity to those who were in the proverbial same boat were abundant. The lending of
cups of sugar or a mash of tea was a constant merry-go-round depending on how individual
families were faring financially. To this day I’m still not sure how it all worked, but I know
that a visit to Percy Porter’s Pawn Shop could suddenly raise your status to the wealthiest
folk in the street. It was either that, or one of the racing men had pulled off a coup on the
horses having a winning three sixpence-double and a sixpence-treble with the local illicit
bookmaker. Word of such events spread like wildfire, and the houses of such fortunate
recipients would have a constant stream to their door of those suffering hardship. There was
a strange unspoken sharing, the fortunate of today could always be the needy of tomorrow
and I think that, in the main, things probably evened themselves out with regard to today’s
“haves” and tomorrow’s “have-nots”.
On reflection, what was so wonderful was that between the fluctuating givers and
takers (or should I call them mutual borrowers?) there always existed a state of dignity, your
hardship or your temporary good fortune was never, or rarely, held against you. There, but
for the grace of God…
By today’s standards, respect was everything - which brings me back to the rent man.
When I came along in the forties, I met this guy every week of my formative life, from babein-arms to age eleven when the family was hugely elevated in status by a move to one of the
first new council housing estates - but more about that later.
The rent man wore a suit, rode a bicycle and tied his trousers round his ankles with
elastic to avoid getting oil on them from the pedal chain. It may not have been a good suit,
but it was a suit, and he wore it all the time, which somehow seemed to magnify the divide
between him and us ordinary street folk. His other psychological advantage was that he
represented the big boss; the real boss; the faceless man who could start or stop my Dad’s
job at will; the man who could, at a whim, force us to leave our house. I can tell you, that
coming to understand this around age six, had a profound effect on me, and it was at that
time, I think, I realised that my superheroes, Mam and Dad, were powerless against such
forces.
He came at round about the same time every Friday night, and if my sister and I were
playing when he knocked the door, my Mam, in reverent tones, would say, ‘Shhhhh - it’s the
rent man.’
She would let him into the front room, which we only ever used on high days and
holidays, and go through the ritual of handing over the money and thanking him for signing
the rent book. In these brief exchanges Mam was bright and chatty, but always showing a
slight deference for his position. Dad - who was not a scowler - sat in the other room and
scowled. At that stage I could never understand why Mam said, ‘Shhhhh,’ when the rent man
came, or why Dad was not involved in the transaction and seemed subdued and irritable. Of
course this charade was happening in almost every other house in the street; the womenfolk
keeping the peace; the men simmering with impotency knowing that they were trapped,
gagged and, for the time being, mastered.
DAY ONE
Yesterday I stopped drinking, and on awakening at around six o’clock, my usual time,
I still felt a little sketchy from the previous three days’ solid intake. My first thought was
that I had said I was going to stop - so that’s the way it was going to be.
I was living in one of seventeen houses that formed a crescent on the water’s edge
overlooking Plymouth Sound; a four-storey townhouse with lift and a balcony from which a
child could throw a stone into the sea below. It was south by south-west facing, with no
expense spared in the construction or crafting of the interiors; and I should know- I was the
developer!
At this stage the overall project was two-thirds complete and I had set up the
company’s offices on the lower ground floor of Number One and taken up residence upstairs.
Lucky bastard - waking up in luxury to the sound of seabirds and water lapping, then simply
walking down the stairs to work in the mornings!
My plan on the drinking front was that I would work harder and longer than I had been
doing; keep myself fully occupied; work a fourteen hour day; def the pub; go to bed early
and read; watch telly etc.
In truth, Day One went well and, although that particular Monday held nothing special
or out of the ordinary, I retired to the upper rooms feeling pretty good about myself. I’d had
a drink every day for around thirty-five years and I’d just done a full day without one.
Debby said she was not impressed with the day.
MUSHY PEAS, THEATRE AND ALAN HALL
Although I didn’t realise it at the time, my young life on several occasions was
affected by the steel town drinking culture in which I grew up. I use the term “drinking
culture”, for that’s what it was. The men of steel were, in general, a hardy lot; hardy but
generous of spirit, feisty, loyal and, above all else, very proud. When they could get
employment they worked hard and the only every-day pleasures they ever indulged in were
their fags or baccy and their pint.
It seems strange looking back now, when I consider that today on any Friday or
Saturday night in most towns and cities the streets seem to be awash with people who are
obviously worse-for-wear from alcohol, but it would appear to be 50:50 men and women. I
say “strange”, because my vivid recollection of those times was that very few women drank
in public places and just about all the men folk did. Even stranger; the men drank the usual
steady eight pints or more but, as I recall, the majority did so with a sort of dignity. It was as
if there was an unwritten rule that you drank your pint but you held it well. I know this to be
a fact, as, when I reached age fifteen and left school to follow my forebears into the steel
works, one of the first pieces of advice I was given by a furnace man was: ‘First rule of life
lad: learn to take your beer.’
But in this tale I am still a long way off becoming a working man of fifteen, so I will
digress no further.
Yes, the men of those Northern towns could certainly hold their beer - but of course
there are always exceptions to the rule and, if I may divert this narrative for a page or two,
the recall of such exceptions will certainly entertain me - and hopefully all of you who have
come thus far.
Three doors down from our house lived the Halls; Alan and Edith with son Leslie who
was aged four to my six years. I liked Leslie and, although it was frowned upon by peer
groups to fraternise with children a year or so younger, I recall we spent many enjoyable
hours in each other’s company.
Edith Hall, Leslie’s Mam, was one of those larger-than-life, tall, blonde, busty women
and, although at the tender age of six I would never have considered it, she was probably
amazingly attractive to the opposite sex. My own thoughts about her at that time were that
she was very loud, warm and generous, but woe betide anyone who got on the wrong side of
her, as she had a fearsome temper! Fortunately she didn’t get cross very often, but when she
did - and although I can’t be sure I think those occasions were mostly when husband Alan
had come home late and slightly worse-for-wear from the beer - she could be heard several
streets away. Not a woman to be tangled with!
Alan Hall was a very likeable chap, and now with hindsight I can see what his
attraction to Edith must have been.
He was tall, lean and craggy in a good-looking sort of way. As a child I was
fascinated by him, as he was apt to change his outward appearance like no other man in our
town. Everyone had his place in our humble society, and you expected people to be the same
day-in and day-out; speak the same; act the same; dress the same; the folk of the streets liked
it that way; you knew where you stood. They couldn’t be doing with people who were “this”
one day and “that” the next. Poor they may have been, but things and people had their place
- it was a sort of order - and in the main almost everyone derived a sense of safety and
comfort from having everything and, more importantly, everybody pigeonholed.
Through my innocent eyes, Alan Hall was very different. From the late 1940s to the
early ‘50s nobody owned a car in our street and nobody possessed a television - until they
came along nobody missed them. The only motor vehicles that came down the street were
the post van, the coal lorry, and a strange three-wheeled contraption driven by a guy who was
selling hot peas of the mushy variety.
Again I digress, but I must tell you that this guy’s peas were sensational! He only
plied his trade in wintertime, and my Mam always seemed to know the nights he would be
coming. She would make corned beef and potato pie, and she would tease us in the most
wonderful way by saying, ‘Well, we can’t have this lovely pie without peas. I was sure he’d
be round tonight.’
My sister and I would be in a state of great agitation.
‘Shall I go and look, Mam?’
‘No. I’ll go, Mam! I’ll go, Mam!’
‘Hush!’ she would say, stirring gravy that could only have been made in heaven.
‘You’ll not hear him if you’re noisy.’
What was actually happening was brilliant homemade theatre, there in our own livingroom-cum-kitchen. As I have said, my sister and I would be beside ourselves with a mixture
of hunger and anticipation, and Mam and Dad would play out a charade that had us more
excited than any television programme has ever done since:
MAM: ‘We just can’t have this lovely pie without those peas.’
DAD: (Sitting in his armchair pretending he was totally disinterested in anything except the
Evening Gazette, which he would be feigning to read.)
‘I don’t think he’ll come now, pet. Not at this time of night.’
MAM: ‘Well, Jack, we’ll have to keep the pie and hope he’ll come tomorrow.’
DAD: ‘I think you’re right there, pet.’
Variations of this conversation would go back and forth until my sister Carolyn would
enter with her own dramatics, and all nine years of her would turn on Mam and Dad telling
them that we were hungry and if we couldn’t have the peas then at least we could have a
piece of pie. The Mam and Dad theatre would start up again and, just as I thought Carolyn
would have apoplexy, we would hear the ringing of a hand bell closely followed by the
distant shout of ‘Hot peas! Hot peas!’
Carolyn and I would cheer and Mam would produce, as if by magic, a large bowl and a
three pence piece and say, ‘Quick, son! Catch him before he goes!’
A second telling was not necessary and I would be out of the door like a shot,
returning minutes later with the prized peas. I would be praised; my sister placated; and as a
family we would sit down and eat a meal that in our little minds might not have happened yet here it was - a veritable feast - and we had all won through. Mam and Dad just smiled at
each other and we never thought to ask why Mam had been stirring the gravy for twenty
minutes before the arrival of the mushy pea man.
But this tale is about Perry and Pimms, not peas, and for the moment Alan Hall is still
waiting centre stage.
At the top of our street was Turner’s coal yard and, for the most part, that was where
Alan Hall worked with the two sons of Rheuben Turner, the yard owner and local
entrepreneur. The Turners also had a couple of what we used to call “trip buses” and a big
black taxi that was used for weddings and funerals. Alan Hall would drive the coal lorry and
lift every sack himself and deposit the contents into the small coal houses that every street
house had in its back yard.
The two Turner sons, Billy and Bobby, sometimes did the same, but in the main Alan,
the employee, was the one seen bent double with a sack on his shoulder. It was hard and
dirty work, and sometimes as he walked down our street after his shift he looked just like a
scruffy “Al Jolson”. As a small child I was amazed to see him hardly an hour later in a smart
suit behind the wheel of the taxi limousine, and it was this very limousine that first brought
drink, me and trouble together.
One early summer’s evening I had been mooching about by the Lyric Cinema, which
was close to where we lived, and I obviously had not linked up with any pals so decided to
go home. Just as I was turning into our street, Alan Hall in limousine, with Leslie in the
passenger seat, were pulling out and I could tell by Leslie’s gestures that he was asking his
Dad if I could go with them. Leslie’s imploring obviously worked and as the window was
wound down he shouted did I want to go to South Bank with them? Could any child of that
era have resisted? Certainly not I, especially as Leslie said we would get crisps and
lemonade. Crisps, lemonade and my first ride in a car all in one hit! It was like having a
birthday out of season and I joyously clambered into the dark rich leather interior that was
the rear passenger compartment. Alan Hall eased the car into motion and we headed for
South Bank, a town not dissimilar to our own, some two miles away.
South Bank (colloquially known to the locals as “Slaggy Island”) was situated on the
north-west side of the sprawling steelworks, and had been built at the same time our town
was being developed - and for the same purpose.
It’s hard to describe my exact feelings at that moment, but sitting in the aroma of that
brown leather upholstery, I somehow felt that I’d arrived; been elevated in some way; and as
we drove past the Lyric Cinema and the bus stops, I was dying for someone I knew to
recognise me. This seemed immensely important as I needed someone to corroborate the
story I would tell - how else would I be believed, when I told people of my crisps and
lemonade adventure in the back of the poshest car anyone in our world had ever seen? As I
mentioned earlier, motor vehicles at that time where still quite a rare sight, so all the heads in
the cinema queue and those at the bus stops turned to see our passing – but, alas, nobody I
knew saw me. Never mind I thought, I can always get Leslie to bear witness to my story and
anyway crisps and lemonade were to be looked forward to. Little did I know that, before the
night was through, the whole town would be aware of this great adventure.
The first port of call in South Bank was a place called “The Erimous Club”- a drinking
house that I would frequent in my mid-teenage years of the future. Alan Hall pulled up
outside and leapt from the driver’s seat, saying he would not be long and disappeared into
what looked like a terraced house. Oh, how time can pass so slowly when you’re a child,
and I quite quickly started to ask Leslie how long his Dad would be. Leslie obviously did
not know, but said he didn’t think very long and went on to weave a tale of other places we
would go that night - and of course the lemonade and crisps we would get. Suddenly, Alan
Hall appeared at the car window with a tray in his hand and any boredom or impatience I had
felt moments earlier disappeared at the sight of two glasses frothing with lemonade,
alongside crisps in greaseproof paper packets. After an indeterminable amount of time Alan
Hall was back in the driver’s seat and we were off to his next stop; a public house called The
Princess Alice. The pattern of his visit to this venue was much the same as that at the
Erimous Club - but who cared? The crisps and lemonade tasted just as good.
I did not know it then but Alan Hall had the use of the firm’s limousine on a Friday
night not because he was a good, faithful and trusted employee of the company, but because
they were using him as a cheap way of collecting outstanding coal bills from those few in the
community who had the status to warrant credit. They, the company, probably didn’t realise
it at the time, but he was the perfect man for the job; strong, tall, craggy and engaging;
people liked Alan and most folk would like to oblige him by paying their bills on his friendly
off-hand request. Those who would try to extend credit or not pay would wisely avoid his
acquaintance - there was a touch of the John Wayne’s about Alan Hall!
I’m not sure how many places we visited that night, but by the time the car headed
back to our town it was completely dark and quite late to be out - especially if you were five
or six years old. Approaching Grangetown from the north entrance to the actual town itself
was via a subway rail bridge that carried a set of lines connecting the steelworks to another
small town, Eston, which lay at the foot of the Cleveland Hills. The Cleveland Hills were of
strategic importance to the early steel masters as they were, for a long time, an easily
accessible source of iron ore - a necessary ingredient in the process of steel making.
As we came under the subway and into Grangetown, I realised that the strange, almost
pungent but not unpleasant, smell that now filled the car was that of beer odour being
exhaled by Alan Hall, and I remember thinking then that our chauffeur seemed to be in really
good spirits. As we passed the now closed Lyric Cinema, Alan Hall was humming a popular
tune of the day, but stopped immediately as we turned into our street.
‘Bloody hell!’ he said. ‘What the fuck’s going on here?’
I’d never heard that word before nor did I understand what it meant - but I knew
instantly that I liked the sound of that word “fuck”!
‘Jesus!’ said Alan.
It was at that moment that I was aroused from my cogitative affair with this new word.
What I beheld made me gape in wonderment. Our street appeared to be full of groups of
people, some gathered around the one-bulb street lamps and others in groups on both road
and pavement, some with torches that flickered across ghostly faces. The whole spectacle
was strange and surreal, with people appearing to glide past the window of the car as Alan
slowed to a crawl. It was then, just before Alan Hall pulled up outside his own front door
that the cry went up: ‘He’s here! He’s here!’
Alan Hall said, ‘Of course I’m here! I bloody live here! They see me every bloody day
and half the buggers don’t even say hello - and now I’ve got a welcoming committee!’
The car came to a halt and Edith, Alan’s wife, was the first to the driver’s window,
closely followed by the surrounding throng. At this stage I’m still gaping.
As Alan opened the door he and Edith spoke simultaneously. Alan said, ‘What in
God’s name is going on?’
Edith, with big red smile from painted lips and a nuance that hinted of pride in her
man, said, ‘You’ve found him!’
Alan who was probably seven or eight pints to the good said, ‘Found who?’
‘You’ve found young John! He’s here in the car - you’ve found him!’ said Edith.
‘I know he’s in the car, woman,’ replied Alan in a tone of confused exasperation.
‘He’s been in the bloody car all night!’
Well, at that all hell seemed to break loose. My mother, bless her, was half in the back
seat and I was hauled out, being cuddled, kissed and scolded all at the same time.
A disconsolate murmur went up from the crowd and Edith, grabbing at his tie
screamed, ‘You stupid bugger!’ into the face of a totally bemused Alan Hall. ‘Half the
fucking town has been out looking for him. How could you? How could you?’
The penny still hadn’t dropped with my bemused and inebriated hero of the night, and
the last words I heard Alan Hall say as he was dragged indoors by the tie was, ‘I took him
along as company for the lad.’
At this stage I’m being clasped to Mam’s chest with Mam saying thank you to
everyone and anyone as she backed into our house. My sister, who was three years older
than me and always appeared so cool and grown up, said, ‘I’m just going to thank Frank and
Ken, Mam. I’ll be in in a minute.’
‘All right, pet,’ said Mam and then we went indoors.
Dad was working nights and had already gone to his shift and, as Mam carried me into
what was called the back room with a fire burning in the grate, I started to cry. The front
door banged again and in waltzed my sister, who put a comforting arm around me and
immediately started to recount the night’s events as only Carolyn could.
Mam made cocoa and brought out biscuits and we both listened to and watched
Carolyn act out the drama of the search for my body, or me. Still, I was home, and cocoa
and biscuits at this time of night, was yet another treat. I didn’t appear to be in my Mam’s
bad books and, that being the case, I knew she could square it with Dad in the morning.
What had actually transpired that night I only found out in detail from our Carolyn’s
half-acted narrative of the evening’s events. After I had failed to turn up at home at around
7:30 p.m., Mam had sent my sister to look for me. Carolyn had ran around the locality to
places she thought I might be; the Lyric Cinema; up the “puddy” (a bomb site from the
Second World War) at the top of our street; and several other places. On drawing blanks at
all venues, she then started to knock on doors of houses in our street where she thought I
might be playing with friends. At each door knocked the question asked was the same,
‘Have you seen our John?’ and of course, as you already know, Carolyn received only the
negative in reply.
By eight-thirty the early summer, evening light had started to fade and by this stage
Mam and Dad were getting quite concerned. Carolyn had gathered some of the older
children, her friends, and they were offering to go in search of me. Mam said ‘No’ and
someone was despatched to tell Sergeant Jones the town policeman. Women in headscarves
started to gather around the doors and tell each other stories of tramps seen in the district and
of the cargo boat on the river that was manned only by strange coloured people and was due
to sail on the tide.
At this juncture I was, of course, crisping it up in South Bank, totally oblivious of the
excitement I was causing!
According to Carolyn, Sergeant Jones arrived on the scene next and listened to her tale
of the search and door- knocking.
When she had finished, Sergeant Jones said, ‘Good girl! Now what I want you to do is
take your friends and knock on all the doors in the street that you didn’t do first time around,
then report back here to me.’
Carolyn and her posse of ten-year-olds took this instruction very seriously - this was
important work and, acting under the direct instructions of Sergeant Jones, they did not fear
knocking on the doors of the street “grumps”, who under normal circumstances would think
nothing of throwing a bucket of water over a group of kids who had forgotten whose door
they were playing near. Sergeant Jones stood by our door discussing possibilities with Mam
and Dad and, as the door knocking posse continued about their work, more headscarves took
to the front steps of various houses. Those who had not been made aware as to why Sergeant
Jones was in our street, invented their own “possible”, or in the case of those desperately in
need of some juicy gossip, “probable”, stories as to why he was present. Such tittle-tattle
ranged from the death of a close relative to the more malicious non-payment of rent arrears.
Carolyn said my Mam’s shame was only outweighed by her fear for my safety and she
had once again slipped out of the house to make sure that the uninformed knew precisely the
reason Sergeant Jones was at our door - and thereby saved Mam’s face. Dad said he would
be late for the night shift and knowing the importance of a man’s job and, more to the point,
how easily it could be lost, Sergeant Jones said, ‘Get to work, man, and leave this to me!
We’ll find the lad.’
At this stage of Carolyn’s telling I felt a deep sense of remorse and regret at having
had such a wonderful time in Alan Hall’s taxi. Like all of our neighbours we were a poor
family; whatever came into the family coffers on a weekly basis was spoken for with little
left for luxuries, but what we did have in abundance was love and laughter. Poor we may
have been, but we were immensely rich in our togetherness. I knew Dad would be worrying
throughout his shift and, tired though I was, I implored Mam to let me run down to the
works’ gate and leave word of my safe return home. Mam would have none of it, saying I
had caused enough excitement for one night, and God knows what trouble I would cause if
let loose in the steelworks at the dead of night!
Carolyn did however insist on finishing her tale, which ended with four search parties
organised by Sergeant Jones returning empty handed - just as Alan Hall’s taxi turned into our
street.
That done, it was straight to bed for Carolyn and me and the last thing I can remember
of that eventful night was the back door going and the muffled voice of Dad, who must have
risked leaving the steelworks at his break-time, in hope of news of his errant son.
DAY TWO
“Here’s to the good old whisky
Drink it down
Here’s to the good old whisky
Drink it down
Here’s to the good old whisky
It makes you feel so frisky
Here’s to the good old whisky
Drink it down!”
Another day nearly over, thank God! Two whole days without a drink and it’s starting
to show - or more to the point - I’m really starting to feel it. Drinking cronies had been
phoning the office all day wanting to know where I’d got to. I must have trotted out the
same story seven or eight times, getting everything from advice to abuse for my troubles but the exercise was to prove invaluable. Each time I stated to an enquirer that I was going
on the wagon for six months, it served to strengthen my resolve. What I was really doing
was burning my boats and by the end of the working day I had told that many people - I just
had to see it through.
Easier to say than do! Away from the phone calls with friends and all the bluster and
bravado that went with them, I suddenly felt alone and vulnerable. This was uncharted
territory for me and I was starting to get serious grief from my inner-self. ‘Why are you
doing this? You don’t really want to stop drinking. What about all your pals, are you going
to stop seeing them? Is that it then, no more jaunts to the pub?’ And so on. This was
followed by a question and answer session with myself:
Q : Have you got a drink problem?
A: No!
Q: Then why are you stopping?
A: I’m doing it for charity ( - what I had told my pals).
Q: Bullshit!
A: OK, I’m doing it for me.
Q: Why? Is it health reasons?
A: No!
Q: Financial?
A: No!
Q: Then why are you putting yourself through all this?
A: To prove that I can.
Q: Can what?
A: To prove I can stop if I want.
Q: If you haven’t got a problem, what have you got to prove?
“Check!” Or was it, “Mate!”?
‘Fuck off!’ I told my inner-self, ‘I’m going to do it and that’s that!’ - just as a wave of,
‘I really fancy a pint,’ floated by.
It was then I decided to write it all down. Not just my life-long affair with booze, but
the whole story - my story - page by self-confrontational page. Could I really do this?
That evening I was somewhat subdued; sitting there watching the television until I
could bear it no longer. Steeling myself, I took out an A4 pad and started to write.
Debby knew I was suffering and stayed quiet, periodically pouring herself a drink,
watching, waiting apprehensively for the explosion she later told me she was sure would
come. It didn’t - and I retired to bed early to sleep a fitful sleep.
PICKING THE SEASONS AND SHATTERED ILLUSIONS
Dad had been a labouring man all of his working life and, although he had only the
most basic of reading and writing skills, he possessed a creative inventiveness that came in
very useful on those not-infrequent times when the work dried up and a regular income was
no longer to be had. At such times many other men of the area were in the same position as
Dad and this band of ever-hopefuls, sometimes several hundred, would dress for work early
in the morning and walk like ghosts in the half-light down to the works’ gate and stand in
veritable silence and wait. This was called “the pool” and, after the beginning of the six a.m.
shift, various foremen and gangers from all parts of the steel complex would come to the
gates and pick handfuls of men to join their squads to enable them to complete the day’s
tasks. In general this process was an orderly and dignified affair, but some of the boss’s
lackeys were cruel, vindictive and overbearing. Such bullyboys would relish treating these
very proud men no better than dogs, smirking a few words such as ‘You! You! You! And
you! Get a move on! The rest of you, fuck off!’
I was never up early enough to see my Dad depart for this charade but many a morning
before school age and beyond I can remember him returning at breakfast time, always with
the same three words for Mam, ‘Nowt today, pet’. He would then disappear upstairs and
remove such items of clothing like sweat towels and coarse leather kneepads, which were
essential apparel for most of the labouring jobs open to him down the works.
It was at times like these that his inventiveness came into play, times that also served
as an educational grounding for me and I’m sure such occasions were the beginning of my
entrepreneurial awareness.
Dad used the seasons to the family’s advantage when steady employment in the
steelworks was not an option. On occasions too numerous to remember, before the then
official school starting age of five, he would emerge from his changing upstairs and say to
Mam, ‘Make us some sandwiches, pet! I’ll take the lad. We’re off to so and so.’
Sandwiches made and water bottle filled, he would take his bike from the shed, prop
me on the crossbar and off we would go. I loved those days, what boy wouldn’t? To be off
on a day’s adventure with the world’s greatest hero: my Dad.
Jack, that was my Dad’s name, was adept at using the seasons to supplement the
family income and he used our frequent bike riding adventures to teach me about the
countryside and the wonderful bounty it provided. Throughout much of the year he
harvested a variety of natural produce that could be sold to the shops or the rich folk in
Middlesbrough. Even in December the countryside could yield up a tradable commodity
and, on more than one occasion in the run up to Christmas, Dad’s bike would look like a
holly haystack, as he pushed it along the road to Middlesbrough where the fruit and
vegetable shops would buy the lot. I would toddle along behind, waiting for that glorious
moment when copper and sometimes silver coins would be handed over, for as soon as the
business had been transacted, Dad would go to the nearest sweet shop and buy me a treat. I
would be delighted especially because Dad would always hand me the barley sugar stick or
similar reminding me that I had played an important part in the day’s proceedings. Then it
would be back on the now unladen bike, and he would pedal us the five or so miles home to
Grangetown. Oh! How I loved those adventures!
Normally on such days we would head away from the smoking chimneys of the
steelworks and out of town towards the Cleveland Hills, which Dad always said he knew like
the back of his hand. The time of year, or particular season to hand, dictated our route to that
day’s destination. In March we would head for Wilton Woods; a large area of forestation on
the south-eastern slopes of the hills, where could be found an abundance of snowdrops. Our
day would be spent making posies of some twenty five or so flowers, each bound with an
elastic band, which Dad always seemed to have a supply of. Each bunch of this hardy, but
delicate bloom would be laid carefully in a basket, which Dad would have rested on the rear
mudguard of his bike. The basket was secured firmly to the saddle by means of pieces of
string; another commodity Dad always seemed to have about his person.
When enough bunches had been picked and carefully placed in order to cover the
bottom of the basket, Dad would produce a piece of old newspaper and cover the blooms so
they would not be crushed. A second layer would then be picked, covered with more
newspaper and so on, until the basket was full. Picking a few flowers doesn’t sound like
much, but Dad had turned it into an art form. His large fingers worked with speed and in the
beginning I was amazed, not only at how quickly he could assemble a bunch, but also how he
managed to get all the stems the same length. He would complete five or six identical
bunches in the same space of time it would take me to produce my first crushed and bruised
contribution to the day’s endeavours. Dad was very patient with my early efforts, always
dishing out praise, whilst subtly coaching me to go more slowly and take a little more care.
It was only some years later I learned that my first substandard efforts, which Dad
pretended to place alongside his in the basket, had actually been discarded - as they were
certainly not fit for presentation to the shopkeepers in Middlesbrough. However, after three
or four visits to the snowdrop glens of Wilton Woods, and much encouragement from Dad, I
eventually got the hang of it, and my bunches along with his were deemed to be of
acceptable quality to the buyers.
Picking snowdrops on a cold day in March can be a finger-numbing business and to
combat this, Dad would always light a small camp-fire on our arrival. It was my job to forage
for dead sticks and twigs throughout the day to keep it going as it was necessary to take
frequent breaks for hand warming; wearing gloves or mittens was not an option when
picking snowdrops.
Dad would call a halt to the snowdrop picking calculating the time needed to get off
the hills, ride to Middlesbrough and get round to see all of his regular customers before the
shops closed.
April and May brought primroses and violets and a similar procedure to the snowdrop
picking was enacted but this time it was slower as Dad would mix five violets with every
twenty primroses picked.
‘That’s the way they like them, son,’ he would say. ‘I know it takes longer, but they’ll
pay a penny a bunch for these.’
That was one old penny - and one hundred and twenty carefully picked and mixed
bunches, if sold, produced ten shillings - fifty pence in today’s money. (However the value
of money before decimalisation was different and at around that time Mam’s weekly
shopping bill was only seventeen shillings and six pence - so if Dad and I made ten shillings
from a day’s wild flower picking we thought we were rich.)
For younger readers who may be trying to work out how one hundred and twenty
bunches of flowers came to ten shillings (fifty pence), the formula was this:
There were twelve pennies to a shilling (a shilling is now the equivalent of five new
pence); twenty shillings to a pound. Half of that is one hundred and twenty pence - equating
to ten shillings - complicated really.
Mid to late June heralded the start of the wild fruit picking season and the first of these
was the bilberry, or whortleberry as it is named in some southern counties of England. The
bilberry is a moorland fruit and in the early summer can be found across Britain in areas such
as Dartmoor, Exmoor, the Lake District, Yorkshire Moors, and other such places where the
heather grows. To this day it is still my favourite fruit - but it is hard to come by
commercially as the cost of harvesting could never be recovered in the processing and sale of
such a prince of berries. It is a small fruit, no greater in circumference than the stopper cap
on an ordinary biro pen, and accordingly very time-consuming to pick in any great quantity.
However, that’s what the season provided, so that’s what we picked. Unlike the
blackberry when ripe, which shows itself proudly to the world in all its dark splendour, the
bilberry is a shy fruit that hides away under its own leaves, seemingly shunning the sun that
gives it the deepest misty blue colour. Consequently the picking of such fruit, from standing,
is difficult - especially as the plant itself rarely grows above one foot high and an hour of
such toil can prove to be back-breaking.
Dad of course had his methods and, if bilberries were the order of the day, we would
both dress in our oldest, and preferably darkest, garb - for the juices from this fruit left a
stain that even today’s modern detergents wouldn’t remove. Dressed like a couple of
ragamuffins, we did not have to worry about getting our clothes stained and would lay on our
sides amongst the vast clumps of bilberry bushes and pick expeditiously from under the
leaves. Still, it was hard work and slow going. It sometimes left us soaked to the skin when
the sun had failed to evaporate the morning dew from this dense and hardy little plant and
the surrounding undergrowth.
The sales procedure was much the same as for the flowers and, when we could pick no
more, baskets would be tied to the rear and front mudguards of Dad’s bike. I would be
installed on the crossbar and off we would go again to the fruit and vegetable shops of
Middlesbrough. Sometimes things did not go according to plan, and on arriving at the
fruiterers we would find vast displays of the same fruit we were carrying sitting on barrows
outside our target shops. Dad’s face would say all and he would utter one word ‘Gypsies’.
Bargaining would then be hard but the shopkeepers knew they had the upper hand and in
some such instances Dad was forced to almost give the produce away. On these occasions
the ride back home was usually conducted in silence and on entering the house, Dad would
throw a few coppers on the table and say again, ‘Gypsies’ to Mam.
She would nod as if in complete understanding and say ‘Never mind, Jack. God’s
good.’
I could never figure this out as a child and thought Mam was a bit barmy. We had
been out since the crack of dawn; I’d been hungry for hours; we’d worked all day; got next to
nothing for our labours; and here’s Mam barking on about God being good - good to whom I
thought? It certainly wasn’t us.
The gypsies, like gypsies are wont to do, came to our area when they pleased. Some
years they would be around, and some years we wouldn’t see them at all. Some years they
would come and never muscle in on Dad’s fruit picking activities. This was more often than
not, as they could normally find a less arduous and time consuming way of turning a shilling.
When such shillings were not to be had, then they would pick, and at such times we were no
match for them. They picked in bands; three or four large families all working at once with
the women and children doing the toil and the men barking orders and keeping an eye on
quality control. They could pick enough berries to cater for all of the fruit shops in
Middlesbrough in a morning. The men were anxious in their overseeing of the work - for
afternoons were invariably spent in the company of some friendly landlord.
Wild strawberries followed bilberries; blackberries and wild mushrooms followed
strawberries, which would take us through to September and potato picking followed by
holly gathering up to Christmas. After that the countryside had little to yield and Dad had to
look elsewhere for a source of income.
At such times it was to the mouth of the brown River Tees that we looked for the
much needed supplemental income. Driftwood was the favourite, and apart from what was
normally brought in on the tide, the river’s not insubstantial shipbuilding industry provided a
steady supply of prop baulks and chocks, that seemed to be washed up on an almost weekly
basis.
When such forays took place, Dad would strap his wood saw to the crossbar of the
bike and take five or six folded hessian sacks, which would be placed over the saw to act as a
cushion for me to sit on. This contrivance provided quite a comfortable ride, far better than
the bare crossbar, which was guaranteed to give “pillion pins-and-needles” after a mile or so
of travel.
Our route to the river took us through the streets of the town and the nearer we came to
the steelworks, the dirtier and more run down each street appeared to be. I know now that
they were really no different to our street. The same decent, proud, hardworking people who
occupied them couldn’t do much about their outward appearance due to the constant fallout
from the coke ovens and blast furnaces. To me, at that time, our street was the best; it was
the cleanest and the furthest away from the steel complex perimeter.
I knew it was the best because, if a family ever moved out, there would be a clamour
from the lower streets for a swap, and at such times the rent man became quite popular in
certain houses.
After the streets and a circumnavigation of the steel works, it was a mile ride down
Station Road where the highway came to an abrupt end. From then on it was tracks petering
out to little more than footpaths, until we came to the water’s edge.
Once there, Dad would seize upon the largest piece of timber close-by and start sawing
it into nine-inch lengths. Meanwhile, I would scavenge the shore line and drag as much
driftwood as I could to where Dad was working. I would drag, he would saw and I would
neatly fill the sacks - another art form that he taught me. However, it wasn’t all work, we
would have our sandwiches and water for lunch and stop for breaks (Dad called them
“spells”) at regular intervals. Then he would tell me the names of the river fowl and show me
how to skim stones across the brown water. Looking back on it, it seems amazing now. We
could be out all day, have a fantastic time and not spend a penny.
When the sacks were full of sawn timber, Dad would produce the necessary quantity
of string, and with me holding the bike steady, somehow secure six sacks to its frame. Dad
would then lean his body against the load and set off pushing for home with me stumbling
along behind. I never liked the walk home.
It probably took one hour and a half to reach our back yard, and Dad would
immediately start chopping the sawn timber into sticks.
I would go indoors for a warm and, hopefully, tasty treat from Mam. Dad would
continue chopping until the sacks were empty and a large pile of sticks half covered the back
yard. He would then make bundles, tying each one securely with wire before putting them
back into the sacks. This done, he would reload the old bike and, often as not in darkness, go
out to knock the doors of the big houses in Bolckow Road and ask for a halfpenny a bundle.
Everyone had open fires in those days and Dad obviously had his regular customers, for he
would return from this part of the exercise quite quickly and a handful of coins would be
placed on the kitchen table.
The only other remunerative activity that Dad had throughout the winter months was if
the rake came in. I never found out why it was so called, but the rake happened three or four
times a year, and was essentially a clearing out operation of the steelworks.
Hundreds of thousands of tonnes of coal were consumed every year in the process of
making steel, and as the coal was shipped in and used, it left behind several thousand tonnes
of waste dust. This dust, which in effect was no use at all, was pushed into large piles by
Caterpillar shovels; piles that eventually grew into small mountains that sprung up all around
the steel works until someone gave the order to shift it. It would then be loaded onto open
rail trucks and shunted to a place not far from where Dad and I went to collect driftwood.
There it would stay until a large black steam locomotive would come to haul it away,
presumably back to County Durham to form part of the many slag heaps so common to the
landscape in that area.
On this particular day Dad somehow knew that the rake was in, and had decided to
share this privileged information with a friend who, like himself, had not been chosen from
the work pool that day.
We set off early that morning; both men had a shovel, three sacks and a riddle
strapped to their bikes and of course Dad had me to ferry. Dad had made his own riddle
several years earlier and was quite proud of it. It was a circular band of wood some five
inches deep with one end covered in a robust wire mesh attached to the frame with steel
staples; to turn up at the rake without a riddle was considered an act of lunacy.
On such occasions, even though I was little more than a toddler, I was considered an
important part of the team; Dad’s friend said I was their man on the ground and winked. I
was literally that.
On arriving at the rake, which to me seemed like a never ending line of railway trucks,
the men would tie string around their ankles and boots to try and keep the coal dust out of
their clothes and off their skin. This was important as the task they were about to undertake
was arduous to say the least; and within minutes they would be “sweating buckets”, as Dad
would say; the combination of coal dust and perspiration could cause severe irritation.
Once the string-tying ritual had been performed, Dad and his pal took their shovels
and riddles and climbed into the first truck - straightaway sinking up to their knees. They
started work at each end of the truck and gradually moved inwards until they met in the
middle. The process was slow and somewhat haphazard with each man shovelling dust into
the riddle until full. Then they would take the riddle and shake it in a circular motion until
all of the dust had vibrated through the wire mesh and back into the trucks. Each riddle full
of dust would leave behind several small, but in some cases sizeable, pieces of coal. The
coal would then be picked out and thrown down to me, “the man on the ground”, and it was
my job to gather up the black, shiny pieces and start filling the first sack.
Down by the River Tees on such winter days it was bitterly cold and, even though
Mam would have dressed me double, plus gloves, woolly hat and muffler, the north-east
wind could chill you to the bone in minutes if you were standing around. Consequently, I
was glad to be scampering around picking up and bagging the thrown-down coal.
Dad and his pal worked for an hour at a time then climbed down to share a cigarette
and consult with me as to how much had been bagged. I quickly warmed to Dad’s friend,
who at each break was full of praise for my efforts, he also had a bag of boiled sweets which
were always offered to me as the hourly cigarette was lit.
On average it took approximately one hour of both men working flat out to fill a sack
of coal, and I would shout up enthusiastically, ‘This one’s full, Dad!’ knowing that another
boiled sweet would soon be mine. Six sacks would equate to approximately six hours toil,
add on five ten-minute breaks and half an hour for lunch, which meant we would be at the
rake between seven and eight hours. It would also mean that the men would have changed
trucks four or five times.
On this particular day, just after a sandwich lunch and oh! treat of treats - hot sweet tea
(as Mam had bought one of those new-fangled Thermos flasks) - Dad’s pal, who was first up
in the new truck, shouted down, ‘Jack! Get up here and take a look at this!’
Dad climbed up, over and into the truck and gazed in astonishment at what was sitting
in his mate’s riddle. It was virtually full of good-sized pieces of coal, ‘And from only three
shovels full of dust,’ his pal informed him.
They threw the coal down to me and filled the riddle again, bingo! A good shake of
the riddle, revealed a similar amount to the last.
I heard Dad say, ‘We’ve struck it rich! At this rate we’ll be finished in half an hour.’
Their spirits literally soared and as coal aplenty rained down all around me, I heard
them planning to get this load home and return later with a Tilley lamp. It sounded like there
was more coal than dust in this truck and as such a find not to be missed, or left for another
day in case someone else happened across it.
I was working flat-out to keep up with the falling coal, whilst at the same time
wondering if I could somehow get in on this planned night adventure, when a stern voice
from behind me barked, ‘You two! Get down here and be quick about it!’
I spun around and standing not ten feet away from me was a railway policeman,
leaning against his bike. Dad and his pal looked at one another, said nothing and started to
climb out of the truck; as they reached the ground and turned to face the policeman, he
spoke.
‘And just what the fuck do you think you two are doing?’
I was shocked and frightened all at the same time; I’d never heard anyone speak to my
Dad like that and even worse, I could tell by the look on Dad’s face that he was worried.
‘Come on, speak up!’ said the policeman.
Dad’s pal, who I later learned did not have a wife and kids to look out for, was
obviously not in the mood to kowtow to this foul-mouthed badge of authority and, feigning
boredom, replied, ‘What does it look like we’re doing?’
The copper pushed his bike aside, drew himself up to his full height and said, ‘To me,
young fella, it looks like you’re stealing.’
Dad, who obviously sensed that the situation was going the wrong way, grabbed hold
of his pal’s arm and said ‘Listen, mate..’
‘Don’t call me mate!’ said the copper.
‘Listen,’ said Dad again. ‘This stuff (pointing at the trucks) is all waste. It’s rubbish to
be taken away -, nobody wants it. Where’s the harm in a couple of blokes who haven’t got
any work getting a bit of coal to keep the kids warm?’
The copper just glared at my Dad then said, ‘It may be waste and it may be rubbish,
but it doesn’t belong to you. So what have we got here?’ Dad’s face was white. The copper
continued. ‘I’ll tell you what we’ve got here; two grown men stealing other people’s
property; two grown men trespassing on the railway and two grown men involving a minor
in their crimes.’
At this juncture I burst into tears of fear. Mam and Dad had instilled into my sister
and me on a daily basis never to take anything that did not belong to us and that stealing
something from someone was the worst crime of all, and what about God? I knew he’d be
watching and here I was with Dad surrounded by crimes. I just wept. This had to be the
worst day of my five-year-old life.
The copper must have noticed my distress and said, ‘If it wasn’t for this poor little
chap, you two’d be before the magistrates in the morning with charges of trespass and
thieving on the sheet, it would be jail for the pair of you.’
I was petrified and now very confused. I started to wail even louder and wet myself.
The copper said, ‘This time it’s a warning. But don’t ever let me catch you at it again
or you’ll both go down!’
‘Right!’ said Dad. ‘Thanks. We’ll get along home then.’
‘Not so fast,’ said the copper. ‘You’re not leaving that there,’ pointing at the five sacks
of coal. ‘Put it back!’
‘What?’ said Dad and his pal simultaneously.
‘You heard. Put it back!’
‘Aw, come on,’ said Dad’s pal. But Dad grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the
filled sacks and away from any further possible confrontation.
‘One sack in each truck,’ said the copper. ‘And mix it well in with your shovels. Now
get a move on!’
It must have been heartbreaking for them both, but I was past caring; the warm wee
had now gone cold and I was feeling sore between my legs, but that wasn’t the worst of it from that day on, I never felt totally secure again. Listening to my Dad, my hero, being
sworn at and ordered about had a profound and lasting effect on me, making me realise how
small and vulnerable as a family we were. I didn’t feel safe anymore. How many times in the
future would I lean on drink to allay the fears of my own insecurity because of what
happened that day at the rake?
DAY THREE
“In the sweet County Limerick
On a cold winter’s night
All the turf fires were burning
When I first saw the light
And a drunken old midwife
Went tipsy with joy
As she danced round the floor
With a slip of a boy. ”
Again a poor night of fitful sleep and I awoke feeling washed out; not looking forward
to another day without a drink. However, I had my resolve and decided on a two-pronged
course of action. Firstly, I would declare to all and sundry that I was not going to have a
drink for one whole year and that I would be doing it for the homeless charity, “Emmaus”,
and secondly, I decided that my system was going to need some help in the coming weeks
and resolved to acquire some hash to “help me through the night” so to speak. I had not
smoked dope since the seventies, but I can remember the calming affect it seemed to have
had on some of the most unlikely peace and love, flower-power folk.
Anyway, through a friend who was currently much more in the know about such
things, I acquired a small amount of grass and that evening the effect was little short of
miraculous. Unlike a lot of people who would like to lay a booze habit; especially people
who are out of work or homeless, I had a lot going for me. I had a business to run and could
easily immerse myself in work for twelve or so hours; consequently I was totally occupied
throughout the day and not suffering from the drinker’s common complaint of boredom. But
it wasn’t as easy when work had finished, and for the previous three nights I had embarked
on my own mental version of wall climbing - but not tonight!
I stopped working in the office at around 7 p.m. and headed upstairs, via the lift, to the
balcony. It was a lovely summer’s evening; I had been on the go since five-thirty a.m. and as
the lift trundled two floors upward I started to feel the old “I really fancy a drink” kick in.
Debby was sitting on the balcony, glass in hand, watching the dinghy racers down
below. As I emerged from the lift she turned and said, ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Not too good,’ I replied, and carried on to explain about the days without a drink not
being too bad - but the evenings were something I had come to dread. Debby started to
respond sympathetically but I cut her short and told her about the dope.
‘Not for me,’ she said. ‘I’ve got enough on my plate with this,’ waving her glass in the
air as she spoke. ‘And besides, aren’t you worried that you’ll be just swapping one monkey
for another?’
‘Who knows?’ I said. ‘One thing’s for sure though, I’ve gone public on this for the
charity today.’
Debby whistled through her teeth. ‘What have you said?’
I explained that I had burned my boats as far as drink was concerned for one whole
year, and that I was determined to see it through. Debby whistled again.
I took the hash and recently-bought cigarette papers from my pocket; took my place on
the balcony and proceeded to roll a joint. After three deeply swallowed drags the effect of
the grass kicked in; the gnawing in my stomach subsided and I started to relax for the first
time in three days. By the time I was halfway down the joint all thoughts of wanting a drink
disappeared and in my newly-induced state I was starting to feel confident that one drug
could definitely help me beat another.
That night I slept like a baby but awoke the following morning feeling far from
refreshed and confident.
GOD & MY FIRST DRINK
Drink was never kept in our house in Cheetham Street except over the Christmas
period and even then, as I recall, it only amounted to a bottle of ruby port and one of pale
sherry; Mam and Dad were moderate in such indulgences. Dad would go for a pint at the
Unity Club once or twice a week but to his dying day I never saw him take more than three in
one go. Mam would have a drink on special occasions, but only the one, and would say to
Dad after his second, ‘Go steady, kid.’
“Kid” was her pet name for him and I still don’t know why. A belated guess would be
that she abbreviated “kiddo”, a cinema Americanism popular in the nineteen thirties and
forties. However, all-in-all they were people of moderation and I could never blame their
influence for the road of alcohol down which I would weave in later years.
Mam, who rarely spoke ill of anyone, disapproved of the majority of steel men who
regularly sank their seven or eight pints of beer. She always kept her own counsel on this
subject unless it was obvious to her that a wife and children were going without, owing to
what she considered to be a man’s “over-indulgence”. Even then, her critical rebuke of such
behaviour was mild and always ended in her hoping that the good God above would have a
hand in their salvation. I had my first drink of alcohol aged seven and a half and the good
God above was smack bang in the middle of it!
Mam and Dad were churchgoers, not fanatics or zealots, just ordinary, regular Sunday
worshippers: communion in the morning and evensong on a Sunday night. We went to
church as a family and for my part I looked forward to those sessions. Compared to our
house, the House of God was way up market - palatial even. Carolyn and I quickly learned
the structure of the services and our obvious interest prompted Mam to enrol us in Sunday
school. I loved it - it was all new and interesting, and on discovering I could sing in tune, the
Sunday school mistress put my name forward for the choir.
I was quite taken with the idea of being in a choir. In my little mind the people in the
choir were important; one step down only from the vicar so to speak; and I really fancied
dressing up in the cassock and surplice and being up there by the altar where all the action
was.
It was arranged that I was to turn up for a choir practice the following Wednesday
evening, to undergo what turned out to be something akin to an audition. The choir was an
all male affair made up of two-thirds boys and a third men, led by a guy called Frank White
who only had one eye. On the evening of the audition, Mam had scrubbed me pink and had
insisted that I wore my best Sunday clothes. No son of hers was going down to the church
looking like a ragamuffin.
It was wintertime and I was glad as I was able to slip out of our street under the cover
of darkness and not have to explain to the other street kids about choirs and the wearing of
Sunday best. Don’t get me wrong - I wanted to join the choir but the less said the better as
regards my street “cred”.
I had been told to go round the back of the church to the vestry and on entering at 7
p.m. prompt, I encountered a scene not dissimilar to a football ground changing room.
Benches and coat pegs took up three sides of the room and twenty men and boys were all in
various states of dress or undress as I walked in. The other wall of the room had two doors;
one that opened into a narrow hallway that led into church proper; and the other to a small
room where the vicar kept the vestments and other regalia. As I walked in everyone stopped
talking and turned to look in my direction. A couple of seconds silence ensued. Just as I was
beginning to wish that I’d never got interested in this choir malarkey, a stout silver-haired,
ancient-looking individual, whom I was soon to learn was called Smithy said, ‘I don’t think
he’s big enough to play centre forward.’
‘We could give him a try on the wing,’ said another one of the elders.
When you’re seven and a half and the smallest person in the room, such situations can
be, I’m sure, quite daunting - but for some reason I saw the funny side and started to laugh.
Some of the older choristers started to laugh as well and Smithy said, ‘What brings you here
lad? What do you want?’
I mustered my courage, aware that every eye in the room was on me, and said directly
to Smithy, ‘I’d like to join the choir please, sir.’
The whole place erupted in laughter and I felt myself go bright red. Just at that
moment the door to the church itself swung open and a tall man with one eye, already
dressed in a dark blue cassock and crisp white surplice, swept in saying, ‘Get a move on,
lads. We’re running late!’
He had swept-back, fair hair and a not-unpleasant face. He was, I thought, about thirtyfive years old; this was Frank White, the choirmaster. He noticed, but ignored, me saying to
no one in particular, ‘We’ll start with “There Is A Green Hill Far Away”. Let’s get to it!’
Everyone started to file into church and he went to a cupboard; opened the door and
selected a cassock from several that were hanging inside, eyeing me up and down as he did
so.
‘Here,’ said Frank White, handing me a cassock. ‘Put this on and follow me.’
I quickly did as I was told and thought it prudent not to mention that the cassock was
about six inches too long and made me look like one of Snow White’s seven dwarves!
As I followed Frank White out of the vestry, he told me that if I sang well tonight I
would go on trial for four weeks and if at the end of that time he thought I was up to scratch,
I’d get a surplice to wear over the cassock and be officially one of the choir. He followed
this up by saying, ‘And if you are coming back on Sunday, take that home,’ pointing at the
cassock, ‘and get your mother to take it up.’
I didn’t know it at the time, but God had blessed me with a soprano voice of some
quality and when, half way through “There Is A Green Hill Far Away”, I was asked to sing
solo, I noticed out of the corner of my eye several raised eyebrows and nods of approval
from Smithy and the other elders.
At the end of practice, Frank White gave a sort of team talk informing all present that
the coming Sunday was a bit special and that he wanted everyone there twenty minutes
before kick-off, as the Bishop of Durham was coming. It was then I realised that as far as
Saint Matthew’s Church, Grangetown, was concerned, all choir-speak was couched in a kind
of football parlance.
I ran home that night through the dimly lit streets feeling quite proud of myself and,
once indoors, I related the evening’s events to Dad and Carolyn, while Mam made cocoa.
Sunday went well and after the service, when we were all in the vestry, Frank White
announced that he’d heard enough of the new boy – me - and that in his opinion I would
make a good mid-field player and that if no one objected I could come off the bench right
away and wear the full strip next Sunday. This sort of announcement was obviously not the
norm and certainly not in keeping with tradition, as it was greeted with a hubbub of murmurs
from the rest of the squad. Eventually Smithy cleared his throat, which silenced the others,
and then he spoke.
‘Could be a bit risky, Frank,’ he said. ‘What if he turns up next week and then we
don’t see him again?’
‘I know what you mean, George,’ said the choirmaster. ‘What about it lad?’ fixing me
with his one good eye. ‘If we play you in the first team next week, we need to be sure that
you’re not going to be a one-game wonder.’
I didn’t need to be asked twice; I’d enjoyed my first Sunday in the choir but
throughout the service I had felt quite self-conscious about being the only one on the team
not wearing a surplice. I wanted to look and be just like the rest of them.
‘If I can wear a surplice next week,’ I said earnestly, ‘I’ll never let you down; I’ll
never be late for practice and I promise to be early for church every Sunday.’
Everyone laughed. I went bright red and Frank White said, ‘OK, lad. You’re in. Don’t
be late for practice on Wednesday!’
I was ecstatic and ran round to the front of the church where Mam, Dad and Carolyn
were outside making small- talk with other parishioners. Of course I did not know then that
the vestry charade I had just left behind had been totally rehearsed; you don’t suss this kind
of thing out when you’re seven and a half. However, I was in the choir and that was all that
mattered then.
The vicar at St Matthew’s at that time was Reverend Frank Wilde, not to be confused
with the one-eyed choirmaster who shared the same initials - but more about the fish-out-ofwater Reverend later.
The choir soon became a large part of my life; it wasn’t just the Wednesday practices
and the two sessions on Sunday, there were various other events that regularly had us
donning the cassock and surplice strip. For one, couples were married in our church every
Saturday and, although the area in general was poor, many of them managed to go to the
extra expense of hiring the church organist and choir for their special day.
I never found out what the adult choristers were paid, but the other boys and I received
one shilling for every wedding - a veritable king’s ransom to us in those days.
Some Saturdays, but I admit not often, we would have two weddings to perform on the
same day, and there was always an air of excitement in the vestry on such occasions. Two
shiny shillings to take home on a Saturday night! God! I was rich! Dad only had five
shillings a week for his cigarettes, pints and a bet, and that was only if he’d managed a full
week’s work.
It’s amazing when I look back on it now; Dad having five shillings for himself on a
good week. With five shillings in your pocket you were a man among men, but now in the
twenty-first century it’s the equivalent of twenty-five pence - not even the price of a
newspaper.
Anyway, it was one of those double wedding Saturdays that led me to have my first
brush with alcohol and, as I felt sure at the time, have my mortal soul cast into eternal
damnation!
At this juncture it is worthy of mention that since joining the choir I had also been
enrolled in confirmation classes. This was at my own instigation, mainly as I wanted to
partake of Holy Communion on a Sunday morning like the other boys, and not feel left out. I
so desperately wanted to be just like them in every way. I took confirmation classes seriously
and felt by doing so that I was coming very close to God, but with only a few weeks to go
before the actual day of my confirmation - disaster struck.
The previous Sunday, after evensong, Frank White had kept the choir back for what he
called a “team talk” and informed all present that the coming Saturday was a double-header.
This brought forth murmurs of approval from the elders and shouts of ‘Great!’ from some of
the boys. Great indeed - a wedding in the morning and one in the afternoon meant two
shillings each. Everyone quietened down to listen to Frank White.
Frank then went on to explain that the morning gig was the usual affair, but that the
wedding in the afternoon was to be run to a completely different format. Accordingly, he
wanted everyone early for practice on Wednesday and to be prepared to stay on until we had
got this new variation off-pat. This news of an early start and potentially late finish to
practice started a rumble of dissent from all present. Frank White cut it short with one short
bark, ‘You’re all getting double money. Silence!’
Then Smithy spoke, ‘How do you mean, Frank?’
‘Exactly what I said,’ replied Frank White. ‘The afternoon lot want a special affair;
her father is one of those bosses down the works, and he’s said if we give him what his
daughter wants, then we’re all on double money.’
This was great news for everyone, and just as I was getting my mental arithmetic to
confirm I was on a three-shilling Saturday, Totty Thomas, one of the older boys, chirped in
with, ‘She can have me for two bloody shillings.’
‘That will be enough of that, Thomas!’ said Frank White somewhat outraged.
‘Remember you….you little toe rag… you’re still in the house of God and I don’t want to
hear language like that in here!’
‘Sorry, skip.’ said Totty, with his surplice half over his head.
‘OK.’ said Frank White. ‘Now don’t forget everybody. Wednesday night practice sixthirty sharp.’
Totty who was, to put it mildly, a bit of a free spirit, was always in trouble; it wasn’t
intentional - for the most part it just seemed to happen to him. He’d had several warnings
from Frank White about being late for church or choir practice and Smithy reckoned he was
on dodgy ground.
‘Frank should get rid of the snotty-nosed little bugger.’ I overheard Smithy say to one
of the elders, who nodded in agreement. ‘Don’t you go mixing with him, son, else you’ll end
up in trouble,’ he said to me. I stayed quiet and kept my own counsel.
The following Wednesday everyone turned up early for practice; everyone that is
except Totty. By the time we had changed, Frank White had worked himself up into a bit of
a lather and was being egged on by Smithy, who said, ‘The little bugger’s taking the piss,
Frank. Give him his marching orders!’
Other senior members murmured their approval to this suggestion and buoyed by their
support Smithy continued, ‘If I was you, Frank, I wouldn’t stand for it. He’s taking the
bloody piss I tell you.’
‘That’s enough, George,’ said Frank White. ‘I’ll deal with him when he turns up.’
‘And if he doesn’t turn up?’ Smithy queried.
‘Then I’ll be round to see his old man after practice and tell him his son’s been
chucked out of choir. Now the rest of you; I want everyone outside and round to the front of
the church.’
This was most unusual - but we all filed out from the vestry in twos, chatting about
Totty’s pending demise or as to why we were going outside in the dark.
Once outside, Frank White explained that the posh wedding, as we’d come to call it,
wanted a sort of guard of honour for the bride to walk through when she arrived and that we
were to sing one verse only of “All Things Bright and Beautiful”. Frank then explained to
the organist, Henry, who was a stooped, red-faced individual with a large hooked nose, that
when he heard us sing that last line, “The Lord God made us all”, then he was to strike up
inside the church with the wedding march.
He went on to say that, as the bride entered the church, we were all to run like blazes
round to the vestry and take up our positions in the choir pews, to coincide with the bride’s
arrival at the chancel steps.
‘What if I can’t hear you out here?’ said Henry the Organ.
‘That’s why we’re standing out here,’ said Frank White with an air of sarcasm. ‘You
go inside now and sit on your stool. I’ll line the lads up out here and get them to sing a
verse.’
Henry, somewhat rebuffed, turned and walked inside, while Frank organised the rest
of us into two lines on each side of the church entrance.
‘Right!’ said Frank, batten in hand. ‘Give us the first verse of “All Things Bright and
Beautiful”.’
But just as he raised his batten hand there was a cry of distress, quickly followed by
the sound of metal scraping along tarmac and concrete. Totty, who had been racing against
his old enemy time, crashed and clattered - bike and all - between the two rows of gaping
choristers - and came to a halt in a heap at the feet of Frank White. Nobody spoke and Totty,
managing to extricate himself from his now scratched and slightly buckled bike, stood up,
looked at Frank White and said with a grin, ‘Sorry I’m late, skip.’
Frank White was literally white and, in a kind of quiet voice that sometimes
accompanies extreme anger, said, ‘Go to the vestry. I’ll deal with you later.’
Totty picked up his bike and had no sooner started for the vestry when Henry the
Organ appeared from inside the church and said, ‘This isn’t going to work, Frank. I can’t
hear a bloody note in there.’
Frank, who was now a picture of exasperation, turned on Henry and said, ‘That’s
because we haven’t sung a bloody note, Henry! Now will you please go back inside and sit
on your organ!’
It was just too much and one of the boys started to laugh and immediately infection set
in. It must have been a queer sight to any passer-by. Twenty men and boys dressed in
church garb doubled up with laughter and a red faced, one-eyed lunatic waving a baton
shouting, ‘Order! Order!’
After several minutes, order was restored and we all lined up again and on Frank
White’s signal launched into the first verse of “All Things Bright and Beautiful”. Half way
through he walked inside to establish whether or not Henry the Organ could hear us from the
far end of the church. We finished singing and a couple of minutes later Frank White
returned holding a stop watch and said, ‘Right, lads! I want you all to run round to the vestry
as quick as you can, then walk normal-pace into the church and take up your usual positions.
I’ll pretend to be the bride and walk in from here, down the main aisle and, if my
calculations are right, you should all be in the choir pews as I reach the chancel steps. Got it?
Good! On your marks! Get set! Go!’
We all started running and, on reaching the vestry carried on straight through, with
Alan Atkinson the head choir boy grabbing the cross in order to lead us into the church.
Totty Thomas, who was sitting there still in mufti, was overheard to say, ‘Christ! Where’s
the bloody fire?’ as we all rushed through. As we hit the church proper everyone slowed
down to the sedate pace normally set by choirs and, sure enough, as we took up our places in
the stalls by the altar, Frank White, stop watch in hand, came to a halt at the chancel steps.
‘Good work, lads!’ said Frank White. ‘Spot on! Do it exactly the same on Saturday
and you’re all on double money.’ This brought murmurs of approval all round, even Smithy
and the rest of the elders who were all out of breath, seemed pleased.
‘That’s it then,’ said Frank White. ‘I thought we’d be here all night trying to get that
right. The rest of it’s easy; three of the usual hymns which we know off by heart. You can
all get off home.’
This was greeted with responses of, ‘Great!’ and ‘Brilliant!’ and we all filed out to the
vestry to change.
Frank White came in behind us and said, ‘Thomas! You stay behind. I want a word
with you.’
After every Wednesday practice some of the older boys, including Totty, would leave
the vestry and sneak round the back of the old church hall for a fag. I normally went straight
home, but this night I tagged along behind; I was as eager as everyone else to learn of Totty’s
fate.
Once out of sight, some of the older boys lit up and everyone discussed the Totty
situation offering up their own ideas as to what was going to happen to him. Someone
passed me a lit cigarette and said, ‘Here, young ‘un. Have a drag!’
Not wanting to feel left out and desperately wanting to be more grown up like them, I
took the cigarette, inhaled deeply and erupted into a fit of coughing. Everyone fell about
laughing and I was only saved further embarrassment by the appearance of Totty, fag in
hand, as he wheeled his bike around the corner. My smoking gaff was forgotten and
everyone crowded round Totty as Alan Atkinson said, ‘Well, Totts? Has he given you the
boot?’
‘Nah,’ said Totty with affected bravado. ‘I’m still in, but the bastard’s dropped me for
Saturday and I could really have done with those three fucking shillings.’
Everyone commiserated with Totty on his loss of wages, but Totty just said, ‘Never
mind, eh? Every cloud has a silver lining; the Boro’ are at home to Man’ City on Saturday -
so I’ll go to the match while you poor buggers are cooped up in church and on top of that
I’ve managed to get a little something special for tonight - so life’s not too bad.’
‘What’s this little something special for tonight then?’ asked Alan Atkinson.
‘Here,’ said Totty removing his prized water flask from the handlebars of his bike and
passing it to Alan. ‘Have a slug of that and pass it round!’
Pass it round they did and as usual I was at the end of the queue, but once again not
wanting to feel left out. When the flask was passed to me I took a deep swallow. ‘Ugh!’ I
said. ‘What’s that? It tastes horrible!’
Wrong again! Everybody started laughing and I knew I’d made another mistake.
Totty spoke; ‘While you fuckers were all running about like demented angels tonight, I
nipped into the vicar’s room and filled me bottle up from the communion flagon.’
Several of the assembled gasped and I felt sick with fear as the seriousness of my
involvement in Totty’s crime took hold. Here was I, about to be confirmed in two week’s
time, and I’d just been gulping down the stolen holy blood of Christ! And worse - I was
probably standing on consecrated ground when I did it.
In my haze of fear I heard someone say, ‘You’ve gone too far this time, Totty. If you
get caught with that there’ll be hell to pay. I’m off!’
I heard others say, ‘Let’s get out of here!’ and I just turned and ran for home.
I somehow managed to go to sleep that night and was both surprised and relieved to
wake up in the morning and find that God had not done anything to me in the night - maybe
he was waiting till Saturday. It’s amazing the burdens that little ones can carry around in
their heads and believe that no one in the world could possibly understand or help them. For
the next two days I was a wretched little soul and it showed in my outward demeanour,
which prompted Mam to ask if I was feeling all right. I positively ached to tell someone
about my crime against God, but what could anyone do to help I reasoned? I might get
somebody into God’s bad books just by involving them. I kept silent and was very miserable.
Saturday morning eventually dawned and I set off for church with a heavy heart
feeling certain that the missing wine would have now been noticed. What should have been
a Saturday to look forward to, had all the hallmarks of a complete disaster. How else could it
end with an all- knowing God watching down on myself and the other sacrilegious little
criminals about to congregate in his most holy house?
I was always one of the first to arrive at church on choir days, so you can imagine my
surprise when I arrived to find Totty Thomas standing close to the main entrance. As I
approached he grabbed my arm and ushered me round to the back of the church.
‘Listen, young ‘un,’ said Totty. ‘If anyone asks you anything about the missing wine,
you know nowt. Understand?’ I nodded, now speechless with fear. ‘If anyone asks, you just
say you went straight home after practice on Wednesday. Got it?’ I nodded again. Totty let
go of my arm and pushed me towards the vestry. ‘Just keep your mouth shut and nothing
will happen to you.’
My misery was now complete; if I told the truth Totty would more than likely kick me
around like a football; and if I kept his secret then God would…well, I wasn’t sure what God
would do.
I don’t recall changing into the choir kit that day, but I do remember that there was no
mention of the stolen holy sacrament. I went through the motions of the first wedding and as
we disrobed in the vestry Frank White said, ‘Right, lads, that was a good first half. Now, I
want you all back here at two o’clock sharp.’
Still no mention of the stolen wine, I slipped out of the vestry unnoticed and ran home;
I didn’t want to be with the other boys and I certainly did not want to enter into a discussion
as to whether Totty would get away with it or not. My small person’s reasoning convinced
me that I had been involved in the committing of not just a crime, but also a mortal sin, and
that it was just a matter of time before the whole episode was brought to light and those
responsible punished. As I ran, I thought about the story of Judas in the Bible and wondered
if I would be called upon to hang myself.
I was back at church just before two o’clock, and again as we donned cassock and
surplice nobody mentioned the wine. It suddenly occurred to me that the discovery of theft
and sacrilege was most likely to happen the following day as the sacraments were prepared
for Holy Communion; this realisation brought on another bout of nausea.
The church was already filling up with guests for the posh wedding as we filed out of
the vestry and walked round the outside of the church to the front entrance. Frank White
organised us into our guard-of-honour formation and as the bride’s car drew up he launched
us into “All Things Bright and Beautiful”. The driver stepped out smartly and dutifully
opened the rear passenger door. Out stepped the bride’s father all red-faced and beaming,
turning straightaway to take his daughter’s hand as she alighted. The said hand could be
seen sticking out of the car interior, but that’s as far as it went and a voice from inside called
out, ‘I’m stuck, Dad. I’m stuck!’ The driver, who I knew to be Billy Turner, acted quickly he ran round to the other rear door, jumped inside and must have freed the bride as she
immediately joined her father on the pavement, just as we sang “the Lord God made them
all” and stopped.
Frank White, who by now had realised that his best-laid plans were going well awry,
hissed like a jockey out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Once more from the top!’ And off we all
went again. A similar situation was happening inside the church. Henry the Organ having
heard our first rendition come to a close, struck up with the wedding march and, of course,
all heads turned to see the bride enter. After several bars and no bride, Henry stopped
playing. This brought on the inevitable murmur of speculation from the waiting guests and
Henry, who was later overheard cursing Frank White’s precision stop watch planning,
listened in astonishment as we outside tried to save the bride’s blushes - not to mention the
extra shilling.
The second time around all went according to plan, and as the bride entered the church
Henry was on cue. We, meanwhile, led by Frank White, were doing the fancy dress hundred
meters back to the vestry with our leader mumbling on about bloody bridal gowns and
Smithy commiserating with a, ‘You can’t win ‘em all, Frank.’
The rest of the service went without a hitch and obviously to the satisfaction of the
bride’s father as his promised double money was later doled out by Frank White in the
vestry. I set off for home clutching my three pieces of Judas silver with a heavy heart and a
foreboding about the morrow, when I was sure the stolen wine would be missed and dire
retribution would fall upon the perpetrators of such a crime. My mood was such that I
craved blessed relief from the burden of my secret, and in the hope of some way atoning for
my sins, I gave Mam the three shillings towards her housekeeping and retired to bed early.
Next morning the sacraments were prepared, Holy Communion served and the service
went off as normal with no mention of the missing wine. As I walked home after church I
felt like a great burden had been lifted from my shoulders and started to speculate as to how
the crime could have gone undetected. I eventually settled on the theory, that as I had given
my three shillings to Mam, God had pardoned me and worked one of his miracles by
replacing the missing wine. After all, his Son had done something similar at a wedding in
Cana I recalled. It wasn’t till quite some time later that I discovered the real reason for my
let- off.
Our vicar, the good Reverend Wilde, was responsible for the oversight and a lot more
beside.
The Reverend Frank Wilde was a tall well-built man of mainly sombre appearance; a
man often given to unexpected mood swings for no apparent reason. Shortly after my
confirmation I became his altar boy, a job that involved the lighting and extinguishing of
candles; the carrying of sacraments; and the holding of the huge scripture book, from which
he would read the lessons. Generally he would be all sweetness and light, but on other
occasions he was like a man possessed and would hiss demonically at me for the making of
the slightest mistake. Such behaviour is hard to figure out when you’re young - but all was
made plain when he was hauled off to an ecclesiastical prison due to a dalliance with the
vicarage cleaner, fuelled by a raving drink problem. The latter had apparently developed
into a full-blown affair with the holy sacrament and for the most part he was either
permanently pissed or suffering from a raging hangover. His binge sessions were mainly
played out in the little room off the vestry, so no wonder Totty’s theft went undetected; he
probably thought he had drunk the missing wine himself and there was I, for months,
believing that God had worked a miracle just to spare me - maybe he had at that.
THE PARTY SEASON
Sister Carolyn who I had always considered to be both the family alchemist and Dion of all
things fashionable and trendy had started going to what we had always considered the a
prerogative of the rich in our area, birthday parties.
A number of her school friends, who lived in larger houses away from the streets, had invited
Carolyn to these new phenomena giving mam an extra worry on the household budget front;
that being a party dress. When this particular discussion took place, dad retreated behind the
pages of ‘The Evening Gazette’ and kept his own counsel; wise man our dad.
Mam started off by gently trying to explain to my dear sister that the family budget just
didn’t run to such luxuries, but was soon won over by Carolyn’s cajoling, so that was it, the
money for a party dress would have to be found.
And from somewhere, found it was, and as I think I recall, it was a navy blue frock with the
skirt flaring out, all covered in white polka dots; I thought she looked like a film star.
Carolyn would have been about twelve or thirteen at the time, quite the young lady all
dressed up in such finery and when such events took place I would walk with her to the top
or bottom of our street to see her off, so to speak. Of course the real reason was that I just
wanted to be seen with what I considered to be my sophisticated, and very much grown up
sister.
As often happens, one thing led to another, and, as the usual harsh North East winter
reluctantly gave way to the first signs of spring, Carolyn made her play.
To the best of my recollection, most of what might be called important family discussions
took place when we were all gathered together over Sunday lunch. On one such mid March
occasion Carolyn started the conversation with a plaintive
“Ma..m.”
“Yes pet?”
“You know it’s my birthday in about three week’s time?”
“Yes, I know that pet, what is it?”
“Well, it’s just that all the girls have been asking me when it is and am I going to have a
party.”
And at this she burst into floods of tears adding “And I know I shouldn’t, but I just couldn’t
stop myself, so I told them when and, yes, and I’ve invited them.”
“When was this?” put in dad, a little more sternly than his usual laid back timber.
“Oh, it was weeks ago” she wailed, “and I know how things are, and I should have asked you
first, but it just came out and I’ve been worried about it ever since.”
Listening in, I immediately sensed her scale of predicament and felt my own tears welling up
for her.
“What am I going to do?” cried Carolyn
“Well,” said dad “you know how things are for me with work at the moment, I don’t know if
they’ll be any from one day to the next, I’m sorry pet, but I’m afraid you’ll have to tell your
friends the truth and that we just don’t have the money right now to be throwing fancy
parties.”
“She’ll do no such thing,” piped in mam, “we’ll just have to find the money from
somewhere, she’s gone to all the other girls parties, we can’t have her feeling left out like
some poor relation. Now tell me lass, what exactly happens at these dos?”
Carolyn was off her chair like a shot, flinging her arms around mam and I was off mine
dancing around the room chanting “We’re going to have a party!” Which had mam and dad
laughing, but then Carolyn gave a warning cough and we all looked in her direction.
“I’m sorry John, but these things are girls only.”
“Aw mam,” I cried “I want to go, it’s not fair if she’s having a party in our house and I can’t
go, she always gets everything” I shouted unreasonably, and so on, giving my own nine year
olds version of ‘The Rights of Man’.
“Now, wait a minute our John,” said mam “if Carolyn’s having a party, then when your
birthday comes around in November you can have five or six pals in for yours.”
“What!” I exclaimed “my own party, brilliant”
“Only five or six mind, I don’t want to end up feeding half the street.
“I’d better me making an appointment to see the bank manger.” Drolled dad who’d never had
a bank account in his life.
It went straight over my head as I was already dreaming of how important I would be inviting
my mates around for lashings of sandwiches, cakes, custard and jelly etc.
I don’t even recall Carolyn’s party, in fact the only thing I can remember about my own was
the fact that the day before, one of my best friends was taken ill and couldn’t come.
Alan Broadfoot, Broadie to all who knew him well, didn’t turn up for school on the big day
and his mam sent his younger brother, Keith, around to say he’d got appendicitis.
Much later, the funny side of the story came out, with Alan clinging on to the edge of his bed
as the ambulance folk were trying to get him to hospital and him shouting that he wasn’t
going anywhere until he’d been to John Hare’s birthday party.
As it is with kids, no one was giving a thought for poor old Alan once the bun fight had
started until my mam intervened, admonishing us all whilst simultaneously taking a portion
of everything on offer to be sent around to the Broadfoot’s household; funny old times.
DAY FOUR
THE ROAD TO EMMAUS
“I’m a rover
Seldom sober
I’m a rover of high degree
It’s when I’m drinkin’
I’m always thinkin’
How to gain my true love’s company.”
I hadn’t picked up the guitar for nearly a week and the irony of the situation, in my
newly-found state of grace, struck home through the words of the old Irish folk song. I was
rehearsing for the charity music session that others and I were to perform on the coming
Sunday afternoon in aid of homelessness in the community for an organisation called
“Emmaus”. These sessions are a regular affair, taking place in various pubs in the county of
Devon on the first three Sundays of every month.
Some eighteen months ago, I had been approached by a group of people who said they
were looking for someone with a high profile in the city of Plymouth to chair the West
Country arm of an international charity. Vanity massaged and feeling somewhat flattered, I
enquired as to the name and purpose of the organisation. Their spokesman was a guy called
Mick Kelly, a Londoner with an, “’Ere - wanna buy a new motor, John?” approach said,
‘We’re called Emmaus.’
‘Never heard of it,’ I replied. ‘What exactly is it in aid of?’
‘The homeless,’ said Mick.
‘Fuck off!’ I said in the inimitable style of a hard-nosed property developer. ‘Nobody
needs to be homeless in this country.’
‘That’s where you are wrong,’ countered Mick, totally unfazed by my brusque rebuff.
‘There is a massive homelessness problem in this country; much bigger than the Government
will admit. But I’m not surprised by your response, or your attitude. Most people haven’t got
a clue what the real situation is, and as soon as you mention “the homeless” to the average
geezer in the street you are twenty-to-one on to get the bum’s rush. We are not fashionable
you see; not sexy and as soon as you bring up the homeless issue with Joe Punter, he
conjures up images of beggars, dossers and ne’er-do-wells. Most people do.’
‘Twenty-to-one on’ – I knew immediately I was dealing with a betting man.
‘So? Why me? What use would I be to your organisation?’
The moment I spoke I knew it was the wrong thing to have done. Mick Kelly, ever the
opportunist, seized his chance with both hands.
‘Listen!’ said Mick. I was to learn in the fullness of time that Mick never addressed
anyone without using the prefix “Listen”. ‘Listen! You know the right people - know what I
mean? You’re always in the newspapers, you know people on the council. If you come on
board the organisation will really take off down here.’ Without drawing breath, he launched
into barrow-boy speak, ‘’Ere I’ll tell you wot I’ll do wiv yer - let me give yer this pamphlet
and a ten minute video. You give ’em the once-over and if you don’t come back and tell me
this isn’t a blindin’ concept, then I’ll get off yer case. Can’t say fairer than that, know what I
mean?’
It was my turn to seize the opportunity and extract myself from the situation.
‘OK! OK! I’ll give this the “once-over” as you put it - but I really don’t believe I’m
going to be your man.’
‘No matter,’ said Mick. ‘You give it a “deco” and I’ll pop round to see you next week.
OK? Know what I mean? Be lucky!’
Then he was gone, silent companions and all.
I’d been around long enough to know that I had just been hustled, but there was
something about the guy’s charisma; his infectious enthusiasm; call it what you like. Meeting
Mick Kelly hadn’t been an unpleasant experience - however I had no intention of getting
involved in more charity work. I’d done more than most helping needy causes and I’d seen
firsthand, or so I thought, the so-called homeless ripping-off the system. Some of the
professional beggars in London do very nicely thank you. No, this Emmaus crowd were
definitely not for me!
So much for my resolve! For the past eighteen months I’ve held the post of Chairman
of Emmaus for the South West of England. I did read the pamphlet and watch the video;
three times in fact - and by doing so changed my whole concept about the homeless; also my
understanding of the underlying causes as to why people from all walks of life find
themselves out on the street.
The ebullient Mr Kelly certainly got his man; but more about him later.
Having Emmaus in my life had a great bearing on my decision to go without alcohol
for a year, even though I am only four days into my trial, so to speak. I know that, if for no
other reason, I will stay the distance because of the charity. I must however dedicate a few
pages of this manuscript by way of a “plug” for this little-known organisation, which in my
opinion has devised the only concept which truly addresses the plight of the homeless.
The Emmaus movement was first established in France circa 1949 to meet the
overwhelming needs of those made homeless through the ravages of the Second World War.
With charismatic leadership from its founder, Abbé Pierre, (a French Catholic priest and
former freedom fighter in the French Resistance) the movement was at first an expression of
self-help and mutual aid for the street homeless.
With the combination of acute housing shortage due to the bombings in the Parisian
area of France, and the fact that Abbé Pierre was fortunate enough to be living in a great
house which could easily accommodate two large families, the foundations of communitystyle living were ready to be applied.
In the summer of 1949 Abbé Pierre received an urgent call for help from a man called
George, who was to become a cornerstone of the embryo movement. A former convict, who
had recently been discharged from prison after serving twenty years, returned home - but
instead of the hoped-for reunion with his wife, he found that she was living with another man
by whom she had a child. Overcome with despair and hopelessness George attempted
suicide, but failed. The Abbé Pierre came to the aid of his friend.
George, depressed and suicidal, prompted the French priest to ask him to give his life
to help others. He told George that he was not alone in his despair and asked him to join
with him to help alleviate the suffering of others. ‘We could do up my old house,’ he told
him. ‘We could accommodate crowds of people like you who have lost all hope - and by
helping others you will heal yourself.’
And so the first Emmaus community opened its doors on a summer’s evening in 1949.
The first of many - it was to become a national movement within a few short years.
The Abbé Pierre decided to name his organisation “Emmaus” after the town in the
Bible where the discouraged disciples were heading when they first met with the resurrected
Christ. It was here they broke bread with him (Luke 24:13-30) giving them renewed hope
and enthusiasm for the future. The name “Emmaus” was inscribed over the door of that first
community.
Some time later the term “companion” was given to the residents of Emmaus
Communities. “Companion” in its origins means “one who breaks bread with another”. This
is the basis of the Emmaus movement; to look after the needs of those who have been injured
and scarred by life, realising that they will not be healed by pity and charity, but by
recognising that they can still make a valuable contribution to society. This means having
both confidence in and respect for them; working side-by-side with them in order to help
them help themselves. In the early days the Abbé Pierre supported the residents of that first
Emmaus Community with parliamentary stipend - but only with everyone living very
frugally.
It was some forty years after the establishment of that first Emmaus Community in
France that the unique concept of helping homeless people help themselves was brought to
the United Kingdom. Inspired by the work of the Abbé Pierre, and having experienced living
and working in a French Community as a student, a Cambridge businessman, along with the
help of a small group of colleagues, took up the challenge of replicating the model in this
country. This all happened in 1990 and later in that year an Emmaus Community was
established just outside Cambridge.
Based on the French concept, Emmaus Communities now in the UK, offer homeless
people a practical way in which they can come off the streets and dependency on State
benefit. They start taking responsibility for their own lives through working and living in
self-supporting communities. Such communities provide a home, a job and, more
importantly, a future. Each companion has their own room, which gives a measure of
independence – but they still live and work with others in what is ostensibly an extended
family.
The Emmaus philosophy in its broadest sense accepts people as they are; allowing
homeless people to live in a non-judgmental environment and work to the best of their
abilities for the common good. Emmaus is open to anyone who wishes to stay and asks no
questions about their past. There is no restriction as to length of stay and all communities
are secular and completely non-discriminatory.
Emmaus communities in the UK are never large; typically between fifteen and thirty
companions. Each community offers a supportive family environment where everyone has
their part to play; sharing meals and personal touches such as celebrating birthdays are
essential elements, ensuring that the community is more than a mere hostel.
Every community has its own revenue-generating business in which all companions
have day-to-day involvement. The core business is recycling unwanted household goods,
which would normally end up on the local tip. All goods donated are collected by the
companions, brought back to the community for renovation or repair before being displayed
for resale in each centre’s charity shop. The monies generated from this activity, together
with accommodation receipts, ensure that communities become self-financing and are not a
continuing drain on statutory and charitable resources.
Emmaus communities work because they take people out of the dependency cycle and
give them a chance to help themselves and others; a chance they may have never previously
had. Not only are companions given a new opportunity in meaningful and self-supporting
employment, but also, by participating in a unique community project, the chance to regain
both dignity and self-esteem.
The concept is quite simple; on entering an Emmaus community the companions sign
off primary benefit; Job Seeker’s Allowance or Income Support, and abide by the community
rules, which are few but inflexible. No drugs, alcohol or violence are allowed on the
premises and each companion agrees to participate in community life, working together to
generate income to support the centre and themselves. Companions are all-found when
entering a community and receive weekly spending money of around thirty-six pounds of
which five pounds is saved for them for holidays or a start-up fund when they come to leave.
Most companions stay an average of three to six months, though others may decide to
live in a community considerably longer. Some will ultimately return to families or other
types of accommodation, whilst others will remain Emmaus companions for many years.
Emmaus companions come from all walks of life. There are some young people living
within Emmaus communities, but the majority of companions are within the twenty-five to
forty-five age group, predominately, but not exclusively, people who have lived rough or in
hostels. Most have been medium to long-term unemployed and a significant number have
spent years living on the streets.
A fair proportion has an alcohol-dependency problem when they arrive, and some are
also drug-dependent. I was surprised to learn that a large number of people who come to
Emmaus have a background in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces - estimated 25%.
However, in the words of Mick Kelly, it’s a blinding concept, it is one that works for a
lot of people who for whatever reason have lost their way, and is certainly worth checking
out.
CAROLS, COINS AND CATHEDRALS
I stayed in the choir until the approach of my thirteenth birthday, when I announced
one day to my parents that I was no longer going to attend church. After much family
discussion my decision to quit the choir and the Church of England was finally accepted; the
reasons I shall not tell here, but suffice to say I stand by them to this day.
I could write a whole manuscript concerning my brief period as one of the “C of E”
flock, but that must wait for another time. However on two other occasions throughout that
period, certain alcohol-related events occurred that had a profound effect on me - both then
and in later life.
The first happened after choir practice on a cold December night in 1955; the year of
my ninth birthday for which I had received from Mam and Dad a brand new shiny harmonica
- my first ever musical instrument.
Within hours of opening this most prized of presents I found to both my surprise and
delight that I could pick out the basic melody of several popular tunes of the day. Dad said I
was a natural and that I must have been born with an ear for music and from then on the
harmonica, always carefully wrapped in its box, went everywhere with me. I practised at
every opportunity and after just a few weeks Mam and Dad thought me virtuoso. In truth I
was at best barely proficient, but I loved the praise and this new-found attention, especially
when Dad would turn off the wireless of an evening and say, ‘Come on, son. Give us a tune!’
and for half an hour or so we would all sit round the coal fire in the back room and have a
sing-song.
Within three weeks of that memorable November birthday, I gave my first public
performance. Mam, like most of the town’s women, did her weekly shopping down
Whitworth Road on a Saturday morning; the day after payday. Whitworth Road was the
commercial hub of our small town and boasted a sweet shop owned by one Ginny Jones, a
small Co-op, a pawn shop, Lightfoot’s Newsagents (where some of the older choir boys
could buy two single cigarettes for a penny), a Post Office, Brown’s the Drapers, The Middle
House pub, a couple more general grocer’s and a baker’s. The last was owned or run by Mrs
Burns, a large friendly Scottish lady who always went about her business with a loud
cheerful air and a huge engaging smile.
On this particular Saturday morning I had gone with Mam to help her carry the
shopping and, when we got to the front of the queue in the baker’s, Mam and Mrs Burns
entered into their usual pleasantries as our order was placed. As Mam was handing over the
required payment, Mrs Burns suddenly beamed down on me and said, ‘And how old are you
now, wee man?’
Mam, who was conscious of my then diminutive stature, immediately replied with,
‘He’s just turned nine, Mrs Burns.’
‘Och,’ said Mrs Burns. ‘Quite the young laird is it? And what did you get for your
birthday?’
I reached into my inside pocket and, without saying a word, held up my prized
possession for all to see.
‘Goodness me!’ said Mrs Burns. ‘A mouth-organ nearly as big as the wee man
himself!’
I just nodded still not speaking. ‘Well then, bonny boy, give us a tune and if it’s good,
some young man might be going home with a meringue for his trouble.’
Dad’s entrepreneurial teachings obviously kicked in as I carefully removed the
harmonica from its box. I decided that if I was to carry off a fluffy white home-made
meringue, then something appropriate and relevant to the occasion must be played.
Unbeknown to Mam, and as luck would have it, in music at school that week we had been
learning a song called “Scotland the Brave”, a catchy tune that our teacher assured us was
popular with Scots the world over - of course she was correct. As some tunes do, and
especially ones that have a hook and are played or sung repetitively, this one had been
playing around my head all week, and I felt confident that I could do it justice at the first
attempt. With my head down I lifted the harmonica to my lips, found middle “C”, looked up
into the beaming countenance of Mrs Burns and played three verses plus refrains of
“Scotland the Brave” note perfect.
The effect was quite dramatic. The general hubbub from other customers fell silent.
Mam went bright red with surprised pride and Mrs Burns’s huge smile, though not
diminished, puckered wistful, as the start of a tear began to form in one eye - a reaction not
uncommon among Celts when they hear their music played far from home. As the rendition
ended, all the customers clapped. Mam ruffled my hair with pride and I think also to make
sure that the assembled were in no doubt as to who this little troubadour belonged to, whilst
Mrs Burns, wiping one eye and filling a large greaseproof bag with meringues, said, ‘You
darling wee man. In two short minutes you have taken me away to the highlands and brought
me back again. God bless you, bairn! Here take these,’ handing me the meringue filled
package, ‘and make sure you keep one back for your sister!’
Before I had chance to, and as all mothers the world- over do, Mam said, ‘Say, thank
you to Mrs Burns!’
I did as bid and moments later we were out on the streets again. Mam said with a
touch of incredulity in her voice, ‘Where did you learn that music?’
‘In school,’ I said rather matter-of-factly. ‘Can I eat one now, Mam?’
Mam sighed the sigh of “nothing ceases to surprise me” and said, ‘Yes, son. You can.’
It was about two weeks after my success in the bakers that my new-found musical
prowess contrived to give me my first real insight to the ways and workings of alcohol.
On the evening in question, a Friday, Frank White had called for an extra choir
practice. This most unusual occurrence transpired because a choir “festival of carols” was to
be held in Durham Cathedral throughout the whole of Saturday, and St Matthew’s was one
of only twenty choirs selected to perform out of the north-eastern region. When this news
first broke, Frank White, in best football parlance, described the forthcoming event as our
equivalent of a “Wembley” appearance.
‘This is the big one, lads,’ said Frank. ‘This is our cup final; if we put the training in
now we’ll play the rest of them off the park.’
Smithy said, ‘What are we playing for, Frank?’
‘Pride, man,’ answered Frank White. ‘Pride,’ he emphasised. ‘Some of those big town
choirs are over sixty strong, but we’ve got some real talent here and if you’re all prepared to
put in some extra training, we can give the lot of them a run for their money. Now, how
about it?’
Alan Atkinson rallied to Frank’s cause and piped in with, ‘I’m up for it. Come on,
lads, and let’s show those high church wallahs what a bunch of kids from the back streets can
do!’
Suddenly it was infectious and the combination of team spirit, intermingled with
individual dreams of glory had everyone agreeing that on our day we could hold our own
with anyone.
‘We’ll have to put on something a bit special, Frank,’ said Smithy.
‘That we will!’ said Frank White. ‘But I think I’ve come up with something that’ll
knock their socks off; and by the way, there is some silverware involved; the best four choirs
get commemorative medals on silk ribbons and will go on to sing against the cream of
England at York Minster.’
That was enough, and everyone fell silent as Frank White outlined his game plan. Our
beloved one-eyed leader was in fact an extremely gifted musician and, from the music in his
mind, had written down a three-part soprano descant to be slotted into the middle of the old
German carol “Silent Night”.
I didn’t realise it at the time, but Frank White was convinced that he had in me, John
Davies and John Gibson, what he considered to be three boy sopranos of the highest calibre,
and at Wednesday practice he taught and rehearsed us through this three-part descant - with
the rest of the choir humming the melody line in unison. On his part this piece of creativity
was little short of genius and as the three voices wove their separate paths around the
hummed melody, we all instinctively knew that we were a part of something very special.
The only downside came when Henry the Organ voiced his fears about being able to hold his
end up on one of those “huge cathedral jobbies”, as he put it.
‘Don’t fret yourself, Henry!’ said Frank White. ‘All organists who have not played at
the cathedral before can have some time on Saturday mornings to get acclimatised; you’ll be
right.’
On Friday evening we rehearsed for nearly two hours, and at the end of practice Frank
White told us that the coach to take us to Durham would be outside the church at eight-thirty
in the morning and not to be late. As we all drifted out of the vestry I tagged on behind the
older boys as usual, who were discussing what possibilities remained open to them for the
rest of the Friday night. It was now nearly eight o’clock.
Rot Livingstone (real name Frank) said he was off to the Lyric Cinema for the last
house and strolled away with his best mate Louis who had been waiting outside. No one else
seemed to have any definite plans, so I piped in with the suggestion that we all went carol
singing. Wrong again. This idea met with various forms of derision such as, ‘Don’t be such
a little prat! Half the kids in this town have already knocked on every door and besides, no
one’s got any money to give to carol singers!’
‘Yes, but half the kids in Grangetown haven’t got one of these,’ I said, producing my
harmonica from my pocket - definitely wrong again. “Scorn” and “derision” can only
describe their words and laughter leaving me feeling stupid and humiliated as they all turned
and walked away - all but one that is.
John Davies, who fancied my sister, remained and looking down at me said, ‘Can you
really play that thing?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I can play any of the carols we sing in there,’ I said pointing over my
shoulder at the church.
‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Play something!’
‘You choose,’ I said. ‘Pick a carol!’
‘All right,’ said John Davies. ‘Oh Come all Ye Faithful.’
‘Right!’ I said and gave a near perfect rendition of the tune.
‘Not bad!’ said JD, obviously somewhat impressed.
I seized on this opportunity and said, ‘Why don’t we do it together? I’ll play and you
sing - I bet we’ll make loads of money.’
JD considered this proposition and stated that as we both lived at the same end of town
it wouldn’t do any harm to give it a try on the way home.
St Matthew’s Church was situated at one end of Bolckow Road, so we started at the
first door opposite and tried every house until we reached the other end by the Lyric Cinema.
It worked - and standing in the light of the Lyric Cinema doorway we counted up the
princely sum of twelve pence.
‘Not bad,’ said JD. ‘That’s a tanner (six pence) each just for walking home. You’re
pretty good on that thing for a little ’un.’
I was over the moon and doubly so when he said, ‘Wait till we tell the lads in the
morning! That’ll teach them to laugh at you.’
It was at that moment I had a brainwave. From the Lyric Cinema doorway I could see
the lights of one of the town’s three pubs; “The Top House” as it was colloquially known.
I said to JD, ‘Let’s give it a try outside the pub door.’
‘Nah,’ said JD. ‘We’ll get nowt there.’
‘Why not?’ I said. ‘The Sally Army don’t stand playing outside there for nothing.’
The logic of this obviously sank in and after a moment’s thought JD said, ‘Why not?
In for a penny, in for a pound.’
JD really had a brilliant soprano voice and within seconds of us starting into “Away in
a Manger” the general hubbub in the pub died away to complete silence. As we finished, the
double doors of the establishment were flung open, casting a watery glow around us and we
both stared in on the silent faces of some forty or so steelworkers.
No one said a word, and just as I was about to say, ‘Run for it!’ the landlord, wearing a
large beer apron, appeared from around the door and said, ‘That was really smashing lads!’
‘Bring ’em in, Gerry!’ someone shouted from inside.
‘Yeah. Bring ‘em in!’ shouted others.
The landlord stepped outside, looked with a conspiratorial air up and down the street
and said, ‘Come on in out of the cold, lads. But only for ten minutes mind - if Sergeant Jones
comes by you’ll get me locked up.’
The pub was warm and cosy, and I can remember thinking how lucky grown ups were
to be able to go into such places and meet their mates to have a drink and a chat. I couldn’t
wait to grow up.
‘Go on then, lads!’ said one of the drinkers. ‘Play us another one!’ And so we did;
“Hark the Herald Angels Sing” was followed by “Ding Dong Merrily on High”, then “Good
King Wenceslas” and finally “The Holly and the Ivy”.
The ending of each carol was greeted by loud clapping and cheers and, as the applause
died after our last rendition, the landlord said, ‘That was great, lads. But you’d better be
getting along now. I don’t want to lose my licence.’
‘One more for the road,’ shouted a drinker.
‘O Come All Ye Faithful!’ shouted another.
Gerry, the landlord, obviously aware of which side his bread was buttered, allowed his
customers’ indulgence and said, ‘OK! One last one! But that’s your lot mind!’
This relenting on his part was greeted with cheers and foot stamping, and as the din
subsided we started up with “Oh Come All Ye Faithful”. JD and I played and sang the
verses and as we reached the trebles of “O come let us adore Him”, the men joined in; bass
and baritone voices together in a golden sound - sweetly pierced by JD’s boy soprano - it was
as near to heaven as I am ever likely to get. As I played my “harp”, eyes closed, I was
blissfully unaware of one of the drinkers, empty pint glass in hand, moving from table to
table taking a collection. I was so moved by merely being a part of this really pure music
that as the last line of “Christ the Lord” turned into a cheering roar from the drinkers, I
started to cry with genuine emotion. I can remember thinking that if our choir could put on a
show tomorrow like this then we’d piss all over those high church wallahs. As I opened my
somewhat bleary eyes, a huge fellow with a glass full of silver and copper coins pulled my
woolly hat off and emptied the jingling contents into it.
‘Well done, lads!’ said the landlord. ‘Now scarper before I get into trouble!’
We didn’t need telling twice and seconds later we were out into the cold night once
again. Our street was no more than a hundred yards from the pub and we ran there agog with
excitement and anticipation - by our standards we had a fortune in the hat and couldn’t wait
to get there for a divvy-up.
We ran into our house and without any explanation to Mam I emptied the contents of
the hat onto the kitchen table. JD and I just stared at the hoard of coins, mouths agape.
Mam with a look of sheer amazement on her face said, ‘Our John, what have you
done? Where did all this money come from? Oh, son, you haven’t got into any trouble have
you? And you, John Davies, if you’ve got this lad in trouble with the law, you’ll have me to
answer to!’
JD and I said simultaneously, ‘We haven’t done anything wrong. We’ve been carol
singing.’
‘Now I know you’re in trouble,’ said Mam. ‘There must be nearly twenty shillings on
that table and I don’t care how good Frank White thinks you are, no one in this town gets
twenty shillings carol singing.’
At this point I pulled the harmonica from my pocket and tapped it knowingly against
my nose. ‘We got it in The Top House.’
‘Our John,’ said Mam again with an incredulous air. ‘You haven’t been carol singing
in a pub!’
Between JD and myself we gave Mam, whose mouth was open throughout, a blow-byblow account of the evening’s events.
At the end of it she shook her head, laughed and said, ‘I don’t know. Whatever next?
You’d better count it up and share it out. It’s nearly ten o’clock and May (JD’s Mam) will be
wondering where you’ve got to, and besides you’ve both got to be up early if you’re going to
Durham.’
The silver and copper coins added up to eighteen shillings and a few pence - in
essence nine shillings each, which to us in those times represented a small fortune.
JD said again, ‘Wait till we tell the lads on the coach tomorrow. Bring your money
with you in case they think we’re having them on!’
I couldn’t wait; this was to be the first time in my life when I was to have the last
laugh. I went upstairs when JD left for home, knelt down, said my prayers and slid into bed
experiencing a warm and satisfying glow. As I drifted pleasantly towards slumber I replayed
over again in my mind those precious fifteen minutes in The Top House, reminding myself
that when I grew up I would definitely be one of those men who regularly savoured that
special atmosphere that surely could only be found in the pub. Oh, the blissful ignorance of
the young!
The following day was a personal triumph for me and, to give JD his due, as he related
the previous evening’s happenings to the lads on the coach he made me out to be the hero of
the tale. The lads were visibly impressed and for the first time since joining the choir I was
elevated to the heady status of being one of them. From that day on there was no more
“young ’un” or “little prat” aimed in my direction, and I was thereafter addressed with
friendly familiarity as “young John” or “Johnny”. God! I was ecstatic; I’d made the first
team at last!
Once at the cathedral we were allocated a small ante- room with a printed cardboard
sign on the door which read “St Matthews, Grangetown”. It was here that we would change
into our choir garb and do one final rehearsal.
Frank White said that there was no point in getting changed yet, as we were not due
into the cathedral proper until 2:30 p.m.
‘We’ll do a run through now then you can all go for a look around Durham for a
couple of hours. But stay together, you lads, and I want you back here at one forty- five on
the dot.’
This news was received enthusiastically by the lads, and after two renditions of “Silent
Night” we left the cathedral and started to make our way down to the city centre.
Durham is a small but quite beautiful city, with the cathedral perched on a hilltop
overlooking the River Wear, which flows through the city on its way down to Sunderland
and then the North Sea. Someone suggested that we all go on the rowing boats, but on
reaching the river’s edge it became apparent that boating in Durham was a seasonal pastime
and craft were definitely not for hire in the middle of winter. We drifted on down to the city
centre and happened upon a coffee bar; such establishments became popular with young
people in the mid to late 1950s and represented everything that was modern in those early
beginnings of the new rock and roll era. JD and I after a hurried conference both chipped in
one shilling and six pence each from our carol singing proceeds and the accumulated three
shillings was more than enough to provide drinks all round for the whole squad - my newly
found status was elevated even higher and I positively revelled in it. JD put the latest
“Platters” hit on the jukebox and some of the older boys lit up cigarettes and passed them
around. For the first time in this played-out ritual I was not the last in line and managed to
take my drag without coughing and spluttering over everybody; another first - the day was
going really well - but as one discovers in life the good times never last forever.
At this juncture a group not dissimilar to our own entered the coffee bar and some of
the older lads recognised them as the choir from “Boozebeck” a large mining village in
North Yorkshire. They all bought drinks, seated themselves on the opposite side of the room
and within seconds a banter, fuelled by rivalry, was in full swing. It started with derisive
comments by individuals from each group supposedly addressed to their fellows, but at a
volume which their opposite numbers could not fail to hear.
Totty Thomas fired the first salvo and said to no one in particular, albeit in a voice that
could have been heard two streets away, ‘Well, fuck me! I thought this was a pucker festival;
nobody told us we’d be up against a bunch of sheep shaggin’ woolly backs.’
The riposte was instant, with a Boozebeck lad saying, ‘Well, well, well, some twat’s
let the Grangetown vermin out again.’
‘And look!’ said another. ‘They’ve even took to wearing shoes these days.’
That was enough; Totty was on his feet red with rage.
‘Right, you fuckers! We’re gonna have you!’
The Boozebeck lot stood up and I can remember feeling that strange mixture of fear
and excitement that comes with the sudden charging of an atmosphere.
However, within a split second the owner, who had obviously been keeping a close
eye on the situation, was round from behind the counter and grabbing Totty by the scruff of
the neck snarled, ‘You’re not starting any trouble in here, you little tyke. Out! And you lot
with him!’ pointing in our direction as he propelled Totty towards the door.
The Boozebeck lot jeered us out, but not before the undaunted Totty had shouted over
his grasped shoulder, ‘We’ll get you lot after the match behind the cathedral.’
‘We’ll be there,’ rejoined someone from Boozebeck.
Out on the street again I latched onto JD and asked him what was going to happen and
what would be expected of me.
JD said, ‘If they turn up, we’ll just charge them and go for the two biggest; it usually
works. You stay at the back of the charge and if you see one of us getting the worst of it,
jump in and help; bite their ankles, pull hair, anything to distract them.’
Totty in the meantime had got well fired-up and was telling no one in particular that he
was going to get that “big ginger bastard” and knock him out.
Further fight strategies were discussed by the older lads as we made our way back to
the cathedral where Frank White was waiting by the gates with the older guys.
‘Come on, hurry up, you lot; get changed; we’re on in half an hour.’
Once changed, we filed into the cathedral and took up our places in a section of the
pews normally used by the congregation, which on this occasion were marked “Reserved for
St Matthew’s”. Similar areas had been designated for the other competing choirs and,
although I was not entirely sure why, I felt somewhat relieved to see that the Boozebeck lot
had been allocated space quite some distance from where we were seated. Printed copies of
the afternoon’s programme had been placed along the pews and a swift glance at the same
told me that the proceedings would last for two hours, with St Matthew’s scheduled to sing
at number fifteen. As each choir was called to sing they left their places in the congregation
pews and reassembled on the chancel steps facing their competitors and the four judges who
had taken up positions in the front row. I noticed from the programme that the Bishop of
Durham headed the panel and his number two was the Dean of Middlesbrough, whose highchurch lot were also competing. Even at the tender age of nine I wondered about the
impartiality of this situation, then immediately felt ashamed for even considering that the
Dean’s integrity could be in any way questionable; I said a quick prayer for forgiveness.
The natural acoustics of the cathedral made the most ordinary of the first fourteen
performances sound sublime, but I knew as we were called to take centre stage that our
rendition of Frank White’s little masterpiece would surpass all that had gone before.
And so we sang. For four blissful minutes the raggy- arsed vermin from the back
streets were transformed into an angelic host and the Bishop’s countenance was a picture of
enthralment throughout the whole piece. In contrast the Dean sat motionless with head
lowered.
As we descended the chancel steps I could tell by the glum faces on the Boozebeck lot
that we had excelled and, on taking our seats again, Frank White turned to us, winked his one
eye and in a whisper said, ‘You played a blinder, lads.’
The last choir to perform were the Dean’s high-church lot and, good as they were, I
knew that we had outperformed them and all the others. All the choirs then filed out back to
their respective practice areas. As we disrobed Frank White informed us that the results
would be made known in forty minutes and, if we were going outside, not to leave the
cathedral grounds as the coach home would leave at five-thirty prompt.
Totty Thomas said, ‘Come on, lads! Let’s get a breath of fresh air.’ And the entire
younger element of our ensemble left the anteroom and headed out for the main door.
Once outside Totty said, ‘Right, lads! Round the back - and if they’ve had the balls to
come out - straight in! No messin’! Remember the big red-faced bastard is mine.’
As we reached the far end of the cathedral and rounded the corner of the building we
encountered the Boozebeck lot not thirty feet away.
‘CHARGE!’ shouted Totty, and our lads ran straight in among them cursing and
swearing with arms flailing.
Numbers were pretty even, but as individual pairs engaged in combat I saw the big
ginger lad and another Boozebeckian pull Totty to the ground and set about punching him. I
mustered what courage I could, ran in, jumped on the pile holding Totty down, closed my
eyes and sank my teeth into a thigh belonging to “Big Ginger”.
His shriek of pain was near deafening, and a reactionary flail from a brawny arm
caught me a glancing blow to the side of the head, which sent me sprawling. Before I could
recover I felt myself being lifted from the ground by the scruff of the neck, quite high into
the air and fearing the worst from Big Ginger I lashed out, eyes still closed, and I felt the
bones in my clenched fist crunch in excruciating pain as I connected with some part of his
head.
My assailant let go and as I hit the floor again a male and obviously grown-up voice
boomed out, ‘Cease! Cease I say.’
For the first time in thirty or so seconds I opened my eyes and looked up to see a tall,
stout cleric dressed in a black collarless cloak holding one hand to his nose, which had blood
streaming from it. In a flash the awful truth hit home as I realised that “Big Ginger” had not
been responsible for my bruised and probably broken right hand; I’d only gone and thumped
one of the Bishop’s men, and visions of being thrown in gaol, or worse, immediately sprang
to mind. What would Frank White say? What would our vicar say? What would Mam and
Dad say? Even worse; what would God say? My musings were suddenly interrupted by the
owner of the booming voice.
‘This incident will be reported to the Bishop and your churches will be informed. Now
leave this place at once!’
He was still holding his hand to the bloodied nose and I considered proffering my
handkerchief; it seemed the least I could do.
JD must have read my intent, for he shook his head at me, pulled me to my feet at the
same time saying, ‘Come on, lads. It’s five-thirty.’
We all raced off and I heard “Big Ginger” say to Totty, ‘If he reports us, we’ll all be in
the shit.’
‘Yeah,’ said Totty. ‘Look, if it all comes on top, you lot blame us and we’ll blame you.
That geezer back there doesn’t know one from t’other. It’ll be all right.’
‘Good idea,’ said Ginger. ‘See yer.’
‘See yer,’ said Totty in return and we spilt into two groups to look for our respective
coaches.
Frank White was standing on the steps of the coach as we ran up.
‘Where have you lot been?’
‘Playing five-a-side,’ said John Gibson without turning a hair.
‘And would somebody like to tell me how Thomas here has managed to get half his
face bashed in?’
‘Clash of heads, Frank,’ said Totty without hesitation. ‘I was going up for this high
ball when….’
Frank White cut him short, ‘All right, all right. Get on the coach and just make sure
you tell your old man that when you get home.’
‘No sweat, Frank,’ said Totty.
As the coach pulled out and headed south towards Teesside, Frank White stood up at
the front of the coach and called for order.
‘Well, lads,’ he said, ‘you’ve done me, the church and yourselves proud today; some
might call me biased, but I thought you’d won it hands down. However, the good news is
that we were adjudged to have come second - so it’s medals and ribbons for everyone and a
trip to York Minster in the offing.’
A loud cheer erupted from all of us younger ones at the back of the coach.
‘And that’s not all;’ continued our leader, ‘I phoned the vicar from the cathedral office
to tell him the news and he’s sanctioned me to pay for fish and chips all round on the way
home.’
This news was greeted with more cheering and as the din subsided Alan Atkinson
said, ‘As a matter of interest, Frank, who did come first?’
‘Middlesbrough won it,’ said Frank White.
‘That’s a bloody fix!’ shouted Totty from the back. ‘Their soddin’ Dean was on the
panel.’
Before Frank White could issue a bad language rebuke on Totty the cry of; ‘FIX! FIX!
FIX!’ went up from the rear of the coach.
Frank White held up his hands to quell the chant and said, ‘That’s enough of that, you
lot. If you think we’re better then we’ll let the singing do the talking when we get to York
Minster.’
I think that was the one-and-only time he made us laugh. I, for my part, was relieved
to know I was not the only one who had considered the Dean of Middlesbrough and
impartiality in the same context.
THE UNCHURCHLY WARDEN (TOTTY’S LAST STAND)
My second, and by far the more sinister, brush with alcohol around that time happened
in the Whitsun school holidays of 1956. Across the street from our house lived a family
called the Foremans, and I became good friends with two of the sons; Barry who was a year
older than me and Gordon, who was a year younger.
On this particular day, a Monday, Barry and I decided to go fishing for sticklebacks
and newts at a place by a small stream on the edge of town called the Tank Traps. It was so
named, as local history had us believe, because of a large concrete structure straddling the
brook that had a series of thick iron rods protruding from its surface. These were supposedly
placed there to disable invading German tanks that had been expected to appear in the last
war.
We set off early that morning with our jam jars, bamboo fishing nets, a bottle of
drinking water and a pack of sandwiches for lunch. In those days children were pretty much
free to roam, as child molestation and the like were almost unheard of. Today most parents
are fearful of letting children out of their sight for even the briefest of moments.
On this day Barry and I encountered the exception for those times and it was an
experience that gave me another week of sleepless nights. Although our intended destination
was only a couple of miles or so from home we arrived there round about lunch time, having
stopped off to play several times along the route. On arriving we sat down on the grass and
ate our lunch; swapping taller than tall stories about various girls in the school next to ours.
Lunch eaten and stories exhausted, we clambered down the bank and onto a narrow footpath
which skirted the water’s edge. Being late spring the stream was at its vibrant best; furry,
brown- topped bulrushes and clumps of watercress flourished along its inner banks; purple
and green dragonflies buzzed the surface of the water, and both moorhen and vole were in
evidence. As was the practice, we took up positions some fifteen feet apart from one
another, sauntering back and forth at intervals to witness something new or of interest that
the other may have spied.
We were in the fifteen-foot-apart position when a voice from above shouted, ‘What
are you doing down there, lads?’
I turned to see a man on the towpath above where Barry stood, who seemed and
sounded vaguely familiar, but my view of him was made difficult as the sun was behind him
and shining directly into my eyes as I looked up.
I heard Barry shout up, ‘We’re fishing for sticklebacks, mister.’
‘You’ll not catch anything in there,’ said the familiar newcomer.
Innocence and honesty in the form of Barry replied, ‘Yes we will, mister. We know
what we’re doing.’
The voice on the bank laughed good-humouredly and, in what seemed to be joking
response, said, ‘You catch anything down there and I’ll show you my arse.’
The possible connotations of this remark did not register with either of us and Barry,
now determined to prove his knowledge of local waters, shouted to no one in particular,
‘There’s a huge bugger just gone under the weeds here and when he pops out in a minute I’ll
have the little blighter, you’ll see.’
Hoping to catch a glimpse of Barry’s monster stickleback I reached his side just as the
embodied voice from above slithered down and came to a swaying halt on the path beside us.
The next thirty seconds went into slow motion and, although I instinctively knew that
something was not quite right, time seemed to stand still and I was rooted to the spot.
Although I had never seen him before without his bifocals on, I now recognised the
newcomer as none other than our head church warden. He was now breathing heavily and
the stench of stale alcohol from his breath was near unbearable. His eyes were wide and
watery.
He started to speak, but stopped as Barry plunged his fishing net down into the reeds
and, in one sweeping movement, lifted it from the water with a shout of triumph. ‘There!’
crowed Barry, pointing at his prize catch, which was now wriggling amid yellow gauze and
beck weed. ‘I told you! I told you!’
‘So you did, little man,’ said the now leering church warden. ‘Now, I’ll show you
something!’
My voice returned and I said rather meekly, ‘We have to go now.’
For the first time since his arrival on the scene, he seemed to notice me.
‘Not so fast, young ’un. I struck a bargain with your friend here.’ He paused, swayed
slightly and stared over Barry’s head straight at me. ‘Don’t I know you?’
I remained silent, totally clueless as to what to do next.
He uttered a sort of dismissive grunting noise, made a fairly unsteady one hundred and
eighty degree turn, mumbled; ‘Right then!’ bent over, dropped his trousers, lifted up his coat
and shirt tails ….to reveal a large white and horribly spotty bum!
I was mortified. But Barry, who for the first time I think suddenly realised something
was wrong, reacted instinctively and before I could stop him, he leaned back slightly, lifted
his right leg and, meeting his target right between the cheeks, propelled our wayward church
warden headfirst into the brook.
As I let out a shriek of fear and disbelief, Barry turned on his heels, pushed me in the
chest and shouted, ‘Run like fuck!’
And we were off like a pair of whippets. After the fastest hundred yards I had ever
run, I looked back over my shoulders to see our church’s head warden up to his be-trousered
knees in water, shaking one fist angrily in the air. In the faint breeze, I heard his rage and his
words turned my little world upside down, ‘I know you, I’m gonna get you!’ We ran on.
After a mile or so, several detours, and when we were absolutely sure that no one was
following, we climbed a five-barred gate, ducked behind a hawthorn hedge and slumped
down on the sun-warmed grass to get our breath back.
Once recovered, I turned to Barry and said, ‘Whatever made you do that?’
‘Do what?’ said Barry.
‘You know what.’ I said with accusing scorn. ‘Do you know who that is?’
‘I don’t care who he is,’ said Barry. ‘What I do know is he’s a dirty old bastard who
would have made us play with his willy and then strangled us or something worse.’ Barry
paused for a moment and then added with an air of vindication, ‘He was stinking drunk as
well. Anyway, who is he? Do you know him?’
‘Yes, I know him,’ I said ruefully. ‘He’s the head church warden at St Matthew’s.’
Barry, who wasn’t in the choir and never went to church, said, ‘Oh shit! Does that
mean you’re in trouble?’
‘What do you think?’ I replied. ‘You heard him shouting, he said he knew who we
were.’
‘He doesn’t know who I am,’ said Barry.
‘Yeah, well that’s bloody great for you!’ I said with more than a hint of pique in my
voice.
We sat in silence and I replayed the sequence of events over again in my mind,
deriving not one crumb of comfort from this exercise. The more I thought about it the worse
it got; and as imaginings took over, a feeling of utter despair settled heavily on my
consciousness. I could hear his rage ringing in my ears, ‘I know you! I’m gonna get you!’
What if he rings the police? Pushing church wardens headfirst into fast flowing water started
suddenly to seem a major crime. Maybe what we had done was what I’d heard grown-ups
talking about; “attempted murder”. With this last thought, my imagination went into
overdrive and I could clearly see the scene that would take place at church next Sunday:
The choir would be walking down the main aisle at the beginning of the service and in
front of a packed congregation the offended would leap out, point at me and scream, ‘That’s
him! That’s him - he’s the one!’ Then I would be pulled from the ranks by the vicar, the
police who would have been previously alerted, would rush in and in front of my sobbing
mother and sister perform their arrest saying things like, ‘You’d better come quietly, son,
it’ll be easier on you in the long run’.
Just as I was about to court mental speculation of a life-sentence, Barry spoke, ‘I’d
keep quiet if I was you, I don’t think that geezer will say a word, think about it; he’s
supposed to be a holy-Joe and he was blind drunk; he also wanted to do something bad to us
and he wouldn’t want anyone else to know that would he?’
Barry’s naïve, but faultless logic went straight over my head and I snapped back, ‘Give
it a rest Bazza. We could have drowned that bloke back there and that would have been
murder.’
‘Well, I think you’re worrying for nothing,’ he replied.
‘It’s all right for you,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to walk down the church aisle on
Sunday and face the music.’
We hardly spoke on the way home and on reaching our street Barry said, ‘See yer!’
and went indoors, obviously glad to be away from me and my sombre brooding.
I quietly opened our front door and stood for several moments in the front porch
straining to maybe catch the sound of the church warden’s angry and indignant voice, but the
only sound from within came from a music programme on the wireless.
I stepped inside and Mam said, ‘Hello, son. Did you catch anything?’
‘Nah, Mam,’ was my reply and I carried on through to the back shed to put away my
fishing net.
I didn’t eat my tea that night, I couldn’t face it; the day had turned into a disaster and I
knew there was worse to come.
It’s strange how worry can change its perspective depending on what time of day it is.
Our crime against the church warden was almost forgotten in the hurly burly hours of
daylight, but come the evening, especially at bedtime, all the old fears would return to haunt
me.
On the Wednesday of that week I feigned a cold and persuaded Mam to let me off
choir practice, thinking to myself that on the following morning I would go round to JD’s
house on the pretext of seeing his pigeons, in the hope of finding out if anything had been
said at choir about a certain church warden. I spent most of the following morning in JD’s
backyard watching pigeons in various stages of flight but, despite my naïve promptings
regarding last night’s choir practice, no reference was made to my dilemma.
Walking home, I tried to weigh up all the possible or probable reasons as to why our
attempted murder of the church warden had so far gone unchallenged. Barry had said he was
blind drunk; maybe he had woken the following morning with no recollection of the
incident; could that be it, could life actually be so wonderfully simple? Perhaps, it was as
Barry had also pointed out; he couldn’t report me to the vicar, police or whoever because he
had meant to do something really bad to us. I didn’t give much credence to this second
option, my child’s innocent reasoning dictated that a head church warden wouldn’t be in
such a revered position if he went around doing horrible things to children. No, Barry had
definitely got that one wrong. However, I felt sure that head church wardens shouldn’t be
wandering about the highways and byways blind drunk and he had been drinking; he’d been
stinking of the stuff, I’d smelt it on him myself. All of these thoughts left me very confused
so I decided to pin my hopes on the alcohol-induced amnesia theory.
That night, in bed, other dark scenarios loomed large in my mind. Maybe he had gone
to the police; maybe they had told him to say nothing whilst they planned their apprehension
of me in church on the coming Sunday. Maybe the police were looking for Barry before
coming for me; I decided that if the police couldn’t find Barry and just came for me, then I
wouldn’t squeal, I’d tell them nothing, just like I’d seen Humphrey Bogart do at the Lyric.
Then I experienced what was probably the first devious thought in my life to date. If they
couldn’t find Barry and came to arrest me; I could say honestly that I did not push the
gentleman concerned into the stream. Yes, I was fishing there that day and I did see the
incident which frightened me greatly, enough to make me run away, but I wasn’t with the
other boy, he was fishing when I arrived and I had never set eyes on him before in my life.
Yes, that was it, they couldn’t put me in gaol just for being there, I hadn’t done anything
wrong, apart from if I told the police a white lie about not knowing Barry-the-boot. I then
entered into an internal debate concerning the white lie issue, which ended with me saying a
prayer to God seeking forgiveness in advance of the event. That done and now feeling much
more relaxed about the whole affair, I started to drift off to sleep only to come wide awake
with a jolt. Oh, the workings and mysteries of a small mind; just as mine had been about to
be overtaken by slumber, from nowhere came the thought, that what if the church warden
was really a bad person as Barry had said. What if he didn’t go to the police or the vicar?
What if he literally meant what he’d said about getting us? What if he intended to murder
us? Sleep now seemed a million miles away.
Sunday morning eventually came and as we all dressed to go to morning service Mam
said, ‘Are you alright, our John? You’ve hardly uttered a peep all morning. Anything
wrong?’
‘No, Mam,’ I answered busying myself as I looked away. You could never answer
Mam face-to-face with a lie; she’d see through you in an instant.
As was our custom, we all walked to church together as a family on Sunday mornings
and only on reaching the main entrance would I peel off for the vestry. This Sunday was no
different except that on the walk to church I stuck close to Dad, not running ahead or lagging
behind as usual. I wasn’t quite sure what I thought Dad might be able to do if we were
suddenly surrounded by police, but I somehow knew he’d stand by me. The walk was
spectacularly uneventful, but as I left Dad’s side and headed for the vestry I can remember
steeling myself with resolve to walk straight in amongst my fellow choristers as if I had
nothing to hide. Inside everything appeared normal; nobody said anything to me, apart, that
is, from the usual ‘hello’s’ and, though I surreptitiously scrutinised the various faces, I could
detect nothing untoward; so far so good.
Suddenly we were called into line and Frank White gave his usual “pep” talk, ‘Right,
lads. I want a good clean game, no winking at the girls, friends or family and no sniggering,
not even if poor old Mrs Overton’s suspenders give out and her nylons come down.’
Laughter all round, except for me that is, I was now gripped with tension; the next ten
minutes could change the rest of my life forever. Outside in the church proper, Henry the
Organ struck up with one of those unnameable pieces of church music; Alan Atkinson raised
the cross and we started off on what was to be for me the longest walk of my life.
The church was packed, as churches tended to be in those days, some three hundred or
so souls making up the congregation. As we started down the main aisle we could see the
backs of the people’s heads. I picked out Mam, Dad and Carolyn’s and also the large bald
pate of a certain church warden. St Matthew’s had six church wardens and each had a
position on the end of their respective pews for easy access to the main aisle, convenient for
collection and other duties. My tormentor was on my side of the aisle and I would have to
virtually brush past him on our slow march to the chancel steps; my heart was beating twenty
to the dozen and I fought off the strong urge to wet myself. It was at this moment that a most
bizarre diversion attended on the proceedings. A very large woman dressed in a lime green
twin-set who stood directly behind the church warden, swayed and fainted, falling out into
the aisle knocking down several choir boys from the front ranks in the process, coming to
rest on top of none other than one Totty Thomas. It was no contest, Mrs Lime Green must
have been all of fifteen stone and Totty, who was about six stone wringing wet, was now
firmly pinned beneath her bulk squawking obscenities.
Several things happened
simultaneously:
The vicar, from the back of the choir, hissed, ‘Walk on.’
This was echoed by Frank White, ‘Forward, lads!’
Alan Atkinson, cross held aloft, followed by the two boys, had not quite reached the
chancel steps; so on the command of “forward” the other boys started stepping over Mrs
Lime Green, totally ignoring Totty’s shouts of ‘Get the bugger off me!’ Dignity had now
fled to wherever dignity flees to on such occasions; the vicar at the rear of our column had
obviously not seen the incident occur, and as the last of the boys including myself skipped
over Mrs Lime Green, the older contingent stopped and parted slightly. All became clear to
the Reverend Wilde, who strode through the choristers and reached the incident just as the
church warden was dutifully going to the aid of Mrs Lime Green. As he moved from his
position in the pew he stepped on Mrs Lime Green’s matching handbag, lost his balance,
stumbled forward and met the advancing vicar with a head-butt to the balls.
‘Shit!’ wheezed the Reverend, which brought a disbelieving gasp from the
congregation as he doubled up in pain; his face now no more than inches from that of the
ranting, and now puce-faced, Totty. He wheezed again, this time through his teeth and
hissed, ‘Shut up, Thomas!’
‘I’m squashed. I’m squashed!’ wailed Totty.
All at once the other wardens reached the scene and, with the help of my nowrecovered tormentor, lifted Mrs Lime Green and carried her out into the vestry. We, at the
front of the column, had long-reached the choristers’ pews and along with Henry the Organ,
who had stopped playing when the commotion started, watched with amused interest as the
drama unfolded.
Totty was unceremoniously hauled to his feet by Frank White who pushed him, still
coughing and spluttering, down the aisle towards us and up into the choir pews.
At this juncture, you, the reader, especially you, the younger reader, could be forgiven
for wry smiles of disbelief concerning such inappropriate and highly improbable happenings
on a Sunday morning in the house of God - but happen they did. For one thing, fainting in
church on Sunday mornings was not an uncommon occurrence in those days. The
communion service would start at nine-thirty and depending on the length of the vicar’s
sermon would end sometime after eleven o’clock. Those taking communion were
constrained by church law not to eat any food before receiving the holy sacrament on the
morning in question. Many people would fast from 6 p.m. of the previous evening, in some
cases almost seventeen hours without food or drink. In the 1950s little knowledge was
available to the working class folk regarding differences in individual’s metabolic rate, blood
sugar levels and the like, so it was no wonder that certain people regularly fainted in church.
Also around that time, the medical profession suddenly seemed to come to grips with the
condition of diabetes in our area, and until then the poor unfortunates who suffered from the
same were categorised with the unenviable diagnosis as “having fits”.
When I look back on it now and compare it with modern day, these conditions were
almost of epidemic proportions. People used to drop like flies - and not only in church. It
was happening everywhere; bus queues; in the shops; outside cinemas; and if one wanted to
witness a mass fainting, the place to be was Ayrsome Park, the ground of Middlesbrough
Football Club, on a Saturday afternoon when they played at home. Throughout a normal
ninety minutes’ play dozens of people would be man-handled over the heads of the crowd
down to the edge of the pitch where three or four St John’s Ambulance bods would be run
off their feet. It certainly doesn’t happen with the same regularity nowadays.
Anyway the point I’m making is that to get away without a fainting on a Sunday
morning at church was classed in Frank White’s parlance as “a good result”.
As an aside to the lime-green-lady’s-squashing-of-Totty-Thomas, I feel it important to
share with the reader my own mental picture of the episode, for only by so doing can I
convey the true hilarity of the situation.
Another condition in those times; and one that has largely disappeared in the present was child ageism. There seemed then to be a disproportionate amount of children aged
between three and thirteen, who actually looked like little old men or women. One can only
speculate as to why this was; but a fair guess would lead one to believe that the cause lay in
the dietary habits of their parents. In the early 1950s the north east of England was still
subject to rationing; a legacy from the Second World War. Every week families were issued
with little green books, no bigger than a passport, full of postage-stamp sized coupons. At
my age then, the only page I was interested in was the one bearing sweet coupons - which my
sister and I shared. Good, healthy, staple diet produce was in short supply - hence the
rationing - and items such as fresh vegetables; meat; butter and eggs were a once-a-week
luxury - if a family were lucky. Powdered eggs, bully beef in tins and the like were the
normal order of the day. Accordingly, a fair proportion of babies born in the war or shortly
after were denied, through their parents, good natural nourishment - hence my child ageism
theory.
Totty Thomas was one such child: mousy fair hair; a ruddy complexion; small, thin
and wiry with a countenance not dissimilar to the actor Wilfred Bramble (when playing the
part of Steptoe-the-elder in the 1960s television series “Steptoe and Son”). He was a small
child, with the face of a little old man. Recalling that face, all red and pinched, peering out
from under the beached Mrs Lime Green as we skipped over them in church that day, still
brings a smile to my face.
As for the church warden, he of course never did jump out from the pews to expose
my fear and guilt; nor did he stalk Barry Foreman and myself with murder in mind - but it
was a long time before I allowed the episode to go down into my subconscious. For months I
was watchful; always keeping a mental eye out and on odd occasions when I did see him at a
distance, I would, regardless of my intended purpose, turn in the opposite direction and make
off. It wasn’t until many years later that I realised the seriousness of his actions that day and
throughout the rest of childhood I clung to the theory that he must have drunk so much on
that occasion that it left him with no recollection of the incident at all.
DAY FIVE
“For rulers like
To lay down laws
And rebels like to break them
The poor priest
Likes to walk in chains
And God likes to forsake him”
Still rehearsing for the forthcoming charity gig on Sunday and to my great surprise,
not to mention relief, I’m playing as well, if not better, than when I’d had a drink.
Encouraged by this, for I had never played in front of anyone unless I had visited the
well first, I realised that I had been using booze as my crutch. What did this tell me about
myself? I’d learnt to play the guitar when I was pissed and thereafter the playing of guitar in
public had always been preceded by an intake of old Dutch courage. Fear - but fear of what?
Fear I’d be caught out; fear that I would fail; fear that people wouldn’t like me; fear that
people would laugh or make fun of me? Fear, fear, fear, it was there at every turn, or was it?
Until now, I had no real way of assessing the situation; here was I, just turned fifty and I
couldn’t remember a day since age sixteen when I hadn’t taken a drink. Now, five days off
the booze, I was starting to make my first clear comparison in nearly forty years. Don’t get
me wrong; although by the doctor’s scale of alcoholic units drunk I was graveyard material,
you would never have guessed it. I never suffered from hangovers, I never missed a day’s
work and I never got nasty or violent with alcohol, unless provoked in the extreme of course.
I must have been the landlord’s dream punter: free- spending, wealthy, amiable and
always with a story to tell or yarn to spin. The bar rooms were my theatres where I nightly
played a leading role: just give me half an hour to get crutched up and I was your man. I was
fortunate, or so I thought, to have spent earlier drinking years in the company of such
luminaries as Tommy Cooper, Peter O’Toole, Billy Connolly, The Dubliners - the list goes
on. By age forty, I knew how to play the bar and the bar knew how to play me.
But here I was nearly a week without a drink playing what I thought was better music
than I had ever played before. And another thing, I had read more books in five days than in
the whole of a drinking year. It’s only when you stop drinking that you realise how your
daily life is controlled by lunchtime and evening sessions. Playing Sunday’s gig, however,
was still going to be a stiff test of my resolve. Just the mere thought of being surrounded by
the whiff of ales and spirits for three or so hours made me feel a tad uncomfortable.
THE WINDS OF CHANGE
In the latter half of the nineteen fifties my life was affected by several different events;
the first being the eleven-plus examination. This annual quest to assess the intelligence of
the nation’s pubescent’s would result in the top ten per cent of each junior school winning a
place in the local grammar school, whilst the also-rans were consigned to one of the various
secondary schools in their respective areas.
For the benefit of young readers, the exam itself was a two part affair set on two
separate days a couple of weeks apart and it was generally accepted that one only had to turn
up to pass the first half - I turned up and failed. When this slur on my academic prowess was
made public, Mam, who probably for the only time in her life felt humiliated by her son and
in the eyes of her neighbours, was called to the school. Unlike today, it was then a motherthing to represent the family when problems arose at school, especially in the industrial
heartland; Dads would normally be at work.
I didn’t realise it then but this meeting must have represented to Mam a daunting, if
not traumatic, ordeal and for her endurance of the same I am to this day eternally grateful.
To explain Mam’s anxiety about the forthcoming meeting, it has to be borne in mind that
back in those days the teaching profession still enjoyed the professional “pillar of society”
kudos and to a man, or woman, they held great respect and sway in the local community Mam worked in the kitchen where school dinners were served. I of course at that time was
oblivious to the David and Goliath contest that was about to take place, the outcome of
which would not only decide my schooling future, but also the level of my non-academic
stigma to be endured by the family.
Carolyn, three years earlier, had been acclaimed the brightest pupil in the school and I
think Mam had similar aspirations about my potential; so, by never taking any real interest in
school proceedings unless it involved soccer, I not only proved to be a disappointment, but I
was now in danger of becoming a veritable embarrassment.
The meeting took place after school hours and on arrival Mam was ushered into the
headmaster’s office to be confronted by the head, his deputy, my form tutor and the school
secretary Margaret, who Mam knew personally - more embarrassment for poor old Mam!
The headmaster, colloquially known as Pop Burton, set the scene by informing Mam that my
year had three boys who from day one had been assessed as mentally retarded and on leaving
his school would be going to the newly built backward school. No mention of “special
needs” in those days.
Mam listened politely while Pop Burton extolled the virtues of this new educational
establishment and then said, ‘I think I’ve understood everything you’ve told me Mr Burton,
but what’s this got to do with our John?’
Mam said later that at this point the gang of four all exchanged glances then the deputy
head Mr Pydd spoke up.
‘It’s like this Mrs Hare; John’s effort in the first half paper was so poor that if his
marks were put before an independent educationalist, he would almost certainly be classed as
being sub normal. What we were thinking….’
But Mam cut him short, ‘You’re not suggesting that our John is sent to the backward
school?’
‘Well…,’ said Pop Burton.
But Mam had the bit between her teeth.
‘I know John’s a dreamer and I know that sometimes the only sense you can get out of
him is when he’s talking about football, but that kid’s as bright as a button and I’ll not hear
talk of him being sent to a backward school!’
‘Now, now, Elsie,’ said Margaret. ‘Calm down, love.’
‘Calm down!’ said Mam - at this point feeling hurt and confused and probably
thinking “wait-till-I-get-my-hands-on-that-lazy-little-tyke”.
However, at this juncture Pop Burton spoke again.
‘What I would like you to do, Mrs Hare, is go home now and have a chat with Mr
Hare; tell him all about this meeting, then you both need to sit down with John and explain
the seriousness of the situation. If you can come back to me, with John, and convince me
that John is prepared to knuckle down to his schoolwork, then I will recommend that he go to
the Worsley Secondary Modern. Mind you, he will have to understand that it won’t be like
here, the school is much larger than here and each year is streamed A-D, John will have to
accept that he will have to start in the D stream and a lot of his pals from this school will be
three levels higher. I’m not promising anything, Mrs Hare, he’ll have to convince me first
that he is prepared to work if he wants this chance.’
(Hard to believe really reading the above, knowing that fifteen years hence I would be
crossing swords with directors in the ICI boardroom.)
I came home that early summer evening after playing in the streets and as I walked
through the door Mam said, ‘Your Dad wants to speak with you.’
Dad, who was sitting at the kitchen table said, ‘Sit down, son.’
Then Mam took over. Mam gave her account of the school meeting and ended up by
saying, ‘Do you realise, our John, they want to send you to the backward school?’
I was shocked and near panic-stricken with this news. I knew I’d failed the first part of
the bloody exam, but surely that didn’t make me backward; I had my own gang at school,
what would they say about being led by a certified half wit? What would it do to the morale
of the school team with the big final against St Peter’s coming up and them knowing that I,
the supposed king of schoolboy strategy on the football pitch, had just been confirmed as
several pence short of a shilling - something had to be done and quick.
‘MAAAM,’ I said. ‘You can’t let them send me to the backward school. You know
I’m not stupid.’
‘I know, pet, but the decision doesn’t rest with me and your Dad.’
Mam went on to relate what Pop Burton had said at the meeting and ended up by
saying, ‘You see, son, it’s up to you. I’ve told them you’re not stupid and that I don’t want
you going to a backward school, but you’re going to have to convince Pop Burton that you’re
really prepared to work hard.’
‘I will. I will, Mam, honest.’
‘OK, son, we have to go back to see him a week today, which gives you five days at
school to show your intentions and, mark my words, they’ll be watching!’
That night in bed, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t miss a trick in school next week. I
couldn’t let myself be sent to a backward school. The humiliation of it all would be just too
much to bear, and besides, they didn’t have a football team at this new place.
My problems at that time were obviously of my own making, fuelled in some way by a
rather odd sort of peer pressure. For one thing, I wouldn’t have gone to grammar school if
they had paid me. The lives of those few that did go from the streets were made a misery and
you could forget your street cred the moment you put your tie on; it was gone forever, or so I
thought. When I look back at it now, the whole pecking order in the streets was upside down
compared to the reality of the “real” world. Then, if you worked hard at school, achieved and
did well, you were virtually ostracised. On the other hand, if you paid lip service to
schooling and affected an air of nonchalance to any academic authority, then you were “just
the ticket”, “one of the boys”, so to speak. Considering my new predicament and the whole
backward school issue, I’d obviously over-played my hand in the nonchalance department;
reparation would have to be made; and fast.
Living in a close-knit community like ours, there are very few secrets, so it was no
surprise when one of my pals turned up the following morning and said, ‘I hear they’re
sending you to backward school.’
I immediately dropped into Mr Cool mode and replied, ‘Nah, that’s just a load of old
crap. I’ll be going to the Worsleys. They’re just trying to put the frighteners on me.’
Eleven years old and word-perfect dialogue from a Humphrey Bogart movie!
However inside I was being besieged by a series of “what ifs”; what if I can’t convince Pop
Burton; what if he doesn’t recommend me for the Worsleys; what if he does but it is
overruled by the education authority? What if? What if? Was life really that complicated for
one so small?
The following week went according to plan and I could tell that “Whitey”, my form
teacher, had noticed the marked improvement in my attentiveness and general behaviour.
The Friday afternoon summit went equally well, with Pop Burton acknowledging my newleaf strategy and me solemnly promising not to let him or myself down again.
‘Alright then, Mrs Hare,’ he said. ‘I’ll recommend that John should go to Sir William
Worsley, but you must understand, lad, it’s not over and done with just like that. If you do
go, you’ll start in the bottom class of four in your year and the teachers will be watching you
closely. If you switch off again at anytime in your first year, my recommendation will count
for nothing and you’ll be out. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I replied meekly.
He then went on to talk about the forthcoming big game against St Peter’s School.
‘We haven’t had the area Schools’ Trophy here for ten years and in three week’s time
I’d dearly love to hold it aloft in assembly. Mr Moss tells me you have a plan on how to beat
them. Is that right?’
Oh, what a joy! All you had to do was talk to me about football in those days and I
literally came alive.
‘Yes, sir. Well sort of,’ I said. ‘It’s not so much a plan but more about strengths and
weaknesses.’
‘Go on,’ said Pop Burton. ‘Explain what you mean.’
‘I went to watch them play St Mary’s a few weeks ago and they beat the Mary’s four
nil, though in my opinion the score line flattered them. I’d say on the day they deserved to
win, but not by such a large margin. They do have, though, one great strength in attack; a
boy called Larkin. He’s big, strong and fast with a right foot shot like a rocket; he scored all
four goals the other week, all of them from breakaways. He’s not the greatest controller of a
football so he needs space and I think by setting our stall out properly, we can close him out
of the game and with him taken care of, they are at best mediocre. The other thing, sir, is
that the whole of their left flank is very weak, whereas on the right we’re quite strong going
forward. What we need to do is this: get Ginner Clarke and Stan Dawkins to double-man
mark Larkin - they’re both strong and fast, but Mr Moss will have to tell them to stick to that
job and not go wandering off. Larkin won’t like that and he’s also temperamental, if he
hasn’t scored by the second half he’ll get moody, lose his concentration and fade out of the
game altogether.’ Without pausing for breath I pressed on, ‘As for our attacking plan, we
should play the ball down our right flank at every opportunity because if they’re going to
crack, that’s where it will be. Their left wing is so weak that our right back will get lots of
opportunity to go forward and help in attack and I’m sure the goals will come. In a nutshell
that’s about it, sir.’
For a moment there was silence. The gang of four just stared at me and from the
corner of my eye I saw Mam doing the same with her mouth wide open. I realised instantly
that I had overplayed my hand again.
‘That’s not a plan, son,’ said Pop Burton, ‘that’s a full blown strategy and it makes a
total mockery out of us dragging your poor mother down to this school to discuss your
supposed lack of intelligence. You will go to Sir William Worsley, I’ll see to it personally,
but I’ll go further than that, I’ll go to the headmaster there and tell him that you’ve been
fooling us for the past three years. Furthermore, I’m going to ask him to sit on you and make
sure that you meet your full potential. You have got to start and consider your future now
and get down to some hard studying otherwise you’ll end up like so many others who
spurned their own potential - on the dung heap of life.’
On the way home I asked Mam what “potential” meant.
Mam said, ‘I don’t know, pet.’
She had no such problem with my next question, ‘What’s the dung heap of life,
Mam?’
‘We live on it, son,’ Mam replied. ‘We live on it.’
I wanted to ask more but Mam said, ‘Leave it till we get home, I think it’s time your
Dad gave you his version.’
Dad came in from work and while he ate his tea (dinner) Mam told him about the
meeting, especially about me holding them enthralled with my plan to beat St Peter’s.
Dad chuckled mid-mouthful then said, ‘So they finally know you’re not as thick as pig
shit, son. Mind you if your plan is to work, that Stan Dawkins will have to stick on that
centre forward and not go off on any of his fancy runs.’
‘Jack!’ said Mam with an air of exasperation. ‘I know the match is important to you
two, it’s even important to Pop Burton, but our John’s future is more important than any
schoolboy cup. It’s time you told him about the chances that you’ve missed in life and the
reasons we both know why you missed them.’
This wasn’t said in a cutting or regretful way for Mam was never vindictive; it was
said in a way that implied shared disappointments they had borne together in a life of
struggle.
‘Your Mam’s right, son,’ said Dad. ‘Things could have been a lot better around here if
I’d have done things differently, but no, from age thirteen I went where the money was; paid
no heed to reading, writing and all that stuff, never thought I’d need it as long as I had these,’
he said holding up his hands. ‘If I’d learnt to read and write properly I’d have made foreman
ten times over, maybe even better. I can do the job, don’t get me wrong, I can do it better
than any foreman they’ve ever had, but I can’t write it down in report form and I can’t go
into meetings and talk in front of all the bosses like you did to those teachers. Look at it this
way, son; you can read and write a lot better than me and they were thinking of sending you
to the backward school. I went the wrong way son and if it wasn’t for your Mam here, I’d
have ended up in the gutter and that’s for sure. If I’d listened more to her when we were kids
and got stuck in at school we would have our own house by now, not living in a master’s
lodgings and besides that, if I was earning foreman’s money, your Mam wouldn’t have to go
to that canteen every day washing dishes till God knows what time for a pittance!’
This unabashed confession of failure by my Dad, my hero, was more than I could bear
and I burst into tears, flung my arms around him and blurted out things like, ‘It’s not true!
You’re the best Dad in the world, you don’t need to be a foreman, we’re all OK, and we
always get by.’
‘That’s just it, son. When my Dad was a lad nobody was educated, but it’s changing
fast now and to have any decent chance in life you’ve got to have some learning. I don’t
want you ending up in the same sort of fix I’m in now; no prospects, no choices and one
option; keep my mouth shut, do as the gaffer tells me and hope that next week I’ve still got a
job and a wage to take home. Promise me you’ll try son, you could really make something of
yourself.’
As I said, ‘I promise, Dad,’ Mam joined in with, ‘Tell him the good news then, Jack.’
‘Oh dear me, I almost forgot. Well now, sometime back I put our name down for one
of those new council houses up at Teesville, you know the ones, three bedrooms, garden
front and back and a proper kitchen and bathroom.’
‘Cor, Dad! Will we get it, will I have my own bedroom, will…?’
‘Whoa!’ said Dad. ‘One thing at a time; I was given the keys this very morning so I
think when Carolyn gets in we should all take a walk up there and have a look; there’ll be
plenty of time for questions then!’
Dad went upstairs to change out of his working clothes and I took up position on the
front doorstep wanting to be the first to tell Carolyn this latest news. It’s a funny thing news
- people the world over love to be in possession of it first. This applies even more so if
you’re a child, it presents a rare opportunity, in that period of one’s life, to feel important and
be listened to.
As Carolyn turned the corner of our street, I was off the front step like a whippet and
on reaching her blurted out my important news, ‘We’re going to get a new house.’
‘I know,’ said Carolyn, matter-of-factly, as befitted her station being three years my
senior. ‘Mam told me about it a few weeks ago!’
The level of deflation I felt at that moment cannot be described, but not to show my
disappointment I said, ‘Dad’s got the keys and we’re going now.’
‘What?’ said Carolyn in a surprised and excited tone - obviously to my intense
pleasure.
‘Come on!’ I shouted, turning to run.
Carolyn was at my side and we raced up the street almost colliding with Mam and Dad
who were coming out of the front door.
‘Steady down!’ said Dad, catching hold of both of us. ‘I’d like us all to get there in one
piece!’
And so it was, on that late spring evening we strolled as a family out of Grangetown,
and a mile and a half across fields, to what was to be a new beginning for the Hare family;
the winds of change were starting to blow.
The new house was nearly twice the size of the one we currently lived in and to
Carolyn and me it seemed enormous. It was light and airy compared to the street houses and
as we moved from room to room, we made our approval known to Mam and Dad.
Mam said not to get too excited and that nothing had been settled yet. ‘There’s a lot to
be thought about,’ she added.
Carolyn and I immediately switched our canvassing tactics to Dad, ‘You’d have a
garden if we lived here!’ I shouted. ‘You’ve always wanted a garden.’
‘A garden would be grand right enough,’ said Dad, ‘but it’s not me you’ve got to
convince - it’s your mother. I’d move tomorrow if it was up to me.’
Carolyn and I scampered back up the stairs and found Mam in the main bedroom
sitting on the windowsill staring out over the unfinished houses opposite onto the fields
beyond. She was obviously deep in thought when we barged in; so much so that she didn’t
even look up to greet the herd of elephants echoing around the empty room.
I immediately started up but was shushed by Carolyn, ‘What is it, Mam?’ she said.
‘What are you worried about?’
Mam looked round at us both and then she smiled, ‘Oh, it’s lots of silly little things I
suppose.’
‘What things?’ I said. ‘What things, Mam, tell us?’
‘Well for one thing,’ said Mam, ‘the rent here is two shillings a week more than what
we’re paying now. Then there are school bus fares for you, our John. Have you thought of
that?’ She carried on, ‘What about the shopping? That’ll be more bus fares and if I forget to
get something, what happens then? We just can’t nip back and buy it. We’re miles away
here, it’s just lots of little things like that - and I’ll also miss my neighbours as well.’
Mam paused and Carolyn, who had been listening intently, seized her chance, ‘Mam,’
she said, adopting a tone of voice somewhere between a conspirator and an equal. ‘Wouldn’t
you just love a proper inside toilet?’
‘You know I would, pet.’
‘And wouldn’t you love to see Dad coming in from the back garden with our own
potatoes, peas and beetroot?’
‘Yes, pet, I would.’
‘And wouldn’t you dearly love to get out from under that black cloud of soot and dust
that seems to sit permanently over our street?’
‘Of course I would, pet. I’d love …’
Carolyn cut her short, ‘Well listen, Mam, if it’s the money that’s holding you back, I’ll
be starting work soon and that’ll mean another wage coming in. We’ll be able to afford the
extra rent and bus fares then.’
I piped up with, ‘I’ll get up early and walk to school till our Carolyn gets her job.’ This
made Mam laugh. ‘And if you forget something at the shops I could pick it up the next day
after school.’
‘And as for neighbours,’ said Carolyn, ‘they’ll all be coming out to see your new
house and it wouldn’t surprise me if half of them don’t end up living out here.’
Mam looked at us both, a smile of both love and pride on her face, ‘You two really
want to live in this house don’t you?’
‘Oh yes, Mam,’ we chorused.
‘Come on,’ said Mam. ‘Let’s go downstairs and see what your father has to say!’
We all filed out onto the landing and down the stairs with me chanting, ‘He’ll say yes.
He’ll say yes.’
Dad was out the back looking at a patch of builder’s rubble and mud which was our
garden to be.
‘There you are,’ said Mam. ‘What are you doing out here?’
‘- Just looking at the amount of work that needs doing in this garden.’
‘And will you be the one doing it?’ said Mam.
‘I think you’d best decide that, pet,’ Dad replied, giving me a sly wink at the same
time.
‘Well,’ said Mam, ‘it looks like I’m out-numbered here. You’d better go down and see
the council, Jack.’
She paused and looked around her as if trying to draw some comfort from what she
was about to say, ‘Tell them,’ she hesitated again. ‘Tell them we’ll take it.’
Carolyn and I burst into cheers and ran to hug Mam; Dad just laughed and lit his pipe.
A few days later Dad, in his own fashion, read out a letter from the council telling us
that we could move into the new house in three weeks’ time. Carolyn and I clapped and
cheered. Mam I noticed had an “I’m still not sure” face on. Then it suddenly dawned on me.
‘What date did you say, Dad?’
Dad picked up the letter from where he’d placed it on the table, looked at it and said,
‘Wednesday, son. Wednesday, the seventh of next month.’
‘Oh, Dad!’ I wailed. ‘You know what day that is?’
Dad thought for a moment then his face contorted into recognition, ‘Well jigger me.
That’s the same day as your big match.’
‘I’ll still be able to play won’t I?’
‘Yes, son,’ said Mam. ‘You’ll be able to play; house move, or no house move! We will
all be there to watch you.’
‘Honest, Mam? Honest?’ I cried.
‘Honest, son. We’ll be there, won’t we, kid?’
‘I should say so!’ said Dad.
The greatest day of my eleven years on the planet duly arrived.
If you have ever lived on the north east coast, you will know the vagaries of its climate
and also how the seasons seem to play a constant game of tag with each other. To say that
the area suffers from variable weather patterns is an understatement. Even in the height of a
so-called summer, it was not uncommon to have a wind off the North Sea that would cut you
in two. Winters start early along that coast; springtime’s come late and summers, like an act
topping the bill at a working men’s club, put in but the briefest of appearances and never
linger.
The hardy, yet ever-optimistic folk of the region took such unpredictable weather
patterns in their stride and, for the most part, calculated the seasons by the calendar
regardless of what the weather was doing. The basic rule-of-thumb decreed that spring
started in April and forced its way through to June; summer was classified as July and
August; the leaves fell off the trees in September and thereafter you could have snow at the
drop of a hat.
Calculating weather conditions by the calendar can be a tricky business anywhere in
the British Isles, but in the North East it was pure wishful-thinking and led to my witnessing
the most bizarre scenes of mind-over-matter that live with me to this day.
In this, the new millennium, every radio station and television network apprise the
nation of local and national weather conditions by the hour; not so then, for most people it
was a case of wake up, look out of the window and make a guess as to how the day would
go.
On Sundays, if the sun shone early between the months of April and September, long
queues would form at the bus stops with everyone heading off to the seaside at Redcar, some
five miles thence.
On one such occasion our family, like many others, had decided to head for the coast
and we duly took our place in the bus queue at the top of our street. The dress code was
standard; short sleeved shirts for the men and boys, whilst the girls and women would be
attired in skimpy summer frocks or twin sets.
On this particular day the bus queue was some eighty men, women and children
strong, with the main topic of conversation being about the bus service. Several buses had
already passed through with room enough only to let three or four persons on; standing room
only. One voice, which sounded to me then both knowledgeable and full of authority, told
the listening throng that by now word would have filtered back to the bus station and they
would be putting on extra services and we would all be on our way in no time. This was
greeted with murmurs of approval from the queue and women could be heard telling whining
broods, ‘There you are, you heard Mr So and So; he works for the railways and he should
know. It won’t be long now!’
Such logic would never appease the kids of today - but even children at that time
showed patience and tolerance the like of which is now long gone.
I, who could never stand still from one minute to the next, wandered up and down the
queue listening to people’s views of Mr So and So’s assessment of the situation, and
remember feeling somewhat down-hearted when I overheard his wife say, ‘You and your big
mouth! What did you have to say that for? We’ll look right bloody fools if these buses of
yours don’t turn up!’
‘Hush, woman!’ was all Mr So and So replied.
Just at this moment the weather, probably to the relief of Mrs So and So, intervened.
The sun went behind the clouds and within seconds we experienced the onset of a freak
hailstorm - which rained down stones not much smaller than golf balls. An unspoken ritual
suddenly came into play with all the precision of a synchronised swimming display team.
The men, who had formed that part of the queue in the bus shelter, moved out and
women and children from the back pushed in to take their places. Even with everyone
packed in like sardines, it still left several women and young girls out in the downpour, so
boys around my age were sent out to join the men. I liked the idea of being one of the men
and stepped out readily, only to be hit on the nose by one of the ice missiles which made me
cry out in pain, turn on my heel and burrow my way back into the mass of damp goose
pimples and scented organza.
Mam said, ‘Come on, son. You’re a big lad now, make room for the little girls and go
and stand with your Dad!’
There was nothing else for it so, hands over head, I left the shelter and joined the men
- who were talking about horse racing and seemingly oblivious to the ferocious attack from
above.
At this point, and to the obvious delight and relief of the So and So’s, a completely
empty double-decker bus came up through the subway and drew to a halt. In the best
traditions, women and children boarded first, with the now proud and vindicated Mr So and
So telling all in earshot that he’d known all along an extra service would be provided.
The whole eighty something of us squeezed onto the vehicle that boasted clearly
printed signs declaring its capacity to carry a maximum of fifty-nine passengers. Children
sat on the knees of parents; wives and girlfriends sat on the laps of their partners, while the
rest of the men stood filling aisles and entry platform. No Health and Safety Executive or
Trading Standards in those days.
So there we were, a small entanglement of humanity, damply dressed in summer
clothes, buckets and spades to the ready, all squashed into this red bus, which trundled out of
town in the middle of a hailstorm, that wouldn’t have been out of place in your average
Siberian winter. Someone struck up with, “She’ll be coming round the mountain, when she
comes”, and within seconds the whole bus, including driver and conductor, had joined in;
totally bizarre when you look back on it now, but in those early days of childhood, it seemed
the most natural thing in the world.
I left number 16 Cheetham Street at eight o’clock on the morning of the big game and
never went back to the house that had been my home for the whole eleven years of my life.
Football boots hanging around my neck, I set off for school and a team practice in the
playground before lessons. It was a bright breezy morning with billows of white cloud
scudding across the sky; one of those days not uncommon in the North of England, where
weather could change dramatically in a matter of seconds. By the time the bell went for
lessons, I was totally preoccupied with the possible weather conditions for the big game
ahead. With a blustery and swirling wind, there would be little gained by playing high balls
to the forwards; we as a team were on the small side and it would have to be a case of keep
the ball on the ground and play a passing game.
My reverie was interrupted by the playground duty teacher, ‘I don’t suppose, Hare,
you could do us all a courtesy and join your form column? I’m sure everyone would like to
be indoors and out of this wind.’
A cheer of assent went up from the assembled ranks, especially from the non-sporty
types. We all filed into school, each group heading for their respective classrooms as I
slipped back into pre-match tactics. I worked out that if the prevailing conditions remained
the same throughout the day, then by kick-off time the wind would be blowing directly down
field. Tactically, the decision was easy, but it depended on winning the toss; play with the
wind in the first half and try to build a lead; pack the defence in the second half and hold out
for the win. In the professional game of today, such weather conditions play little part in the
outcome of a match, but in those days at junior schoolboy level, it could make all the
difference. Even though the duration of each half was only thirty minutes, little legs would
tire markedly in the second period and my theory was that when this happened, it was always
easier to defend than attack.
I drifted off again into the now well-worn daydream of my scoring the winning goal in
front of a packed grandstand at a proper Northern League stadium. I was just being lifted by
my team-mates, when the whole glorious picture was shattered by the sound of my name
being called.
‘HARE! What was I just saying?’ said Mr White (no relation to the choirmaster).
I blinked back into the real world and looked blankly up into the annoyed face of our
form teacher.
‘I don’t really know, sir.’ I replied honestly.
‘And why don’t you know, boy?’
‘I was thinking of something else, sir.’
‘Oh pray do enlighten the class as to what this something could be,’ said Whitey with
a mock flourish, which earned him titters of derision - aimed in my direction of course.
Like any performer worth his salt Whitey knew he had his audience and, with a
theatrical air, played to the gallery for all he was worth.
‘I am sure everyone here, on a point of interest, would love to know what your little
something else is. I am sure in time it will have far more historical gravitas than Napoleon
and a half-starved French army freezing their backsides off outside the gates of Moscow.’
This time the whole class erupted in laughter, to the obvious delight I might add of the
now-rampant Whitey.
I hadn’t got a clue as to his reference about Napoleon and Moscow, so harking back to
Mam’s “honesty is the best policy” teachings, I thought it best to tell him the truth.
‘Well, laddie,’ said Whitey with a malevolent smirk, ‘We’re waiting, and stand up
boy! I want everyone to hear this matter of great importance.’
I rose weakly to my feet, but with a sudden surge of belief in my tactical genius said,
‘It’s about tonight’s final, sir, and how important it will be to kick with the wind in the first
half.’
The smirk disappeared from Whitey’s face; becoming a look of “how dare you” anger
- but before he could cut me down or proceed with a caning, a voice from across the room
owned by one Fuzzy Harland declared, ‘Nah. Keep ‘em out in the first half and play with the
wind at our backs in the second.’
‘Rubbish!’ said Stan Dawkins. ‘Harey’s right; play with the wind in the first half; it
might drop in the second.’
‘I agree!’ shouted John O’Conner from another corner of the room. And a hubbub of
debate broke out amongst the whole class.
‘SILENCE!’ screamed Whitey as he bore down, lifting me by the left ear out into the
gangway and pulling me unceremoniously to the front of the class. The noise abated as
Whitey, all aquiver with rage, produced his most feared instruments of corporal punishment;
two rulers with split ends which would not only inflict pain on the unfortunate recipient but
the split ends, when delivered with force, would also nip any soft areas of skin and invariably
draw blood.
‘Hand out, boy!’ hissed Whitey.
I obediently held out my right hand lowering my head at the same time, this was not
what I had planned. Whitey was now seriously wound up and snarled, ‘Think you’re clever
boy do you? Think you can turn my classroom into a moronic soccer debating society do
you? Well I’ll show you - mark my works, I’ll show you.’
Although I didn’t realise it at the time, the whole tableau must have taken on the
semblance of high farce, with Whitey dispensing his wrath and punishment like a demented
Basil Fawlty.
Six whacks, accompanied by six words in three time:
‘DO-NOT-DAYDREAM-IN-MY-CLASS!’
It hurt, and when done I had two bloody wheals across the palm of my hand. Whitey
however, who was not a big man, looked like he had been dragged through a hedge
backwards. His exertions had left him somewhat dishevelled and his once-smart, slickedback hairstyle resembled that of an unkempt, mad professor.
However, as often happens in life to those who wield power manifesting itself in
violence, the exertion of the physical act will invariably drain the anger that initiated it in the
first place.
So it was with Whitey; he suddenly seemed to realise that he had lost his self-control
and hastily smoothed back his hair saying as he did so, albeit in a much calmer voice, ‘Now
sit down, boy, and don’t let it happen again.’
Before I could acknowledge him with a servile, ‘Yes, sir,’ the bell went for dinnertime
and joy-of-joys I was out in the playground – only half a day to go.
The school canteen was at the top of our street, whereas the school was at the bottom,
and accordingly all those who had paid their weekly dinner money on a Monday morning
had a daily two to three hundred yard trek to make for lunch. This journey was conducted in
strict Noah’s ark tradition with the orderly files of children flanked by teachers every four or
five yards.
When I look back on it now, the food dished up at the canteen was indeed to a high
standard; fresh produce brought in daily and cooked on the premises by a team of dinner
ladies who were in fact local housewives practised in the handed-down tradition of making
basic ingredients taste wonderful. Dishes such as egg and cheese flan, corned beef and
potato pie and sweets like spotted dick or jam roly-poly, were regular fare. Mam, as
mentioned earlier, was part of the dinner-lady team and every day made a point of catching
my eye and giving me a wave. This day she was nowhere to be seen and it took nearly a full
five minutes of me craning my neck to catch a glimpse of her through the kitchen portals
before the penny dropped. Of course she wouldn’t be there - she and Dad were moving
house - come to think of it they had probably already moved. On the way to the canteen I
had walked right past our front door without giving it a thought, I didn’t recall seeing any
house moving activity as we went by, so I could only assume that the house we had always
called home was now just an empty shell. Sure enough, as we made the journey back to
school I noticed that all of our curtains had gone and that the ground floor window had been
whitewashed on the inside, this was always a sign in the streets of comings and goings. By
tradition the outgoing tenants would whitewash ground floor windows in order to give some
vestige of privacy to the incomers whilst they found time to organise curtains.
In the case of newlyweds, the whitewash would remain in place of curtains sometimes
for months and many a time young wives would be overheard telling their new husbands
something along the lines of, ‘I don’t care if I haven’t got a bed to sleep in or clothes on me
back, I must have curtains up. Whatever will me neighbours be thinking?’
Older women in the street would often, by way of comfort to the newcomer,
exaggerate their own early beginnings on the road of married life by saying things like,
‘Don’t worry, pet, a few months without curtains is nothing; I was at our lad for nearly two
years afore we got our first pair. You’ll be fixed up in no time - mark my words, just you
wait and see.’
This rally-round mentality was something we would all come to miss in our new
home, and although over a period of years we did make some good friends from our
neighbours, it was never quite the same. I’m sure that it had something to do with the new
houses having front gardens that acted as a kind of deterrent to doorstep gossiping - the kind
of which was a hallmark of street life.
The bell rang out to signify the end of dinnertime and with the rest of my class I filed
into school for afternoon lessons. No Whitey this afternoon I thought thank God; music then
art. Yippee! Both lessons would afford the daydreamer a modicum of reverie and the
teachers concerned were not given to acts of gratuitous violence.
And so the school afternoon passed off without further incident. I was a bit of a
favourite with the music teacher, mainly because of my church choir status, but also the dear
man was convinced that with a little nurturing he could produce a boy soprano of some
merit. Consequently, I was always within his visual and mental focus, so big match planning
and goal scoring dreams of glory were not options in his lessons. I didn’t really mind
though; I loved singing and the music lessons gave me a rare opportunity to shine in daily
school life.
The afternoon art lesson was a different kettle of fish. Miss Cole, attired in Bohemian
smock, had a philosophical approach to exactly how much of her talent she could pass on to
the working class ragamuffins of Grangetown. She tended to concentrate her efforts on half a
dozen pupils who showed some aptitude for the subject - the rest of the class, including
yours truly, were virtually left to their own devices providing they remained relatively quiet
and did not disturb the chosen few. This suited me admirably, as I could brush or crayon
away at my chickens, trees or chimneys, which incidentally almost always looked the same,
and engage automatic-pilot, on a course set for the winning of a football trophy.
THE BIG MATCH
The bell for end of lessons rang out and I was almost out of the art room when Miss
Cole, in her distant dreamy voice, called out, ‘John Hare!’
I quelled the urge to keep going and turned around.
‘Yes, miss!’
‘I know you have far more important things on your mind than my art lesson, but
nobody leaves this room until brushes are clean and jars are washed out thoroughly.’
‘But, miss!’
‘No buts.’ she cut in, ‘when your desk is clear you may leave.’
When I look back now she was making no more than a perfectly reasonable request
but at the time, as I took my place in the already-formed queue for the cleaning sink, I
couldn’t quite see her point of view. Didn’t the woman understand this was almost certainly
the school’s most important football match for at least a decade? Didn’t she realise that it
wasn’t just a case of pull on the old school strip, kick a ball about for an hour, shake hands
and go home? This was war and we had to win. Only an hour and a half to kick off and so
much to do - yet there I was waiting to wash out bloody jam jars!
At last it was my turn at the sink, and with brush and jar clean, stacked and racked - I
was gone.
By the time I’d collected my boots and coat from the cloakroom, the rest of the team
had gathered in the schoolyard. That is all but one - our goalkeeper Chris Booth. Chris was a
big lad for his age and not one to be missed in a crowd, so I suppose it came as no surprise to
the rest of the team when I ran up shouting, ‘Where’s Boothy?’
‘He forgot to bring his boots to school this morning,’ said Mr Moss. ‘Now you’re here
we can all walk up to the bus stop. I’ve told him to meet us there. File in ranks of two and
let’s get going, we don’t want to give the match to St Peter’s by default.’
I immediately started to worry, what if Boothy missed the bus? It didn’t bear thinking
about. Boothy was by far the best goalkeeper in the area at junior schoolboy level. If he
missed the trolley bus it would mean the restructuring of the team, which in turn meant my
strategy for winning the game would be in tatters.
In those days, at all levels of soccer, the rules were quite clear; eleven players on each
team and two substitutes per side only. If Boothy didn’t make the bus we had real problems.
Firstly, neither of our subs could play in goal - in fact the only person in the team who could
pass as anything like a keeper was Ginner Clarke our centre half, and if he had to take the
gloves then my plan for him and Stan Dawkins to contain their centre forward would be in
ruins.
As we approached the Lyric cinema where the trolley bus would leave from, I was
craning my neck in the hope of seeing the bulk of Chris Booth waiting for us - he wasn’t
there.
‘Right,’ said Mr Moss. ‘Form an orderly queue behind me and if any ladies come for
the bus remember to let them on first.’
I piped up with, ‘Shall I run to the corner, sir, and see if Boothy’s coming?’
‘I think not, young John,’ said Mr Moss. ‘One man short is one thing, but the tram will
be along any minute so we all stay put. Boothy will just have to take his chances.’
‘But, sir,’ I said with an air of pleading in my voice, ‘if Boothy misses the bus it will
ruin all of our match plans.’
‘That’s as maybe,’ said Mr Moss. ‘These things happen in life, son. You just have to
be prepared for any eventuality.’
Before I could inform Mr Moss that we were not prepared to do battle without our
goalkeeper and a ruddy great gaping hole in the middle of our defence, a shout went up from
somewhere in the queue, ‘The tram’s coming, sir.’
I turned to look down the road; sure enough, not a quarter of a mile away the trolley
bus trundled towards us. A minute later it drew to a halt outside the Lyric. I turned to Mr
Moss about to ask if we couldn’t miss this one and wait for the next, when a great cheer went
up and I looked over my shoulder to see a near purple-faced Boothy come running round the
corner.
‘Cut it a bit fine, young Booth,’ said Mr Moss.
‘Couldn’t get in the house, sir,’ said Chris. ‘Mam must be down the street shopping.’
‘What about your boots?’ said the teacher.
‘Haven’t got them, sir.’
‘You can’t play without boots, lad.’
‘I’ll play in my shoes,’ said Chris.
‘You’ll do no such thing! This is an important game with a big crowd expected; it was
bad enough having to spend half the night trying to make those rags we call the school strip
look somewhere near respectable - if I let you take the field wearing your good school shoes
Pop Burton will have my guts for garters - closely followed by your mother I shouldn’t
wonder.’
By now I was near panic-stricken. Most of the team had boarded the tram and this
conversation was taking place half on and half off the running board.
‘You can’t play without boots and that’s it,’ said Mr Moss.
Chris looked as if he was about to burst into tears, I can remember anger welling up
inside me at the perceived injustice of the situation, when Ginner Clarke who had obviously
overheard some of the conversation turned and said, ‘I’ve got my old boots in the bag, what
size do you take Chris?’
‘Eight,’ said Boothy.
‘No good,’ said Ginner. ‘My new ones are only six and a half, the old ones are sixes you’ll never get them on.’
‘Wanna bet?’ said Chris Booth. ‘I’ll get them on!’
‘You could cripple yourself for life wearing boots two sizes too small,’ said Mr Moss.
‘Ah, come on, sir,’ said Chris. ‘It’s only for an hour.’
‘On your head, or should I say feet, be it,’ said the teacher. ‘But if you can’t get them
on, you don’t take the field – understand?’
‘Yes, sir!’ replied Chris Booth.
The conductor of the tram who had witnessed these exchanges pressed his bell twice
and, as the bus set off I overheard him say to Chris Booth, ‘Don’t worry, son, you’ll get them
on!’
Chris nodded but said nothing.
The trolley bus ride to South Bank usually took about ten minutes, unless there was a
breakdown, which was not an infrequent occurrence.
This form of transport was common across the country in those days and probably
accounts for the fact that in our area it went by three different names; two of them were
fairly self explanatory: “tram” - short for tramcar; “trackless” - presumably because it did not
run on rails; but to this day I’ve never figured out why it was widely known as the “trolley
bus”. They are still used across Europe today - and it would not surprise me in the slightest
to see a modern day version of it make a re-emergence in this country in the future.
As a form of transport it would appear to have fitted all the criteria that today’s
motoring organisations and transport bodies clamour for. The vehicles were powered by
electricity from overhead cables fed to the engine via two ten foot pole-like connectors that
were attached to the roof of the body shell. They were quick, quiet and clean. Of course like
all forms of public transport it had its problems, but only two as far as I was able to
determine.
If there was a power cut, the system just couldn’t function and at such times anyone
travelling on the petrol-driven buses would pass, at regular intervals, these empty dark green
dinosaurs. The other problem often experienced with this mode of transport was breakdown
- which in ninety percent of cases was caused by one or both connector poles parting
company with the overhead cables - this usually happened when the vehicle tried to corner at
speed. If you were a passenger on such occasions, the parting of the pole conductor from the
overhead cables was accompanied by a heavy shower of blue sparks and a groan from all on
board. In the early days of tram transport the dislocation of a conductor meant long delays,
with the driver or conductor having to walk to the nearest telephone box and phone the
depot, then return to the vehicle and its disgruntled cargo to await the petrol driven repair
vehicle.
By the time of my first recollection of such things the system had improved
dramatically. The body of the vehicle housed a twenty-five foot tube in which was stored a
pole of the same length, and whenever a conductor dislodged one of the crew would pull out
this pole from its housing and use it to push the fallen conductor back onto the overhead
cable.
With today’s technology I’m sure that a bank of batteries could be designed into the
system thereby ensuring continuity of service in the event of a power cut. I’m even more
sure that it wouldn’t be too difficult to design a conductor pole that could not be dislodged
from the overhead cables. Bring back the tramcar I say!
The team’s tram journey to South Bank passed off without any of the aforementioned
problems and on alighting we all made the five minute walk to the football ground without
further incident.
On arriving at the ground we were shown into the home team’s dressing room, which
to our inexperienced eyes oozed style and class: there were proper benches to sit on; pegs
numbered one to eleven and two for the subs; a line of tiled shower cubicles the like of
which I had never seen before, and in one corner a square bath big enough to swim in. I can
remember thinking at the time that although the facilities were very impressive, I’d bet
money that the bath and showers didn’t get much use. The men of the North were not given
to flaunting their nether regions. It wasn’t the done thing to go parading about in one’s
birthday suit. In most cases at local football matches players would come off the pitch,
invariably covered in mud, and totally ignore the then new-fangled showers - preferring to
dress, go home and have a tin bath by the fire.
Mr Moss handed out the well-worn shirts, faded red, each one with frayed white collar
and cuffs. As we changed he gave a near word-perfect version of my strategy emphasising
the need for Stan Hawkins and Ginner Clarke to stick like glue to their centre forward.
‘And remember,’ said Mr Moss, ‘play the ball down our right flank at every
opportunity.’
He was about to elaborate on this part of the plan when the dressing room door opened
and in walked a real referee in full black regalia.
‘Blimey!’ exclaimed Hedley Weedy who was sitting next to me. ‘A proper ref!’
Normally, school football matches were refereed by one or other of the respective
sports masters, so this bloke clad in shiny black material came as a real surprise.
‘I want you all in the tunnel in three minutes,’ said the ref, who then turned promptly
on his heel and walked out.
Everyone started talking at once; this really was a taste of the big time; people were
paying to get into the ground to watch us, and the real referee of course.
Chris Booth was fighting a losing battle trying to squeeze into Ginner Clarke’s size
sixes and just as I was expecting Mr Moss to tell him he couldn’t play, the dressing room
door opened again and in walked Chris’s Mam. She was carrying a newspaper parcel, which
she dropped at the feet of her struggling son. As the parcel hit the floor the newspaper parted
to reveal Chris’s boots.
‘You’d forget your head if it was loose.’
Everyone laughed and Chris said, ‘Ah, thanks, Mam.’
‘Never mind, ah thanks, Mam,’ she replied. ‘You know tonight is Mothers’ Union and
I’m not going to get there. Never mind, I’m here now so you just make sure you don’t let
those Catholics score any goals!’
Everyone laughed again as Chris gladly pulled on his size eights.
In the tunnel we lined up alongside the St Peter’s lads and on the ref’s signal we all
ran out onto the pitch.
It is difficult to describe my feelings at that moment. As we took to the field there was
quite a roar, and although I could immediately see quite a lot of people behind both goals, it
wasn’t until I turned round that I realised the full extent of the crowd. The small grandstand
was packed and the terraces to either side were almost full - there must have been well over a
thousand people there. I was ecstatic. The majority of the crowd were men in their working
clothes just come off the day shift, and although South Bank was the home town of St Peter’s
School, the supporters were split about fifty-fifty.
Our team went to the Normandy Road end for the kick in and I spotted Dad right
behind the goal. Dad was something akin to team coach, he never missed a game and, as he
was well known in the area for his exploits in the amateur game, all of the lads respected and
listened to him. He ducked under the crowd barrier and came round to the side of the goal.
‘Right! Come here! Hurry up! Come on!’ he shouted.
Everyone, me included, gathered around him.
‘Now listen,’ said Dad. ‘You can beat this lot, but you’re gonna have to play it canny
see? This is a much bigger pitch than you’re used to playing on - if you all go off helterskelter you’ll not last the match out. Make the ball do the work and try and pace yourselves.
Ginner and Stan stick on that centre forward in the first half like glue, understand?’
‘Yes, Mr Hare,’ they answered in unison.
‘If you’re gonna go on any of your fancy runs, Stan, save ’em for the second half.’
‘OK, Mr Hare,’ said Stan.
‘Hedley, you should have a field day with their left back and our John you should run
rings around that big centre half, and remember don’t be frightened of him - the bigger they
are the harder they fall.’
‘OK, Dad,’ I said.
‘Right then!’ said Dad. ‘Off you go - play for each other, play as a team and above all
play fair!’
I’m sure his last piece of advice does not figure in pre-match team talks given by
coaches in the professional game today.
The ref blew his whistle to signal for the two captains to join him in the centre circle
for the toss up. As Stan Dawkins our captain walked away from the rest of the team I
shouted to him. ‘With the wind, Stan.’
‘Yeah, yeah! I hear you!’ said Stan.
Stan lost the toss, but to my surprise and delight, the St Peter’s captain elected to kick
against the wind in the first half - so far so good. Although I was the smallest kid in our
team, my position was centre forward. This was quite unusual then - normally the bigger
boys filled the positions of centre half and centre forward, but Dad had coached me well.
Since I was first able to walk Dad had me kicking a ball, always labouring his theoretical
point of attacking play.
‘When you get the ball, son,’ he used to say, ‘there’s only one way, go for goal, every
time, go for goal.’
Following his advice, and becoming addicted to the buzz of scoring goals, had turned
me into a natural poacher. What I lacked in height and strength, I more than made up for with
speed and ball skills.
The ref whistled for the start of the game and instead of tapping the ball to one of my
inside forwards, I stepped back and gave the ball a mighty hoof and sent it straight out to
Hedley Weedy on the right wing. We had discussed this departure from what was deemed
the normal kick off procedure before the game and Hedley was ready as the ball came out to
the right flank. He easily beat his surprised opposite number to the ball and set off on a
swerving run which ended with him crossing the ball which, carried by the wind, completely
beat their keeper but hit the top of the crossbar and skidded behind for a goal kick. This
move brought cheers and applause from the crowd. Hedley grinned, gave me the thumbs-up
sign as if to say, ‘Plenty more of that please,’ and for the most of the next thirty minutes
that’s exactly what happened. According to plan, we kept punting the ball out to Hedley
who tore their weak left to shreds, providing a never-ending supply of glorious crosses which
the rest of his forwards dismally failed to convert. I alone was presented with at least ten
goal scoring opportunities, half of which I fluffed, the other half being saved by their keeper
who was playing a blinder.
Such was our first half dominance that our defenders started to join into the attacking
moves and this proved to be our undoing. As half time approached, their centre-half cleared
a shot off the line with a mighty kick up field. Their unmarked centre forward collected the
ball on the halfway line setting off on a run for goal. As he reached our penalty box, with
our defence closing in on all sides, he unleashed a blistering shot which was heading for the
top corner of our net when Chris Booth, out of nowhere, flung himself full stretch across the
goal and turned the ball past the post for a corner. I don’t think I ever saw a better piece of
goalkeeping in junior football. Their centre forward just stood stock still with his mouth
wide open, then in the best spirit of the game put his hands together and joined in the
appreciative applause of the crowd. However, the opposition had won their first corner of
the game and as their right-winger floated the ball into our goalmouth a scrappy mêlée
ensued, culminating in someone sticking out a toe to roll the ball over the line and into our
net. Our section of the ground groaned, whilst the Peter’s supporters erupted into a partisan
roar of ecstasy and the referee immediately blew his whistle for half-time.
An air of despondency hung over the half time dressing room, with Mr Moss a quiet,
intellectual man handing out slices of orange and platitudes regarding our first half
performance. The door opened and in strode Dad. He whispered into Mr Moss’s ear who
nodded in assent, then he turned to look at us slumped with dejection on the benches and
spoke.
‘Right, you lot. Heads up! This game isn’t over by a long chalk. I’ll say two things
only about the first half; Stan you left your man and he won a corner that brought about the
goal; and you,’ he said pointing at me, ‘you want shooting! You should have had five, and if
you’d have done your job properly out there the game would be wrapped up by now.’
I just stared down at the floor. He was right of course and I could feel the rest of the
team looking in my direction.
‘OK,’ said Dad. ‘We haven’t got long, so listen carefully all of you. Nothing has
changed, you’re by far the better team. Stick to the same format in the second half; play the
ball out to Hedley at every opportunity - they’re frightened to death of him. Don’t worry
about the wind, it’s dropping anyway. Just keep plugging away and the goals will come you’re a better team by far - now get your heads up and believe in yourselves!’
Captain Stan was obviously galvanised by Dad’s positive attitude and he sprang to his
feet saying, ‘Mr Hare’s right, lads. We can beat this lot!’
‘Dead right!’ said Ginner Clarke.
‘Let’s get out there and murder ‘em!’ shouted Hedley.
‘That’s the spirit, lads,’ said Dad. ‘You can do it. I know you can.’
The door opened again and the ref said, ‘Right, Grangetown. Second half.’
Getting a dressing down from Dad in front of my mates had left me feeling a bit put
out, to say the least, and I was much cheered when, as I filed out past him, he bent down and
said, ‘Good luck, son – go out there and show them what you can really do!’
‘I will, Dad,’ I said. ‘I will.’
Dad had been right about the wind - it had dropped, giving little or no advantage to the
other side, and straight from the kick off we went back on the attack. The ball was pushed
out to Hedley who immediately resumed his demolition of the St Peter’s left flank. This time
he took the ball to the bye line and pumped in another cross - the ball went over the head of
two defenders, bounced over the head of their centre half and seemed to hang in the air as I
flung myself forward and nodded it over the outstretched arms of their keeper and into the
back of the net.
At that precise moment Mam and Carolyn who had been getting the new house
organised were alighting from the tram outside the ground and on hearing the roar of the
crowd Carolyn remarked with resignation, ‘That’ll be the Peter’s scoring.’
Back on the field the rest of the lads mobbed me and, as we ran back to the centre
circle, Stan Dawkins said, ‘Right lads. Let’s go for the win!’
At this point, although I didn’t notice it at first, the coaching think-tank from the other
side employed a strategy that was to lead to a series of events that would culminate in scenes
of comic farce.
Three priests appeared on the touchline down the Peter’s flank. One of them, Father
McMullen, we all knew as he always looked after the school football team. The other two I
certainly hadn’t seen before. All three of them started shouting encouragement and
instructions to their players and most of what was being offered up had a disparaging slant
toward Hedley.
‘Bring him down!’ shouted McMullen. ‘He’s nothing. He’s rubbish.’
‘Bring him down!’ shouted another. ‘He won’t come back for more.’
‘He’s getting tired,’ said the third Priest. ‘He won’t last.’
The effect was immediate, the Peter’s left flank responded positively to this closeencounter encouragement and Hedley was obviously starting to feel intimidated. This,
however, did not go unnoticed in certain quarters of our support. Our left full back John
O’Connell was being supported by his Mam, as his Dad, Big Dave was working shifts and
could not attend. It’s difficult when you’re a child to work out the physical size of adults but
to me, aged eleven, Mrs O’Connell seemed to be a lady of not inconsiderable proportions.
She wasn’t fat but she oozed the personality of a larger-than-life person. She had a “no
nonsense” warmth that emanated from her, right was right and wrong was wrong in her
book; there was a no-nonsense side to this woman and I liked her immensely.
From her position at the front of the grandstand, she had a clear view of the trilogy of
priests and their obvious intimidation of Hedley and this did not sit well with her. Hedley
and “Conch”, which was John’s nickname, lived in the streets and although I don’t know for
certain, I’d bet money that Mrs O’Connell had provided many a tea treat for Hedley. We
lived so closely together in our community in those days everyone just seemed to know
everyone else.
Suddenly she was there on the line amidst the priests shouting for all she was worth.
‘Come on, Grangetown! Come on, Hedley! You can beat these left-footers!’
This last counter from such a remarkable woman was a bit too much for the priests to
take.
‘Shut up, missus!’ shouted Father McMullen. ‘And get off the line! This is no place
for a woman - this is a man’s game.’
As the ball went out of play, Mrs O’C was overheard by the whole grandstand to say,
‘So what are you buggers doing here then?’
Rags… bull…. like to…. and red …. sprang to mind.
Father McMullen in his day-to-day pastoral care of his patch was not used to having a
woman question his judgment and certainly not before a packed grandstand. He had picked
up the match ball as it went out of play - and for a moment must have forgotten he was
holding it - the match had stopped. He marched right up to John’s Mam, who was positioned
nearer to the throng in the stands, and in his most imperious voice, at a volume guaranteed to
be heard by all shouted, ‘Woman you ought to be ashamed of yourself.’
Then half-addressing her, but with an eye firmly on the now riveted crowd, players
and officials, he adopted a derisory tone.
‘What kind of woman is it,’ he cried in his thin Irish accent, ‘what kind of woman is it
that would parade herself in public and before innocent young boys such as these?’ His arm
gestured toward the pitch. ‘Have you no shame, woman, standing there like some painted
Jezebel, wailing at these young boys like a banshee from the bogs of Kerry?’
The Catholic contingent roared with laughter at the priests scourging theatricals, but
the mirth was short lived. Mrs O’Connell, without a word of reply to the now smug-faced
priest’s tirade, swung from the hip her large black patent leather handbag and clocked the
priest round the side of the head. A gasp of disbelief from the Catholics was met full on by
huge cheers from the Protestants and many in that section shouted various forms of
encouragement to Mrs O’C. ‘Good for you, missus!’ shouted one. ‘Give him another,
missus!’ bawled a second.
The blow had caught Father McMullen completely off guard and he lost his footing on
the muddy touchline, dropping to one knee. A second, and much younger priest, came up
behind Mrs O’Connell, placing a gentle hand of restraint on her shoulder. She swung again,
this time a backhander of not inconsiderable force. The priest saw it coming and ducked.
Mrs O’C, who was spun one hundred and eighty degrees by her own momentum, lost her
balance completely and landed on the kneeling Father McMullen sending him sprawling. He
had his face in the mud - the whole grandstand could see the tops of Mrs O’C’s stockings
and suddenly everyone was laughing with all factions joining in the fun. One wag was heard
to say from the crowd, ‘I’d pay bloody good money to see this every Saturday!’
As for Father McMullen, when he was hit by the falling bulk of Mrs O’C he finally let
go of the match ball and the quick thinking Hedley, ignoring the mayhem promptly picked up
the ball and took the throw in. The ball landed at my feet and ever-the-opportunist I turned
and belted it goalwards. It was a good shot but I was to be denied another moment of glory
by their centre half who leapt high to head the ball back out of their penalty area. However,
we were all about to witness the remarkable result of one individual being driven on by pure,
naked passion. From his position in the heart of our defence John O’Connell came charging
through the field - his face a mixture of anger and tears almost certainly as a result of seeing
his Mam rolling around on the pitch with a priest. He was a big strong lad for his age and in
full flight with a head of steam up, he must have been a daunting sight to the opposition. He
met the headed ball a good five yards outside their penalty area and, with one almighty toe
end, let fly. The strike was one of unfettered aggression - it did not dip or swerve but like a
bullet from a gun rocketed straight into the top corner of the opposition’s net. Bedlam broke
out! We all mobbed the unashamedly laughing and crying hero, the ref blew for a goal and
pointed to the centre spot whilst making his way to the touchline where the now near purplefaced Father McMullen was screaming unpriestly obscenities at him.
‘In the name of God, man. You can’t allow a goal for that, our boys weren’t ready,
look at them, they’re in a state of shock and no wonder, having witnessed their parish priest
being half murdered before their very eyes by some heathen female.’
Mrs O’Connell, who was dusting herself down, took a step towards the priest again,
handbag to the ready but the ref was between them in a stride.
‘Now then, Father,’ said the ref.
One could tell by this address and his tone of voice that he must have been a Catholic.
‘Don’t, now then father me!’ exploded the priest. ‘The game should have been stopped
and the police sent for. That mad woman could have killed me!’
A chorus of boos went up from the Protestants.
‘One more word out of you and you’ll need more than the bloody police!’ hissed Mrs
O’C leaning menacingly over the ref’s shoulder. This latest salvo in the exchange brought
boos from the Catholics and applause and cheers from the Protestants.
The ref gave three loud blasts on his whistle and raised his hand to signal for order.
The crowd fell silent as the ref turned to face the priest.
‘Father, the throw in was overdue through no fault of the Grangetown boys. It was
legitimately taken and properly executed, and the goal stands. Furthermore, if you and the
good brothers along with this lady here had kept your places behind the crowd barrier, none
of this would have happened. Now; I want all of you off this pitch and the game will not
restart till you’ve taken your places behind the barrier.’
‘But..’ started the priest.
‘Failure,’ cut in the ref, ‘failure to do so will result in the match being abandoned and
the score as it is will stand.’
On hearing this, the crowd, now role-playing to near perfection that of a
Shakespearian mob, took up the chant,
‘Off! Off! Off!’
Mrs O’Connell turned round, and to the applause of the Protestant section, resumed
her place in the front of the stand.
With the chants of, “Off! Off!” growing ever louder, Father McMullen had no option
but to retreat. However, although I couldn’t hear over the din being made by the crowd, I’d
swear he mouthed the words to the ref, ‘I’ll see you on Sunday.’
It must be stressed just how important an influence the parish priest was on the
Catholic communities of the North East in those times. He was all-powerful and any major
family decisions would not be made without his sanction. He was both revered and feared
by his parishioners and such was his status in the Catholic community that most God-fearing
souls of that denomination would bow to his will before that of the law. When disputes
broke out between Catholics, some of which ended in violent and bloody fist fights, the local
policeman would stand back until the two protagonists had beaten each other near-senseless
before moving in. Not so the parish priest. When such altercations took place, whole streets
would come out to watch the spectacle and woe betide anyone who interfered in the dispute.
When all other forms of mediation and negotiation had failed to resolve such a dispute, then
a time would be set for the physical encounter to take place, usually in broad daylight in the
nearest back street to where the combatants lived. News of a pending fist fight would spread
like wildfire, guaranteeing large crowds of spectators many of whom would place bets with
the local, and then illegal, bookmaker on the outcome of the contest. Most of such
gladiatorial encounters were verbally billed as fair fights to the finish which meant fists were
to be the only weapons used; the contests would be deemed at an end when one or other of
the adversaries could no longer stand.
On some occasions word of an impending battle would reach the big house next to St
Mary’s Church prompting clerical intervention in the form of Father O’Malley, a small wiry
man who at the time was probably in his late fifties. On one particular day I was playing
football in our street with some older boys when the word came down that a fight was about
to happen. The older boys immediately lost interest in the game of football and set off for
the next street’s back alley where the fight was scheduled to start. I tagged along behind not
quite sure what to expect, as I’d never witnessed one of those conflicts before. When we
arrived at the designated venue, a crowd had already gathered and formed a large circle
around two burly six-footers, who were in the process of stripping to the waist. I didn’t
recognise them but knew by sight this little guy who was obviously acting as referee, dancing
from one to another seemingly giving both advice and instructions.
I said to no one in particular, ‘What are they fighting about?’
‘Pigeons, son,’ said a woman standing close by. ‘Bloody pigeons!’
The little ref took centre-circle and announced to fighters and crowd alike,
‘We want a fair fight, lads; no biting, gouging, kicking or butting. Fists only now,’ he
warned. ‘Last man standing wins. Go to it.’
The two fighters squared up to each other and started to throw punches of such
ferocity that within minutes they were both covered in blood. Up to that time in my life I had
never witnessed such brute violence firsthand; I had of course enjoyed the goodies duffing
up the baddies at the local cinema, but this was different: this was real and I didn’t like it one
bit.
Big red fists smashing into bony facial tissue and crashing into blood-spattered
ribcages left me sickened, but what sickened me more than anything was the behaviour of the
crowd. They bayed for blood and it didn’t seem to matter whose. First they’d scream
support for one, then completely change sides and howl for the other; they wanted the fight
to go on as long as possible and they wanted blood. Everything went into slow motion for
me and as I looked around at the contorted screaming faces of men and women well known
to me, I started to feel physically sick.
Suddenly above the din I heard a voice cry out, ‘The priest is coming, it’s the priest.’
The two fighters, like professional boxers of today, were oblivious to all of the crowd
noise and continued to throw hammer-like blows at one another’s puffed up and bloody
faces.
The crowd on the opposite side of the circle parted like the Red Sea to reveal the
cassock-clad Father O’Malley striding purposefully up the back street.
As he reached the crowd I heard him say to no one in particular, ‘If you’re from my
church, get yourselves home now and be about your business.’
He delivered this instruction with authority and without breaking stride until he
reached the centre of the makeshift, and now dispersing, ring where he came to a halt and in
a voice that belied his diminutive stature boomed out, ‘Stop this unholy abomination now!’
The effect was instantaneous. The two panting and bloody warriors dropped their arms
immediately, but I overheard one of them mutter, ‘This isn’t your fight, Father.’
These two bloodied hulks dwarfed the priest, but to my amazement he jumped a foot
in the air and expertly cuffed the speaker round the back of the head saying as he landed,
‘Don’t back-chat me, McCormack. I’m your parish priest and we’ll have some respect
around here; understand?’
‘Yes, Father,’ said the subdued McCormack weakly.
He then turned on the other fighter.
‘And you, O’Donnell, come all the way from Galway to show the English how
uncivilised we are, have you?’
‘No, Father,’ said an equally subdued O’Donnell.
‘Right!’ said Father O’Malley. ‘Get your coats, I want you both up at the house now
and we’ll get to the bottom of this.’
The two men obeyed without question, and on gathering up coats and shirts, followed
the little man in black away up the back street. I was not a Catholic but I can remember
thinking at the time that Father O’Malley must have been the bravest man in the world.
However, such occurrences only serve to show how influential a priest was in his own
community.
Back to the football field. With the three holy Fathers in retreat, the referee restarted
the game with about five minutes to go until full time.
John O’Connell’s dream goal had knocked the stuffing out of the opposition and it
gave our lads even more impetus. We were now clearly in control of play. After another
near miss on their goal, the Peter’s keeper hoofed a goal-kick up field - there must have been
only a couple of minutes left to play and it was then that disaster struck.
Stan Dawkins, who was a skilful player, collected the ball just inside our half and took
off up field on a swerving run, beating player after player and just as I thought he was about
to score a third goal, the opposing centre half robbed him of the ball giving it an almighty
clout down field. Their centre forward, whom we had managed to subdue for most of the
game, latched onto it, sped goalwards and unleashed a fierce shot, which beat the advancing
Chris Booth and found the top corner of the net. The St Peter’s contingent roared their
approval. Father McMullen, now behind the barrier, could be seen dancing a jig, egged on
by his two young acolytes. I was gutted.
We lined up again and kicked off, but almost immediately the referee gave three loud
blasts on his whistle to signal the end of the match.
As we all trudged toward the touchline, Stan Dawkins said, ‘What happens now, ref?’
The referee turned to Stan and said, ‘Well, in normal circumstances I’d play ten
minutes extra time each way, but this light’s not too clever, so I think I’ll have a word with
your teachers.’
The Father, Son and Holy Ghost were already back on the pitch telling their lads how
good they were and how well they’d played. The more reserved Mr Moss had to be
summoned from the grandstand. We all gathered round as the ref explained normal
procedure to the teachers, adding a cautionary note regarding the fading light.
‘If extra time is not played,’ said Mr Moss, pausing for thought, ‘how will the outcome
be decided? Which school will take the cup home?’
‘There is nothing in the rules to say that the captains could not spin a coin to decide
the winner,’ said the ref.
As far as I was concerned, a decision by Mr Moss to do anything other than demand
that extra time must be played would be an act of sheer lunacy. I was confident that we’d
murder them in extra time and I started to go toward him when he spoke.
‘What do you think, Father? Do you think the light’s too bad to continue?’
The reply was highly predictable.
‘Oh I do, Mr Moss. I do indeed. We wouldn’t want any of these lovely boys getting
hurt would we now?’
‘Gracious me, no!’ said Mr Moss, falling for the blarney.
I knew that if the good Father thought his team could have beaten us, he’d have had
his lovely boys running around all night. On the balance of play, a two-two draw was little
short of divine intervention for his boys, and in the best tradition of an Irish gambling priest,
he had opted for the best odds on offer - those being fifty-fifty on the toss of a coin.
‘No,’ said Father McMullen, meaning yes as the Irish often do. ‘A spin of the coin will
be the fairest thing all round.’
The crowd had not moved from their places, obviously expecting the usual period of
extra time and as word filtered into the grandstand as to how the match would be settled, a
murmur of disconcertion went up. The ref gave a sharp blast on his whistle, held up his hand
as a signal for order and the crowd fell silent.
‘The teachers have agreed that there is not enough light to play extra time, so the game
will be decided by the toss of a coin. Captains step forward!’
Stan Dawkins and the Peter’s captain joined the referee on the bye line.
‘Grangetown lost the toss to start the game so they will choose heads or tails,’ said the
ref, who nodded his assent to begin and the coin was sent spinning high into the evening air.
‘Tails!’ called Stan Dawkins.
The penny piece came down into the mud. Captains and referee all bent down in the
gloom. I can remember holding my breath. The ref straightened up to face the crowd.
‘Tails it is. Grangetown Boards School are this year’s winners of the Junior School
Boy Cup.’
A mighty roar went up from the Protestant crowd as we mobbed Stan Dawkins, all
vying to pat him on the back. The hugging and kissing which is prevalent in today’s
professional game was not the done thing then.
Father McMullen accepted this set back with grace, shaking Mr Moss warmly by the
hand.
‘That’s a good set of boys you’ve got there, sir,’ he said. ‘Your game plan was well
thought out.’
Mr Moss just smiled, but I flushed with pride and satisfaction. Then, in the best of
sporting traditions, the priest turned to his somewhat dejected players.
‘Heads up, boys! The best team won on the day. Three cheers for Grangetown. Let’s
hear it! Hip! Hip!’
The cheering over, we were led up the steps of the grandstand, where Stan Dawkins
was presented with the cup by some high-up in local education, who was flanked by Pop
Burton and an important looking cleric whom I presumed to be the head of St Peter’s.
As we all filed past these luminaries, Pop Burton leaned forward and said to me, ‘It
was a good game plan, son. Well done!’
I just grinned and said, ‘Thanks, sir!’
Back down in the dressing room, the cup was positioned on a table in the centre of the
room where we thought it would remain until safely stowed in Mr Moss’s kit bag for
transportation to school - this was not to be. Dad had arrived to say well done lads and was
chatting away to Mr Moss, when the dressing room door opened again to reveal Mrs O’C
clutching a large brown paper bag.
‘You were magnificent, lads!’ she boomed.
‘You weren’t bad yourself, pet,’ said Dad with a wry smile.
‘That’ll be enough from you, Jack Hare,’ said Mrs O’C then she threw back her head
and joined in the laughter.
‘Anyway,’ said Mrs O’C, ‘Grangetown has got the schools’ cup for the first time in
ten years -’ and producing a bottle of ruby port and one of lemonade, went on to declare, ‘ this calls for a celebration!’
We all cheered as Mrs O’C uncorked the bottles and proceeded to pour both of them
into the large silver trophy.
Mr Moss, ever-the-temperate said, ‘Do you really think this is wise, Mrs O’Connell?’
‘Och, be off with you,’ said Mrs O’C. ‘A swig of port ‘n’ lemon won’t hurt the lads,
and besides I’ll bet that the priest will have his lot down the Peter’s Club by now filling them
up with lemonade and crisps.’
‘Well, I suppose a little won’t harm,’ said Mr Moss meekly - we all cheered again.
So there we all were in the warm glow of the changing room with our prized trophy
being passed around, while Hedley Weedy had us in stitches with his near-perfect imitation
of Father McMullen’s performance on the touchline. I stayed close to the trophy and drank a
lot more than my share of its contents, I’d certainly got the taste for this port and lemon, so
much so that by the time I was outside the ground waiting for the tram to take me to our new
house, I was feeling quite bold, and what I thought was adult. I was of course intoxicated
and had taken one first small stride down the long and slippery road to ruin.
DAY SIX
“Just a Little Belfast Girl
At Her Mama’s Knee
When’s my Daddy Coming Home?
When’s Eternity?
Why has he been gone so long?
Will he be back soon?
Why are all the curtains drawn?
I can’t see the moon.”
O’Hare
Still rehearsing for tomorrow’s charity gig. The above is the first verse of a song I wrote
whilst living in Belfast in the late sixties. It’s an attempt at seeing the troubles through the
eyes of a child and doesn’t have a sectarian axe to grind. However, I hadn’t played it for
aeons, so a run-through was essential to get both timing and feel right.
Today had been my greatest test off the bottle so far; by midday the urge was upon me bigstyle, God knows it would have been so easy to jump in the car and head for the pub. I
hadn’t given in to it, but the afternoon had not gone well at all leaving me feeling drained not to mention somewhat tetchy. All the old whys and wherefores had left me feeling
uncomfortable, not to mention argumentative. My staff, Debby included, all gave me a wideberth that afternoon. However, this was the day I discovered just how big a psychological
hold alcohol has over the heavy drinker. My cravings, when they came, were no longer only
physical, as my body had virtually detoxed. No - this was a craving of the mind. It was now
seven-thirty in the evening. I rolled a joint, lit it and as its calming effect began to ease my
tension, I took up position on the balcony to consider ways to confront the mind-over-matter
battle with alcohol that lay ahead.
I now knew that with the passing of each alcohol-free day I would have to face up to the fact
that my problems all lay within. My addiction was a deep-rooted psychological condition,
stemming from fears in the past, the worries of today and an apprehension about the future all of which until today I had assuaged with booze.
Outwardly, and to the observer, I appeared confident, talented and successful - a mask that
disguised a well- practiced blocking-off of my own subconscious. It had to come out, all of
it - the whole inner me stripped naked, ready for rebuilding. The importance of writing it all
down struck home, you can think your thoughts and if too painful push them back down from
whence they came; not so with a transcript. Six days on the wagon is not a long time by any
stretch of the imagination, but I suddenly felt I could see the path in life’s maze upon which I
must tread.
The relief this brought must have shown on my face, for Debby, glass of chardonnay in hand
said, ‘And just what have you got to look so pleased about?’
I gestured with the sweep of one arm indicating the shimmering waters of Plymouth Sound in
the evening sunshine, ‘This,’ I replied.
‘This,’ I reiterated, ‘and a whole lifetime, baby; a whole lifetime.’
BRIONY, BEER, BOWLS AND BIG GINGER
Dad, unlike most men in those days didn’t have a hobby or pastime apart from a few
pints, a weekly bet and work. The only other interest he had was playing bowls colloquially
known as “old man’s marbles”.
He played for Eston Bowls Club, which had a green and a makeshift clubhouse at the
local recreation ground. Outdoor bowling is a summer sport only, and matches against other
local teams were played on weekday evenings or Saturday afternoons. Three or four times a
year, trips further afield to country towns on the other side of the Cleveland Hills would be
arranged, and those were the ones I liked best as it meant a jaunt on Rheuben Turner’s coach,
probably a cake tea provided by the opposing team and a stop off at some country pub on the
way home, which would mean pints for the men and lemonade and crisps for me.
I had accompanied Dad to all of his matches since about age five. It probably started
by his wanting to give Mam a break from my attention-seeking, but it soon developed into a
regular thing and by age eleven I was the long-established club mascot. When matches took
place the men always wore their Sunday-best attire, which for the most part consisted of
black or dark blue blazers and grey flannel trousers. By the early nineteen-fifties the club
had splashed out on woven fabric badges of gold braiding on a black background. These
were sewn onto the breast pocket of the men’s jackets. As club mascot I was given one of
the said badges, which I wore proudly on a second hand navy blue jacket, which Mam had
managed to acquire for me. Proper bowling attire, which was worn by county or national
team players, consisted of cricket whites and jersey, plus of course the obligatory dark
blazer. The men of our town could not afford the proper kit, but the introduction of the badge
and motif somehow seemed to elevate them in status amongst other clubs.
Bowls in those days was a totally amateur sport and if a player of real talent emerged
and was offered the chance to play for county or country, then it was on the understanding
that he would have to buy the correct attire and be responsible for his own travelling and
accommodation expenses. Dad was one of many such unfortunates who were offered the
opportunity to play in the higher echelons of the game - for most it was just out of the
question. However, men can have their dreams. Dad had his and when I, as I often did,
questioned him about playing for England his reply would always be the same: ‘When my
ship comes in, son.’
At this juncture, and as music has played such a major part in my life since those early
days of choir singing and harmonica playing, I feel it would be remiss of me not to explain a
little more about music in those childhood days.
From my earliest recollections, I can always remember my sister Carolyn wanting, and
constantly pretending to play a make-believe piano. This normally took place when we were
seated at the kitchen table waiting for Mam to serve up whatever meal that the time of day
dictated.
Carolyn would hum some hymn or popular tune of the day, sweeping her arms to and
fro across the table top, whilst simultaneously drumming her fingers in deft syncopation.
As Mam pushed plates of food in front of us, she would always say to Carolyn, ‘That
sounded lovely, pet!’
Carolyn, in return, would always say the same thing, ‘Aw, Mam - can't we have a real
piano? Just think of it, I could learn to play properly and we could have our own concerts
every Sunday night after church.’
Mam would just smile and say, ‘One day, pet. One day.’
Carolyn would then switch her cajoling in Dad's direction.
‘Aw, Dad, can we have a piano? Please Dad, please.’
Dad would always answer the same to any of our entreaties for items that were way
beyond the family's finances, ‘When my ship comes in, pet.’
And there the conversation would normally end until next time.
Ironically I, in the mid nineteen-nineties, had occasion to adopt Dad's mythical ship
scenario with my own children but, as a platitude for parental non-performance, it did not get
to sail the high seas for very long!
For various reasons which, because of legal constraint, I cannot detail in these pages, I
managed to get myself embroiled in a High Court battle with one of the major companies in
the building industry. It involved all of my assets being frozen and quite suddenly, from
living a millionaire lifestyle, I was reduced virtually overnight to keeping the family's body
and soul together on forty-two pounds a week Income Support – how the mighty are fallen.
Because my case was classed as a civil matter, it was barred from receiving Legal Aid, and
as funds were not available to engage the services of the legal profession, I had to fight my
corner as litigant in person. I will elaborate on this episode at a later time, but suffice it to
say that at that point I financially hit the proverbial “rock bottom”. Accordingly, the situation
became quite difficult on the home front and over the course of the next eighteen months my
then nine year old daughter asked if Daddy would provide the puppy, pony, trip to
Disneyland etc, always to be answered with Dad's old standby, ‘When my ship comes in,
pet.’
For a while this mythical but rather vague reply worked quite well - until one Sunday
lunchtime. As the family gathered around the farmhouse kitchen table, Ryanna looked up
from her plate and fixed me with a searching stare. The look on her face was quizzical and
her expression was that of someone who suddenly realised that they may have been hoodwinked. Carefully placing her knife and fork in the position demanded by etiquette for one
who is pausing mid-meal, she uttered the words that have become, and always will remain,
part of the Hare family folklore, ‘Daddy, where precisely is this ship of yours?’
The game was up, but I could not help speculate with regard to her nine year old
imaginings over the months before she realised that her Daddy's ship was no more than a
castle in the air; a wonderful reminder never to underestimate the depth, beauty and
adventure of innocent imagination.
However, although Carolyn never queried the whereabouts of Dad's ship, she firmly
held onto her dream of one day playing a real piano and continued to raise the subject at
every opportunity. Carolyn had a proven track record as an achiever at school, and I am sure
that Mam and Dad must have taken this into consideration when taking the decision to hock
themselves up to their financial armpits and buy a piano. It must have been a monumental
decision for them, and by today's standards, it was the equivalent of taking out a mediumsized mortgage. A hire purchase agreement of some ten years' duration was entered into with
weekly payments of three shillings and six pence to be found. Added to this, a brown leather
case for carrying sheet music needed to be acquired and two shillings and sixpence provided
for weekly music lessons. The whole situation regarding the piano represented a substantial
risk being taken by Mam and Dad; six shillings a week out of an already stretched family
budget meant that, for the foreseeable future, belts would certainly have to be tightened. Dad,
at the same time, was in regular work, but any downshift in his hours and failure to keep up
the weekly payments would almost certainly result in ignominious shame, with the
neighbours watching the music shop's repossession of its goods. However, on this occasion
as Mam would say, "God was good," and Dad's work continued to be steady with small
regular wage increases.
As for Carolyn, she repaid Mam and Dad in the way she knew best. She never missed
her weekly piano lesson with Miss Allen, and practiced without fail, both mornings before
school and each evening before going out to play. Within a short space of time Miss Allen
was entering Carolyn for examinations to attain her formal grades and, ever the achiever, she
deservedly passed them at the first time of asking. This pleased Mam no end, and in her eyes
made the potential financial risk taken with this whole piano business well worthwhile.
Carolyn still has the piano to this day in her home in North Yorkshire.
I, on the other hand, was about to enter the world of piano, but unlike my hardworking
sister was about to let the family side down big time.
In the late 1950s, a young man from Liverpool called Frankie Vaughn, became a heartthrob on the music scene. His songs, on entering the hit parade, were constantly played on
the various wireless networks. One song in particular, called “The Garden of Eden”, struck a
chord with me. With its catchy tune firmly lodged in my brain, I one day sneaked into the
front room and sat down on the piano stool. As with the harmonica years earlier, and as I
know now, I was blessed, like many people, with what is termed “an ear for music”. I just
ran through the Frankie Vaughn tune in my head and started picking out the melody line on
the black and white keys. Within minutes, I was banging away and singing along to myself.
Mam meanwhile was out the back, hanging up washing and knowing Carolyn had gone to
Redcar with friends, came rushing through the house to find out what stranger had dared to
enter uninvited and have the brass neck to be knocking out a tune on our hallowed
instrument.
I had stopped playing by the time Mam burst into the front room.
‘Who was that?’ said Mam.
‘Who was what?’ said I.
‘Who was playing the piano just now?’
‘I was.’
‘You!’ said Mam.
‘Yes!’ said I.
Mam gave me one of her, “are you playing tricks on me” looks and then said with a
slight air of disbelief, ‘OK then, play it again.’
So I did, and the look on Mam's face was little short of priceless. I, of course, was
pleased as punch to be the focus of such attention. Little did I know that I was in the process
of digging a great big hole for myself into which I would surely fall.
That night when Dad had returned from work and supper was over, Mam said
suddenly, ‘Right. Everyone into the front room! Our John's got something to show us.’
I, who was still oblivious as to where all this was leading, was more than happy to
oblige when Mam said, ‘Go on, play what you played for me today!’
As I finished my rendition of “The Garden”, Dad said, ‘Well, I'll be blowed! That's as
good as the wireless!’
It wasn't of course - it was just Dad's way of letting us know he was impressed.
I think Mam thought they had some kind of child prodigy on their hands and said to
Dad, ‘This lad's got to have lessons! I know it's an extra two and six a week, which we can ill
afford, but with the right tuition, who knows how far he might go?’
Having not thought the whole situation through properly, I was a more than willing
participant to Mam's suggestion. In my naivety, my ever over-active imagination had
conjured up the usual scenes of blissful glory. I could picture myself having weekly sessions
with the raven-haired Miss Allen, who would teach me every popular song of those days, and
in no time I'd be fêted as a musical boy-genius.
The reality, of course, bore no resemblance to my musings. After trotting off with the
first scraped-together two shillings and sixpence, my dreams of instant fame and fortune
were well and truly shattered.
For one thing, I had not considered how the street kids would view my intended
excursion into the higher echelons of musical greatness. Hardly out of the front door, I
encountered a gang of four older boys who immediately wanted to know what was this fancy
bag I was carrying?
‘A music case,’ I told them.
‘A music case,’ mimicked one - feigning an attempt at a posh accent.
They all fell about laughing.
Then one said, ‘Give it here!’ snatching the brown leather wallet from my hands and
pulling back the zipper.
‘It's empty. And where are you off to with an empty music case?’ said posh voice.
‘A piano lesson,’ I replied.
This was received with more guffaws of derisive laughter.
Then one of them turned nasty, snarling, ‘Don't you know anything you snotty-nosed
little bastard? Real lads don't go to piano lessons; that's for girls and sissies.’
I could feel myself going red with both anger and embarrassment. Tears started to
well up in my eyes and, on seeing this, one of them said, ‘Look, the little sissy's gonna cry!’
In an instant it had turned into a chant:
‘The sissy's gonna cry!
The sissy's gonna cry!
Like a little girl!
Like a little girl!
The sissy's gonna cry!’
I snatched back the music case and ran for all I was worth, much to the amusement of
my tormenters, who just fell about laughing again. Until that moment, it had never occurred
to me that going to piano lessons could seriously damage one's street cred.
Worse was to come.
Miss Allen lived with her parents in what I considered to be a posh detached house in
a good area. On being ushered in, she sat me down at her piano.
Her first question was, ‘Can you play anything on the piano?’
I proudly launched into my rendition of “The Garden of Eden”.
I had hardly finished the first verse, when she said in the stiff, formal voice that
teachers use, ‘That's enough!’
I faltered to a deflated halt.
‘Everything you're doing is wrong. For one thing you're playing the same thing with
both hands and that's not music. Secondly, your hand positioning on the keys is all wrong. I
can see that not only are we going to have to start from scratch, but I'm going to have to
spend not an inconsiderable amount of time divesting you of your already-formed bad
habits.’
I didn't know what she was talking about, but what I did know was that the piano
business was certainly not going the way of my daydreams.
Miss Allen then produced a sheet of basic music scales and I spent the next hour
repeating “doh-ray-me-fah-so-lah-tee-doh”, having the backs of my hands rapped with a ruler
every time I let my wrists sag.
As she sent me packing with the sheet of scales in the music case, she reminded me to
do these exercises for at least one hour, twice a day. As her front door closed, I just stood
there numb. What in God's name had I let myself in for? Two hours a day, boring myself
witless, doing bloody scales, not to mention having to run the gauntlet with the street kids
just to get to lessons! I needed a plan to extricate myself from this situation, and I needed
one fast.
By the time I reached our street, music case stuffed up inside my jerkin, I had resolved
never to go back to Miss Allen’s. This resolve, in itself, however presented several problems.
For one thing I couldn't tell Mam. She would just make me carry on. But if I truanted on
piano lessons, what would I do with Mam's hard-earned half crown? If I kept it, that would
be tantamount to stealing, and as I was still heavily involved with the choir, church and God
- this didn't sit well with me at all. I made up my mind to start badgering Mam straight away
about piano lessons not being for me, figuring that keeping up a constant whine for about
four weeks or so should eventually wear her down. I could usually get my way with Mam,
but some things took longer than others. As for the half crowns, I would keep them safe and
when Mam finally relented, I would come clean about my deception and give the money
back.
So that's what I did. Of course I had to go through the motions of scale-playing twice a
day, but after each session, I would moan to Mam about how much I hated it and that it was
all just a waste of her hard come-by coppers.
For the next few Saturdays, I whinged as I took Mam's half-crown, stuffed the music
case inside my jerkin so the street kids wouldn't see it, and just went walkabout. After three
weeks I felt that my plan was working out OK, thinking a couple more weeks and Mam
would finally cave in. Then disaster struck.
Carolyn came back from her weekly piano lesson with a sealed envelope for Mam
which was thrust under my nose, with the demand, ‘What's the meaning of this?’
I said nothing but unzipped my jerkin pocket and took Mam's three half crowns and
placed them on the kitchen table. Mam looked at the money, then at me, shook her head
from side to side in a sort of bewilderment and said, ‘You little monkey! Get out of my
sight!’
And that was it, no smacks, no punishment and joy of joys, I was free!
From that day to this, and despite a period of my life playing guitar for a living, I have
never read another note of music.
Alas, Dad’s ship never did come in, but I know he derived great satisfaction from
winning area singles tournaments, beating both County and England players along the way;
the sideboard in our front room was always littered with silverware.
*
Not long after the Schoolboy Cup Final on a warm late summer afternoon, the bowls
team, me included, boarded Rheuben Turner’s charabanc and set off for an away match at
Boozebeck - remember Boozebeck?
On arriving, the men would remove their bowls from the carrying cases and give them
a polish ready for play to commence. On such occasions I would watch the start of the
match then probably go for a mooch around the surrounding area. Dad used to consent to this
on the condition that I didn’t stray too far away. I would normally return twenty minutes or
so before the end of the game when sometimes fairly exciting finishes would be played out.
On this particular evening, once the match had got underway, I strolled out of the
bowling enclosure into a small but quite pretty park with lawns, mature trees and children’s
play area some fifty yards from the bowling green. I headed straight for the swings, walking
as I did so past a small wooden shelter the like of which were common in parks up and down
the country. From behind this shelter emerged a girl about my own age, obviously also
heading for the swings, and to avoid bumping into each other we both came to a halt no more
than three feet apart. She was about my height, slim, had dark, shoulder-length hair and a
heart-shaped face that appeared to bear a permanent half- smile. I thought her very pretty.
In the embarrassed silence, I spoke first.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello,’ she replied and the permanent half-smile increased to full-on. God, she was
beautiful!
‘I was just going on the swings,’ I said lamely.
‘So was I.’ said she. ‘Shall we go on together?’
‘Oh, yes please,’ I replied even more lamely, immediately wishing I hadn’t sounded so
wet.
We walked the last few yards in silence then, on mounting a swing each, spent what I
considered to be a glorious ten minutes quietly floating to and fro.
She slowly brought her swing to a halt, turned to me and said, ‘My name’s Briony.
What’s yours?’
‘John,’ I replied, wishing I could think of something else to say.
She had no such problem.
‘How come I haven’t seen you before, have you just moved here?’
‘No,’ I said and went on to explain about Dad and bowls, proudly pointing to my club
badge telling her about my official mascot status. She seemed impressed, which in turn made
me feel more at ease in the presence of this vision of loveliness.
‘My Dad plays as well,’ she said. ‘That’s why I’m down here tonight.’
‘Do you like bowls?’ I said, preparing to show off my in-depth knowledge of the
game.
‘No,’ she said making a face. ‘It’s really boring.’
‘I agree,’ I lied.
‘Would you like to see a hollow tree?’ she said. ‘It’s the one Dick Turpin used to hide
in to avoid capture.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said I. ‘Where is it?’
‘Over there in the woods, come on!’
And with that she was off the swing and running full pelt towards a large clump of
trees a hundred or so yards distant. I came alongside her as we entered the woods, then
dropped in behind as she veered left and right down a path until she came to an abrupt halt
by a great oak tree.
She flopped down panting onto the oak tree’s mossy apron, pointing a finger at the
mighty girth of the trunk. I dropped down beside her, looking up to where she was pointing.
About five feet up the tree trunk was a large enough hole for a grown man to clamber
through, but on raising myself up to a full four feet six, I still had to pull up on the rim of the
hole to see inside. The pull up hurt my hands and wasn’t really worth the effort as the tree’s
hollow interior was dark, smelly and it didn’t need much imagination to conjure up thoughts
of what might be crawling around in there.
Briony was now standing beside me.
She spoke: ‘See, I told you. Oh, can’t you just imagine how romantic it must have
been in those days? I bet Dick Turpin had a beautiful lady who would come here in the
middle of the night to tell him that the coast was clear, then they would kiss in the
moonlight.’
My thoughts were somewhat different. I was wondering that if he came here to hide,
what did he do with his horse? Surely he couldn’t get the fabled Black Bess in there with
him? No, it didn’t stack up in my mind. If he got off his horse and climbed into the tree then
the faithful Black Bess wouldn’t stray very far, so whoever his pursuers were, they would
surely find the horse, search the woods and find him. My musings were interrupted by
Briony.
‘I know what!’ she exclaimed. ‘You pretend to be Dick Turpin, climb into the tree and
I’ll come to tell you that the coast is clear.’
By the look on my face, she could obviously tell that this suggestion didn’t hold much
appeal to me.
‘I’ll let you kiss me when you climb out,’ she cajoled.
This added proposition was definitely worthy of consideration, but as I hadn’t
immediately moved toward the tree, Briony’s impatience carried her forward.
‘I’ll let you kiss me now as well,’ she bargained.
That was enough. I would have climbed into a dozen smelly trees for two kisses on
that beautiful mouth.
‘Come here, woman!’ I said in my best Humphrey Bogart manner. This obviously
pleased her as she feigned a coquettish smile; walked right up to me; tilted her head and
closed her eyes. I pressed my mouth to hers and experienced a taste and sensation the like of
which I had never experienced before: I was in heaven. There we stood clasped together
eyes closed, experiencing the never recoverable magnificence of pubescent sexual stirrings.
As I have grown to accept throughout adult life, every time one comes close to the
ever-elusive moment of perfection, up pops old Father Fate to leave you clutching at thin air;
so it was on that summer evening with our embrace of near-completeness.
‘Briony Parker!’ rang out a voice mingled with both incredulity and despair.
We sprang apart like magnetic poles and I turned to confront my worst nightmare; Big
Ginger of the cathedral choir fight fame and two of his mates. Any slight sexual stirrings I
may have been feeling shrivelled instantly. Big Ginger was red in the face and looked close
to tears of anger. I knew things would get ugly and my mind raced frantically for ways to
escape this situation.
Still glaring at Briony he blurted out, ‘I thought you were going to be my girlfriend
and now you’re kissing someone else under our secret tree!’
He had used the word “secret”, but in tones of high emotion he made it sound like
sacred. Briony spoke in that inimitable way only a diminutive member of the opposite sex
can to someone twice their size, very angry and fit to burst with emotion. Women have got
such balls in those situations.
‘I never said I would be your girlfriend Ginger Madden and I will kiss who I like and
when I like, thank you very much.’
I was impressed but Ginger, who could think of no reply to his beloved, turned his
attention to me. His eyes narrowed.
‘Don’t I know you?’ he hissed.
‘Don’t think so,’ I lied.
‘Oh, but I think I do,’ he said deliberately, his voice full of certain recognition. ‘Oh,
but I think I do,’ he repeated. ‘This,’ he gesticulated to his pals, ‘this is the little fucker who I
told you about. He’s the one who bit my leg in that fight we had with that Grangetown lot up
in Durham.’
The confused look on Briony’s face drifted from me to Ginger and back again.
‘You told us they were a big rough lot,’ said one of Ginger’s pals.
‘That’s as maybe,’ said Ginger dismissively. ‘But he bit my leg and now he’s kissing
my girlfriend.’
‘I am not your girlfriend,’ spat Briony in a tone that was definitely not going to
improve Ginger’s mood.
Ginger ignored this last remark and with a smirk of malevolence said, ‘Well, little
raggy-arse, I’m going to teach you a lesson you won’t forget; I’ll show you what happens to
little gits who bite in fights and go around kissing other bloke’s girlfriends.’
‘I’m not your bloody girlfriend, you ugly great bully!’ screamed Briony with a
passion. ‘You just leave him alone!’
By now I was convinced that the only way to avoid a good hiding was flight, and the
last words of one of Mam’s old proverbs were ringing in my ears, “Live to fight another
day”.
I tried another Humphrey Bogart trick. Fixing my eyes between and over the
shoulders of Big Ginger and one of his pals, I said in the most calm and affected voice I
could muster, ‘If you’re gonna make a move big boy, you’d better make it snappy ’cos here
comes the Parkie.’
“Parkie” was slang for Park Keeper, a uniformed bod whose job it was to make sure
that anyone using the municipal facilities behaved in a right and proper manner.
The ruse worked; Ginger and co spun away from us expecting to see the Parkie
somewhere in the trees; I pushed Briony at the path and hissed, ‘Run!’
She responded splendidly and took off through the woods at speed, with yours truly
close on her heels. The trick Ginger and co had fallen for gave us those precious seconds’
head start, but on discovering the deception I heard my rival with a voice of unmasked fury
shout, ‘Get him!’ I was unashamedly afraid.
As Briony reached the clearing I drew alongside grabbing her hand, accelerating as I
did so. We screamed across the grass toward the bowling enclosure with our pursuer’s only
yards behind and closing. I felt certain we would be caught before reaching the safety of
Dad. Ginger and co were older, bigger and faster and as we swept hand-in-hand through the
entrance to the green they were upon us. I felt a hand grab at the shoulder pad of my jacket,
but with one last surge I committed an act of bowling sacrilege and ran onto the green,
pulling Briony with me. It did not end there and what happened next was to become a piece
of bowling legend in our area. Still holding onto Briony, but now in a state of panic, I
tripped pulling her down with me, just as we reached the backs of the men in Dad’s rink,
who I was later to find out were engrossed in a crucial last end - which would probably
decide the match. Well, that certainly wasn’t to be. As we tumbled down, Briony stuck out
a leg and connected right behind the knee of one of the more frail and elderly members of
Dad’s rink. The recipient of Briony’s kick, a member of our team fondly known to all as
“Old Walter” went down like a ton of bricks, sending jack and woods scattering in all
directions.
A gasp of disbelief went up from all present and I can clearly remember someone
crying, ‘Good God! Old Walter’s had a heart attack!’
‘I haven’t had a ruddy heart attack!’ cried old Walter from the ground. ‘Some bugger
kicked me!’
As soon as Briony and I had set foot on the green, Big Ginger and co had come to
abrupt halt on the edge of the playing surface, standing now with mouths agape as the farce
further unfolded. By running onto the green whilst a match was in progress, we had
committed what in bowling-terms amounted to a mortal sin - and I was sure that the wrath of
many, not to mention my Dad, was about to descend on us.
A large familiar-looking, red-faced countryman who demanded angrily to know what
we thought we were playing at, suddenly hauled me to my feet.
I heard Dad, who came striding up from the other end of the green, say, ‘Put the lad
down, Mr Madden!’ Without pausing for breath he continued, ‘Right, our John. What’s all
this about?’
I was released by, I now realised, Big Ginger’s Dad and immediately went into overblurt.
‘It was them, Dad. It was them!’ I cried pointing at Ginger and co. ‘We were just
playing in the park and they came up and said they were going to kill me.’
‘He’s telling the truth Mr Madden, honestly,’ said my brave little Briony.
As I have stated earlier, the then men of the North for the most part were a fair lot;
bullying, and two - let alone three - onto one, did not sit well with them. By now the game
had come to a complete standstill and players from both sides were looking from me to
Ginger and co, obviously taking in the size and weight advantages held by my adversaries.
‘You! Come here!’ shouted Mr Madden at his now deflated son. Ginger, head down,
obediently approached his father.
‘What have I told you?’ said Ginger’s Dad in a now quiet voice that held not a little
menace. ‘I’ll not have you going throwing your weight around, my lad, and three of you
onto one - a little ’un at that!’
He stopped mid-sentence and gave Ginger a mighty clout round the side of his face
which sent him reeling.
‘Get home! I’ll deal with you later!’
Ginger ran from the scene, eyes blubbing.
Smack! Smack! Ginger’s pals were getting the same treatment from two other bowlers,
who I could only assume were their respective Dads; they both ran crying from the
enclosure.
Human emotion is a funny thing - not five minutes earlier I’d have given anything for
such intervention regarding my assailants, but now I felt that I should in some way be
punished for my part in the fiasco. I was genuinely feeling sorry for Big Ginger. I was
actually doing something that I would try to do throughout my adult life, in short, whatever
the situation may be, an argument, a business deal or a political standpoint; try and see things
from the other person’s point of view as well as your own. Putting Ginger’s hat on now, the
day must have ranked as one of the worst in his young life. He’d been cast off by Briony in
front of his pals in favour of one younger and smaller than him. He’d been humiliated in
front of the whole Boozebeck Bowling Club and, worse still, he’d been clouted by his Dad in
front of everyone and sent packing. I was just thinking how wretched he must have been
feeling when Dad spoke.
‘Go and sit on that bench over there and don’t move till I tell you!’
‘Right, Dad,’ I replied meekly and walked off the green; Briony came with me.
Old Walter in the meantime had recovered his composure and as there was only one
point between the two teams, it was decided to play the disrupted end again. With all of the
other rinks having finished, the men of both teams crowded round on the edge of the green to
watch the last end being played.
For the uninformed, a typical bowls team in those days would consist of twenty
players on each side, split into five teams (rinks) of four per side, each rink would play
twenty-one ends - meaning literally that. Each player would have two bowls, colloquially
known as “woods”, making eight bowls either side which would be played twenty-one times
throughout the course of the match. The object of the game is to get as many of your side’s
bowls as possible nearest to the small, white, target ball (jack). At the end of the match, each
rink would submit their mutually-agreed score card and the five cards would be added up;
the team with the highest number of points being the winner. When rinks of four-a-side
played, the order of play on each side was the same, i.e. 1st wood, 2nd wood, 3rd wood and
“Skip” (short for Skipper). 1st wood and Skip were the two most influential players in each
rink. The Skip would allow the 1st wood to play his two bowls without comment, as he was
considered to be the most accurate player in the team. Thereafter, he would direct the play
of 2nd and 3rd woods, depending on how the end was going, before playing his own two
bowls accordingly.
The last end was played with Dad’s rink winning by two shots, giving our team the
match by a single point. Meanwhile, on the bench, Briony and I had been making plans.
The return match with Boozebeck was scheduled to be played at our ground two Saturdays
hence, which would be an afternoon and evening affair. Briony said she felt sure that her
Dad could be persuaded to bring her along on the coach, so it was decided we would have
our first real date with no Big Ginger to spoil it. As we boarded Rheuben Turner’s
charabanc shouting farewells to the Boozebeck team, Briony blew me a kiss; I was ecstatic.
As the coach pulled away from Boozebeck, a friendly banter broke out, mainly aimed
at Dad.
‘That was a master-stroke, Jack, bringing the lad on like that,’ said one.
‘True,’ said another. ‘They were a point ahead and had us beat till you brought young
John on.’
‘How did you get old Walter to pretend he’d been kicked Jack?’ said a third.
‘No bloody pretend about it,’ shouted old Walter from the back of the coach. ‘Some
bugger kicked me!’
Everyone laughed.
Dad laughed too and said to no one in particular, ‘Get away home with yer!’
Wilkie, who was Dad’s best pal on the bowling team said, ‘They’re right, Jack,
without that little push on old Walter we wouldn’t be top of the league tonight.’
‘I was bloody well kicked I tell you!’ squealed old Walter.
Everyone laughed again.
‘I think the lad deserves a pint when we get to the Cross Keys,’ said Wilkie.
Several others shouted, ‘Yeah, get the lad a pint!’
Dad said, ‘Now, now, lads. My missus will have my guts for garters if he goes home
stinking of beer.’
‘A shandy then, Jack,’ said Wilkie. ‘I know the landlord at the Cross Keys, he’s an old
mate of mine. I’ll square it with him to let young John here in.’
I piped in with, ‘Oh, go on, Dad!’
Dad looked down at my pleading face, shook his head in resignation and said, ‘All
right, one pint of shandy then, but not a word of this to your mother mind.’
‘Not a word, Dad,’ I replied.
The men all laughed again and someone shouted, ‘Step on it Rheuben! We’re gonna
celebrate!’
For the fairly heavy drinkers on the team, my inclusion into the actual interior of the
pub was a godsend. Normally they would be harassed by the moderate element of the team
to get back on the coach after a hurried two pints, with me being used as the excuse.
‘Come on you lot!’ would say one moderate. ‘We’ve got the lad sitting out there on
the coach and you’ve had your pints. Now let’s get the little fella home.’
Not so tonight, this was my dream come true, I was going to be in the pub with the
men talking men’s talk and though I didn’t know it then, the more serious drinkers were
going to make sure I enjoyed it to the hilt - after all, with me tucked safely away in a corner
by the fire, this could turn into a four or five pinter - maybe even a few rounds at darts.
As the coach drew up outside the Cross Keys, a fairly isolated country pub, the whole
contingent, in high spirits, piled off and headed for the bar.
‘You wait here, son, till Wilkie’s had a word with the landlord.’
‘OK, Dad,’ said I, but I couldn’t help thinking, what if the landlord wasn’t amenable to
Wilkie’s suggestion? God, I’d be disappointed. Of course my fears were totally unfounded,
if the truth were known. Had twenty blokes with shillings to spend in his empty pub turned
up with a full blown screaming kindergarten, he’d have let them all in. Wilkie was out in a
trice.
‘Come on, young John. You’re in!’
Inside, the pub was warm and welcoming. At that moment in time I thought it the best
place in the world. As the coveted pint of bitter shandy was passed down to the table where I
was seated I thought, if only Briony could see me now. I bet she’d be dead impressed. A
group of heavier drinkers, already on their second pints, came over and sat down.
‘Well, young ’un?’ said one of them. ‘How do you like your pint?’
‘Great!’ I said, trying not to sound daft and childish.
They all laughed, I couldn’t help joining in.
‘What exactly was all that about this evening up at Boozebeck?’ said another.
‘Long story,’ I said affecting my best Humphrey parlance. They all burst into shrieks
of laughter, not at all the desired affect.
‘Who was the dame?’ said my antagonist in a perfect Humphrey B drawl - this brought
forth more laughter.
I could feel my indignation rising and shot back, ‘She used to be the Big Ginger lad’s
girlfriend.’
‘And you pinched her?’ said another with a hint of admiration in his voice. ‘So what
happened?’
‘It all started in Durham a couple of months ago.’
‘Durham?’ said an incredulous bowler.
‘Yeah,’ said I. ‘It was like this…’
So there I was, eleven going on thirty, pint in hand, telling stories at the bar - it felt so
natural.
I took them through the day at Durham, the altercation with the Boozebeck choir in the
coffee bar, the competition itself culminating in the biting of Big Ginger’s leg and the
bleeding nose of the Bishop’s curate.
They loved it and I was just about to embark on the winning of Briony, when a
familiar voice from behind my right shoulder said, ‘You didn’t tell your mother and me any
of this.’
The whole bar erupted into laughter at Dad’s dry interjection.
It was only then that I realised that just about everyone in the bar had been listening to
my account of the choir fight behind Durham Cathedral. I took another sip of the now halfempty pint and sat back. I reasoned that I’d probably said enough for my first night in the
pub with the men and turned my thoughts to Briony.
However, this had been a fine introduction to bar life and I never ever asked Dad again
for a lemonade – alas, another slippery step!
The only thing I can remember about the next two weeks is that every night when the
bedroom light was switched off, I would replay the events in Boozebeck woods and Briony’s
first kiss - I just knew that I must be in love.
Eventually the great day, as great days do, arrived. A warm summer Saturday morning
with not a cloud in the sky, perfect weather for bowling, also perfect for strolling around
hand-in-hand with a gorgeous member of the opposite sex. God was in his heaven and in my
opinion was definitely good.
Dad was working that morning until midday, which would give him just enough time
to get home, wash, change and make the walk up to the bowling green for the two o’clock
start. Mam and I were going up early, the bowlers’ wives would completely rearrange the
makeshift club house, set up folding tables covering them with crisp white cloths, upon
which would be set a prepared tea of sandwiches, preserves and cakes. When we arrived,
Mam busied herself with the other women.
As I recall, these were always happy occasions with the women exchanging gossip as
they went about their preparations. The women viewed these visits from distant teams as
occasions of some importance, for it gave them an opportunity to show strangers just what
kind, royal hospitality the folk of the streets could provide. It also afforded them a rare
opportunity to make their menfolk proud of them and after the spread had been devoured,
compliments such as, “By! That was grand, lass!” would make them blush with pleasure;
they were simple but satisfying times.
On arrival at the Rec, I would be given a slab of homemade cake to tide me over, then
I’d wander off to find my own amusement - sadly a thing children of today seem unable to
do.
On enquiring the day before, Dad had told me that the Boozebeck coach would arrive
at around one-thirty. Not possessing a watch, I made visits to the Parkie’s hut every fifteen
minutes or so on that Saturday morning to enquire the time. I was determined not to be late
to meet the coach that would bring Briony to me. When the Parkie finally told me it was
quarter past one, I made my way back to the bowling green, arriving there just as Dad came
walking up dressed in Sunday best carrying his two woods in a brown leather case. Onethirty came and went, one forty-five, two o’clock - still no sign of the visiting team’s coach.
The men started to speculate as to what might have happened and theories ranging from
breakdown to accidents were put forward and discussed. In those times there was no way of
finding out what had happened, mobile phones were yet to be invented and nobody we knew
possessed a telephone in their home; even if they had, we would not have known how or
whom to contact. I was past myself with anxiety - surely God would not do this to me?
Just as I was about to be enveloped by a massive bout of the miseries, someone
shouted, ‘Here they come!’
My heart skipped a beat and I said a silent sorry to God for doubting him. Life was
suddenly wonderful again and I knew it would be only a matter of minutes before I set eyes
on my beloved Briony again.
The coach pulled to a halt and the friendly faces of the Boozebeckians began to alight,
smiling apologies with a tale of sheep on the road just outside Guisborough. I craned my
neck for a glimpse of Briony. One after another, bowlers and wives stepped down from the
coach greeting their opposite numbers with small talk phrases such as, “Picked a grand day
for it”, until the last man off, the driver, clambered down and stretched his legs. No Briony. I
was both confused and devastated.
I approached one of the opposition bowlers and trying to affect an offhand manner
said, ‘Excuse me, isn’t Mr Parker playing today?’
‘Not today lad, he’s got a shift down pit,’ he informed me.
I was mortified and numbly walked the trudge of despair over to the pavilion steps and
sat down. However, life has this habitual regularity of knocking you down and then lifting
you up - and before I could sink self-pityingly into lovesick reverie, Dad was at my side.
‘Right, son, we’ve got a problem. They’ve just sent word that there’s been a
breakdown on number two blast furnace, and five of our lads have to work through. Even
with reserves we’re a man short – you’ll have to play.’
This was great and uplifting news to my stricken soul; Dad had been coaching me at
bowls for almost a year and although he firmly believed I could more than hold my own with
the men, there was an unwritten understanding that I wouldn’t get a chance in the team until
I was at least thirteen.
‘Go and get those ladies’ woods from the locker and meet me on rink one, go on, look
sharp!’
I didn’t need a second telling. Woods in hand, I joined Dad on the green and asked,
‘Who’s in our rink, Dad?’
‘Well,’ said Dad. ‘It’s not too clever; there’s me, you, Ernie Farrer and old Walter. I’ll
have to Skip, and I think the only thing for it is to play you 1st wood - the others are not up to
it.’
I gasped and felt a shudder of uncertainty down my spine; 1st wood was a big
responsibility. Dad must have noticed my apprehension.
‘Listen, son, don’t be frightened - just put into practice all I’ve taught you. You’ll be
alright; and another thing, their 1st wood loves a short jack, so every time you get to throw it,
make it long and you’ll give him trouble.’
‘OK, Dad.’
I was suddenly excited and buoyed by Dad’s words, also confident that I could make a
good show. Just imagine I thought, I’m actually in the team and what’s more, I’d been given
the responsibility of playing 1st wood! Fantastic; thoughts of my lovely Briony had
disappeared completely.
Dad was right about their 1st wood, accordingly every time we won an end I would
take the jack, send it down the other end to within ten feet of the ditch. Each time we did
this I managed to get my two woods nearer than his to the jack. However, their Skip was on
top of his form, invariably winning the end with his last bowl and with it, of course, the
points. In the end they ran out quite comfortable winners, but my performance had not gone
unnoticed.
As we all shook hands after the final end, the opposite Skip said, ‘How old are you,
son?’
‘Eleven,’ I replied, thinking this was not a time to add “and three quarters”.
He stroked his chin looking down on me, then to my delight he said, ‘That was a fine
game of bowls you just played. If you were my lad I’d be as proud as punch; stick at it, son,
and you’ll be up there with the best.’
I just said, ‘Thank you, sir,’ and looked over at Dad who winked his approval.
As we all took our places around the makeshift tables for tea, our club captain, a
Scotsman called Mr Summerhill, gave a short address thanking the opposition for coming
and congratulating them on their victory. This was greeted with a round of applause from
the visitors and as the clapping died away, he stood up again.
‘Just one more thing,’ he said.
I was hoping that he wouldn’t go rambling on, as by now I was starving. All I could
think about was the fantastic spread sitting not eighteen inches away.
‘I think all present will agree that this afternoon we have witnessed a sight that would
gladden the hearts of bowlers the world over. As you know, captain,’ he directed this to his
opposite number, ‘five of our lads had to stay back at work on a breakdown and,’ he said
emphatically, ‘I do not offer this up as an excuse for losing; far from it, Boozebeck played a
great game and were worthy winners.’
‘Here! Here!’ echoed one of our players.
Grief! I thought, would they ever stop talking?
‘However,’ said our captain, ‘when the water’s up to the gunwales, it’s a case of all
hands to the pumps.’
Gunwales? Pumps? He’s cracked - either that or he’s been at his whisky flask, said the
inner me.
‘And,’ he said with a slight air of drama that befitted his Celtic origins, ‘one small pair
of eleven year old hands, in the shape of young John here, stepped into the breech and played
his part as well as any man on the team.’
A rejoinder of, ‘Here! Here!’ rang out.
My mouth had dropped open.
‘You have done your parents and this club proud, lad.’
I thought, ‘Am I dreaming this?’
‘What’s more. As of today, the committee has decided you are no longer the club
mascot; you are now one of the team. Turn up on Wednesday, 6 o’clock sharp, I’m playing
you first reserve!’
The opposite captain put his hands together and started what became a round of
applause. Mam positively beamed with pleasure, Dad shook his head and gave me one of his
“you’d get in where draughts wouldn’t” looks, and I just went bright red.
The captain held up a hand to signal for order then said, ‘Isn’t there anything you
would like to say, young man?’
I thought for a moment, then said, ‘Thank you, sir -’ and ‘ - can I please have
something to eat now?’
The place erupted with laughter, which at that time left me feeling somewhat
confused. Why was it that I could say something serious and intense that would result in a
room full of adults splitting their sides? Most confusing! I made a mental note to ask Dad
about this later, and reached greedily toward the heaped plates of sandwiches.
After tea, everyone, apart from the Eston wives who were clearing away, went to sit
outside in the early evening sunshine and chat. The bowling to follow was not a match as
such, more of a singles sweepstake with an entrance fee of six old pence per player. To
make the sweep work properly, thirty-two entrants were needed which would make a total
pot of sixteen shillings, ten of which would go to the outright winner, leaving six shillings
for the runner-up.
Some of the older players would forgo the sweep, having had more than enough
exercise in the afternoon, so to try and make up the numbers the event was classed as open with non-club members, bystanders and members’ wives all eligible to play if they wanted to
chance a six pence piece. Dad always entered and competed fiercely, ten shillings was more
than Dad kept back from his wage packet for beer and fags etc. Dad had more than his fair
share of wins at this event and my sister and I were always guaranteed a treat when his luck
was in.
On this particular evening, Wilkie was in charge of organising the event and had
already got thirty-one names plus silver sixpences in the hat.
‘Last place in the sweep ladies and gentlemen,’ he would shout. ‘Risk a tanner to win
a tenner! Only one ticket remaining.’ And so on and so on.
I ran to find Mam and said, ‘Lend me sixpence, Mam. I could win the money for you.’
Mam gave me a Mam’s smile of love saying, ‘God bless you, pet. I know you’d try at
that, but I can’t afford it, love. Dad’s got the sixpence for the sweep.’
‘Excuse me, missus.’ It was the Boozebeck Skip we’d played against in the afternoon.
‘I don’t want to cause offence, but would you allow me to sponsor the lad? I’m sitting this
one out, but I’d pay half a crown to see this young fella bowl again.’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Mam. ‘My Jack’s very proud, I don’t know what he’d say.’
‘I’ll go and have a quiet word,’ said my benefactor-to-be.
But I held out very little hope on the outcome. As Mam had said, Dad was very proud,
always insisting that he would provide and that the family would always get by without
handouts. No, I couldn’t see Dad letting a stranger pay me into the sweep. I watched as the
man from Boozebeck approached Dad who was polishing his woods. The man spoke quietly
into Dad’s ear, obviously explaining his intention but, as predicted, after no more than a few
seconds, I saw Dad shake his head. The Boozebeck Skip bent again to Dad’s ear, this time
for a couple of minutes. At the end, much to my utter surprise and delight, Dad nodded his
head. My benefactor returned to where Mam and I where standing by the pavilion.
‘OK, young man,’ he said handing me a silver sixpence. ‘I have a business proposition
for you.’
Not knowing what a business proposition was, I didn’t reply, looking blankly from
him to Mam.
He carried on, ‘I’ll pay for you to enter the sweep on the condition that if by any
chance you should reach the final, then you will give me back twenty-five per cent of any
monies you win.’
‘What’s twenty-five per cent?’ I asked of no one in particular.
He smiled and said, ‘It’s a quarter, son, and it’s like this; if you won four shillings say,
then you would give me one and keep three for yourself.’
This sounded OK to me, all I wanted to do was get amongst the action, but I looked up
and said, ‘Is that alright, Mam?’
Mam smiled and replied, ‘It sounds like a fair deal to me, son.’
With that I was off at great speed to find Wilkie to claim the last place in the sweep.
Miracle of miracles, I won my first two games taking me into the last eight, enjoying
compliments and support from all quarters. When sweeps were played, each singles game
was limited to five ends only to ensure that proceedings would be completed before darkness
fell. In my third heat I played one of the Boozebeck 1st woods who put me well and truly in
my place, I didn’t win an end. However, as we came off the green I was congratulated by
just about everyone for getting as far as I had and Mam came up and told me how proud she
felt. I, of course, was loving all the attention.
Dad got through and also won his next game, which took him into the final,
guaranteeing at least six shillings for the coffers of the Hare household. That’s as far as it
went though, as the final was won by one of the Boozebeck Skips.
As the kitty was divided up, the winner came over to where Mam and I were standing
and said, ‘Here, son,’ handing me a silver shilling. ‘Don’t go saying anything, missus,’ he
said to Mam. ‘The lad’s earned it - it’s no more than his due.’
‘What do you say?’ said Mam looking down on me.
‘Thank you very much, sir,’ I dutifully replied.
Bowls packed, thankyous and farewells said, our friends from Boozebeck boarded the
coach for the journey home. Carolyn, who had been with friends all day, appeared out of
nowhere, obviously pre-arranged with Mam. Together we all set off across the fields for the
new house, with Dad promising fish, chips and stout shandies out of his winnings. What an
amazing day I had had; my first game for the team; my first chance in the sweep; almost
certainly another game the coming Wednesday - as first reserve usually made the team due to
the men’s ever- changing work schedules; and to top it all, fish and chips to come, washed
down with stout shandy. My die with Doctor Al was well and truly cast!
I never did see Briony again. However, spread over six or seven counties there are
hundreds of hollow oak trees all purporting to have hidden Dick Turpin. If all such legends
are to be believed, the poor bugger must have spent half his life encased in damp insectridden tree trunks.
DAY SEVEN
“Her eyes they shone like diamonds
They called her the queen of the land
And her hair it hung over her shoulder
Tied up with a black velvet band”
The moment, or more accurately my first moment, of truth had arrived and as we
entered the City Gate – a pub in Exeter owned by Shaun O’Reilly, a pal of mine - I knew my
seven-day-old resolve was about to be put to the test.
Kim McColgan, Shaun’s long-term partner was serving behind the bar and greeted us
with her usual, ‘Hello, darlings. What’s it to be?’
I responded with, ‘Hi, Kim,’ and after a moment’s hesitation said, ‘I’ll have a bottle of
that non-alcoholic lager.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Kim, looking genuinely shocked, ‘A bottle of Kaliber?’
‘That’s the one,’ I replied.
‘Bloody hell!’ said Kim. ‘What’s the matter? Are you ill or something?’
‘No. I’ve decided not to drink for one year.’
Shit! I’d gone and said it again – more boats burned. I had only just managed my first
seven days and here I was gobbing off about doing a whole year! The look on Kim’s face
said it all; it was a cross between abject horror and incredulous bewilderment. She gave a
low whistle, intimating surprised disbelief and shouted across to Shaun who was cutting
slices of beef from a Sunday roast.
‘Hear that, Shaun? O’Hare’s gone on the wagon for a whole bloody year. I suppose
that’ll put paid to the three week holiday you promised me?’
Shaun just laughed and said, ‘Don’t worry, girlie, if I had a grand for every customer
who said he’d do six months or a year I’d be the richest man in town.’
Never being one to shirk a challenge, and also as all the eyes in the bar were firmly
focussed on me, I said, ‘Do you fancy a wager that I can’t do another fifty-one weeks?’
‘Not one drop in that time?’ questioned Shaun without looking up from his
preparations.
‘Not one drop,’ I replied, with my inner-self telling me to stop engaging tongue before
brain.
‘OK,’ said Shaun looking up for the first time. ‘What’s the bet?’
I considered momentarily before replying, ‘If I fail then I will pay you £500, but if I
succeed you donate £500 to Emmaus.’
‘You’re on,’ said Shaun now carrying two beautifully presented lunches to customers
at the far end of the bar. I picked up my glass of maiden’s water and headed for the table
reserved for the musicians.
The day had started much the same as the previous six – I was still suffering from a
disturbed and non-alcohol-induced sleep pattern. How long would this continue I wondered?
However, the situation wasn’t all doom and gloom, I was already aware that the gaps in time
between my thinking of alcohol were lengthening. Daytimes I was up to about twenty-five
minutes’ duration, whilst in the evenings, after the medicinal joint, I was managing anything
up to one hour and a half. I realised fairly early on that success or failure regarding my
pledge to give up a life-long love affair with alcohol would depend on two major factors;
resolve and also my ability to create a regime of self-absorption focussed around non-drinkrelated activities.
Easier said than done, I hear you say and this is true – a resolve to achieve any set
target or goal is indeed a worthy attribute, but oh, how easy it is in darker moments for one’s
determination to waiver, if not completely descend into total collapse. With this in mind, I
felt it imperative that if I was to survive the earlier stages of abstinence, I would need to lay
careful plans to ensure my waking day was fully occupied. This, theoretically, should not
have been difficult to achieve as I was used to planning out construction in all of its phases,
but as we say in the building industry, “There are always snags”, and after seven days,
especially the weekend ones, I would find myself at intervals just staring into space washed
over by that old “I really could murder a pint” feeling.
One such feeling was just kicking in when a voice said, ‘Are we going to tune these
instruments in and get started, or what?’
The voice was that of Julian Gould, a great guy and also a feely musician who had
allowed himself to be roped into these charity music sessions. I immediately responded,
taking guitar from case and momentarily putting the mental craving for a pint to one side.
These Sunday lunchtime sessions were intended to serve a dual purpose; one was to
raise the profile of Emmaus, a relatively unknown charity in this country, and the other was
to raise much needed funds - which we hoped would be donated into our charity boxes
placed on every table and also along the bar. To accompany the boxes we handed out our
play list of songs, which at the top informed everyone that all monies raised would go to help
the homeless of the area, and that if anyone wanted to request a particular song then it would
be performed for a pound coin deposited in the box. At the bottom of the sheet, and for a bit
of a laugh, was printed a brief statement. It read:
‘If anyone would like us to shut this bloody racket up, the charge will be a pound a
minute.’
Sadly, no one ever stuck twenty quid in to give us a natural break.
Anyway, there I was for the first time in over thirty-five years, in a public house
without partaking of a drink.
We played a three hour session that day, then on picking up the instruments we
collected our charity boxes and play lists and headed for the door. Shaun O’Reilly, as usual,
helped us out with our instruments, amplifiers etc, reminding me of our wager and that it had
to be a full year and not a day less.
‘Yes, Shaun,’ I said. As we drove away I can remember that I had never been so glad
to be out of a pub in my life.
NEW HOUSE AND HOLIDAYS
The new house was fantastic; it was as if our lives had changed completely. Dad
applied for a job as a process worker at the new ICI complex and was hired; this meant a
regular income and Mam would no longer have to wash dishes for hours on end at the school
canteen. Carolyn, now fourteen, was engaged in a weekend secretarial course at Pitman’s
College; things were certainly looking up for the Hare household.
The thing I liked best of all about the new house was the upstairs toilet. I’d spent my
whole life to date dreading the daily bodily functions; not any more, the new loo was dry,
clean, light and airy, it had carpet on the floor and joy of joys, not a daddy-long-legs in sight!
Aged eleven, I could have happily lived in it. Outside in the back garden was a brick and
concrete structure with two doors, one door when opened revealed a purpose built coalhouse,
the other led into a much larger space, which was generally known as the washhouse.
I used to love it when old friends and neighbours visited Mam from the streets. They
would be sitting in the kitchen drinking tea and when the inevitable call of nature came, the
visitor would go through the ritual of shifting in the seat, give the odd nervous cough, stand
up, head for the back door saying something like, ‘I’ll just nip out the back and use the privy,
love.’
Mam would then inform them that the toilet was not outside and that it was at the top
of the stairs on the left.
‘Never!’ the astonished guest would say. ‘A privy up aloft, you’re pulling my leg!’
Mam would reassure her disbelieving friend that she wasn’t pulling her leg and that
the toilet was definitely upstairs.
‘Well I never!’ would say the visitor. ‘Whatever next?’ Then, ‘How does it work?
Where does all the - er, you know, all the stuff go?’
Mam would say, ‘I don’t know, pet, but it does work.’
She would then proudly escort her friend to the top of the stairs, open the loo door to
reveal the wonder of modern technology - all to the chorus of “oohs” and “ahs” from the
gob-smacked onlooker.
When the call of nature had been satisfied and its existence doubly flushed to who
knows where, the visitor would invariably be heard to say, ‘What ever will they think of
next?’
This would lead to a good half-hour’s conversation concerning this modern miracle
and just about every one of Mam’s early visitors would pay at least one more visit before
leaving. One of Mam’s pals wouldn’t go at first, protesting that she wasn’t going to take her
knickers down all the way up there!
‘Ain’t natural,’ she said. ‘What if it came through the ceiling while I was on it? I’d end
up in your front room. It doesn’t bear thinking about; me rolling about in my own business
with me knickers round me ankles.’
Mam eventually persuaded her friend to accompany her to the top of the stairs, and
after a full investigation of the situation, not to mention a certain amount of bladder pressure,
she, with some reluctance, decided to risk the lofty loo - but only if the door was left open
and Mam had to stand where she could see her at the top of the stairs. I happened upon this
weird little tableau coming out of my bedroom and could not suppress a fit of laughter.
There was Mam’s friend, astride the toilet, knickers round her ankles, eyes shut tight, with
both hands holding on to the walls as if they were about to cave in. Mam shooed me down
stairs before I made the poor lady’s predicament any worse. God, I loved that toilet!
We saw quite a lot of Mam’s friends over the summer school holidays and although
the old guard contingent from the streets would invariably take their leave saying something
like, ‘Well, it’s really, really lovely, pet, but you know, there’s no place like home,’ - others
had their names on the council lists the very next day. Many of them succeeded in their
application to be re-housed before the estate was completed.
We were one of the first families to move there, which meant we lived on a building
site for nearly three years; not that I minded, I just looked upon the whole housing
development as the best playground I’d ever been in. Each week from Monday through to
Saturday, the building site was a hive of activity with the noise of dumper trucks, diggers and
cement mixers all creating a trundling harmony. The estate roads were not yet open to what
little ordinary traffic there might be about, so the workmen had cobbled together make-shift
goalposts from scaffolding poles and each lunch break a full-blooded forty-five minute
soccer match would be played out. I had made friends with some of the workmen and
always managed to get involved in these games.
After five o’clock the site would be deserted except for the night watchman, known to
all us kids as the “Watchie”. I could never quite figure out what this guy actually did, Dad
said he was there to keep an eye on the site to stop people walking off with materials, but I
didn’t buy that. This guy was old and walked with a limp, helped along with the aid of a
walking stick; I couldn’t see him catching anybody. However, to give the man his due he did
try; he would patrol the site constantly up until around midnight when he would retire to the
workmen’s cabin to have tea and get his head down. The local kids, me included, gave him
the most to do, as we would play in the half-finished houses until it was time to go home. It
wasn’t play as such; more just mooching around talking and sharing the odd cigarette, if
somebody had one.
We never vandalised any of the work in progress, but the Watchie would try his
damnedest to catch us kids in one of the houses. This in turn gave us some excitement and
quite quickly the nightly charade turned into a regular game of cat and mouse. Although I
have said the Watchie was old and walked with the aid of a stick, he was still a formidable
character to look at; over six feet tall and always sporting a full length navy-blue serge coat,
topped off with an uncoordinated beige flat cap which covered a bull neck head. Up close he
had a slightly demonic look about him; something akin to that of the great Robert Newton
portraying Long John Silver in the film adaptation of Robert Louis Stevenson’s “Treasure
Island”. I don’t think the Watchie had seen or read it, as recognition never seemed to register
on his face when we would chorus from a safe distance, ‘Ahhh, Jim Lad’. On reflection
though, I don’t suppose our thick northern dialect attempts at a Devon accent helped the poor
chap’s cause at all. However, the cat nightly pursued his mice. We would take up position
on the first floor of one of the partly-built houses always choosing one that had a large,
freshly-dumped pile of sand outside.
Someone would be posted as lookout to keep an eye on the Watchie’s progress around
the estate, ready to alert the rest of us of his imminent approach. Once he was in the vicinity,
we would begin to sing one of the popular tunes of the day, always making sure that we
would be heard several doors away. At the appropriate moment the lookout would hiss in a
whisper, ‘He’s coming in,’ which was the signal for all concerned to take up their positions
ready for a speedy exit. Watchie would be heard entering the building and lumbering
upstairs. Our singing would now have stopped.
As the Watchie reached the top of the stairs we would all, in a high state of
excitement, be aware of his heavy breathing. He would suddenly lunge into one of the
bedrooms stick-raised and shout obscenities such as, ‘Got you, you little fuckers!’
The time for flight was now upon the occupants of that room. The only two effective
means of escape were either to swing out onto the scaffolding poles, shinning down to safety
or leap out from the first floor window landing ankle-deep in the large pile of soft sand
below. As one room evacuated, Watchie would swear and turn on his heel in the hope of
still catching one of us in the remaining rooms. To my knowledge he was never successful,
but several of us had a few near escapes. However, it was probably just as well for after
about three months he disappeared off the scene completely. Not long after that I overheard
a conversation between Mam and Dad.
At my age I didn’t take much notice of
conversations between them - we seemed to be living in two separate worlds, them in the real
one, whilst yours truly know-it-all existed in what I now know to have been a state of
pubescent ignorance.
On this particular day, I heard Mam use the words “interfering with young boys”.
‘Who’s that, Mam? What do you mean interfering?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing, son,’ said Mam.
Two years earlier I would have accepted this without qualms and carried on my merry
way. Not now, after all I was in the bowling team, drank beer with the men and after the
holidays I would be in what Mam called the “big school”.
‘If it means nothing, why are you talking to Dad about it?’
‘Oh, son,’ said Mam with a sign of resignation. ‘You remember the site watchman, the
man with the stick and the long dark coat?’
‘Yes, Mam,’ I said with an air of “don’t treat me like a little kid”.
‘Well, son, he’s been very naughty. He’s been taking little boys into one of the houses
and playing with their privates.’
My mouth must have fallen open, for she followed up immediately with, ‘Don’t worry,
son, the police have caught him, the dirty old bugger. He won’t be doing that anymore for a
long time, they’ll see to that.’
I gave an involuntary shiver. I must have been almost in his grasp on more than a
dozen occasions - it didn’t bear thinking about.
The new Watchie turned up a week later proving to be a completely different kettle of
fish. A group of us were sitting one evening on huge pile of sand, elaborating on the
possible, though highly improbable, antics of the now incarcerated Watchie number one,
when a big lad who I assessed to be in his mid-teens came from around the corner of one of
the half-built houses. He was fairly tall, slim, with a ready smile that made you want to like
him immediately.
‘Hiya!’ he said. ‘What are you lot up to?’
This was not the norm; usually people of his age wouldn’t give eleven year olds a
second glance, not to mention the time of day.
‘Just mooching about,’ said Jim, one of my pals.
‘Is that all you do round here?’ enquired the newcomer.
‘Nah,’ countered Jim. ‘We usually have a bit of fun with the night watchman.’
We all giggled.
‘What, you mean he plays games with you?’
We all giggled again.
‘Not exactly,’ said Jim. ‘He chases us, but we’re a bit too quick for him, good runners
see? - Fastest on the estate!’
‘Fastest on the estate you reckon?’ replied our new confidant, feigning a look of being
impressed. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ says he, ‘I’d like to see this speed of yours, come out into the
road and I’ll race you all one at a time, and anyone who beats me gets a tanner.’
‘You’re on!’ said Jim and we all filed out onto the new made-up road.
‘Right!’ said the big lad. ‘See the second lamp-post yonder? We’ll race to that - touch
it, then back to here. OK? Who’s first?’
‘Me,’ said Jim. ‘But I wanna see your tanner first.’
The big lad dug into his trouser pocket and produced a handful of silver and copper
coins.
‘That’s good enough for me. You do “on your marks”, John,’ he shouted over to me.
I stepped forward, and with both runners poised, I yelled, ‘On your marks! – Get Set! –
Go!’
Jim was the fastest runner in our group and set off up the road like a scalded cat.
However, half way to the lamp-post he was overtaken by the newcomer who appeared to
stroll the return trip, coming in a good fifteen yards ahead of the puffing Jim.
‘Right, who’s next?’ said the smiling victor.
I stayed in my official starting place, reasoning that if I could race him last, then I’d
have better than an average chance to win a tanner. My pals lined up one after another and
all got the same treatment as Jim. My strategy didn’t pay off and I also was beaten out of
sight. With the racing over, we all went back to the heap of sand and sat down.
Jim spoke first.
‘You’re a brilliant runner mate, what’s your name?’
‘Julian,’ was the reply.
We all glanced at each other, Julian was a posh name, and we didn’t know any Julian’s
where we came from.
‘Haven’t seen you before,’ said Jim. ‘What you doing round here?’
‘Oh,’ said Julian, ‘I’ve got a job in the area for the summer; I’m a student at Durham
University, but I have to work in the summer to help Mam and Dad out. Going to university
is an expensive business.’
Posh name like Julian; going to university; even if he was a good runner, he wasn’t
one of us and the collective group started to lose interest in him. Obvious really, apart from
running, none of us would have anything in common with him.
Jim, probably to be friendly, made another stab at small talk. ‘What kind of job you
got then?’
‘Funny you should ask that,’ said Julian. ‘I’m your new night watchman.’
Shit! We were all on our feet simultaneously, but the new Watchie just laughed and
said, ‘Sit down, sit down, what’s the point in running - you know I can catch you if I wanted
to.’
This made sense and we all sat down again, albeit somewhat uncomfortably.
‘Listen,’ said Julian. ‘I can tell by looking round the site that you lot are not pinching
stuff or vandalising the place, you’re just having a bit of a lark, is that right?’
We all nodded in assent.
‘Well,’ he continued, ‘how would you like to be my right hand men? It could involve
a bit of real detective work?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ we chorused at once.
‘Right then,’ said Julian. ‘Come back to the cabin, I’ve got a big bottle of lemonade,
we’ll have a drink, and I’ll tell you what I want you all to do.’
We didn’t need to be asked twice, cool lemonade and a chance to become detectives
were incentives enough.
As it happened, Julian turned out to be a first class role model for all of us. He was
only eighteen, but within a very short space of time we all thought him the cleverest person
on the planet, not to mention one of the fairest.
On that first night back at the cabin, Julian washed out cups in the sink and poured out
six foaming lemonades. I’d never been in a workmen’s cabin before and I couldn’t take my
eyes off two colour pictures of completely naked women that were pinned to the wall, I was
not the only one.
Julian just laughed and said, ‘That’s building workers for you!’
I laughed with the others, but his meaning had gone completely over my head. I had
sudden visions of these two heavily breasted females wandering round our site carrying saws
and hammers, absolutely starkers. Surely they wouldn’t do it in winter time? I was disturbed
from such reverie by Julian’s voice.
‘OK. This is the deal. If we’re all going to be mates, then I want you to be my eyes and
ears. This is a big estate and growing, I can’t be in four places at once but you guys can. All
I want is that if any of you see adults, strange adults you’ve never seen before, and especially
if they just seem to be hanging around - then come straight here and tell me. Don’t approach
them, don’t ask them what are they doing, just come straight here and let me know, have you
all got that?’
‘Yes,’ we replied in unison.
‘Good!’ said Julian. ‘This is important work and I’ll tell you why. It’s like this see, if
people come willy-nilly onto this building site and make off with anything they can carry,
then the materials they steal will have to be replaced. Who pays for the replacement
materials? The council pays initially as it’s their development - but in the long run it’ll be
your Mams and Dads who will pay. If the council lose a lot of materials which cost a
fortune, then the only way they can get that money back will be to put up your parents’ rent.
So you see, anyone stealing from this site is actually stealing from the people who live here,
do you understand the point I’m making?’
Lo and behold we actually did understand! Until that moment none of us would have
given a tinker’s dam about who stole what from the council, but Julian had made it quite
clear that ultimately it would be our families who paid the price for other people’s crimes.
There and then we all swore to help him stop people stealing from the site, and as we all said
goodnight to make our way home, I can remember feeling like one of Wyatt Earp’s deputies.
All of us visited Julian’s cabin every night, usually with nothing to report, and on such
evenings of inactivity Julian would explain things from the geography books he was reading.
He loved his subject and transported us across continents explaining about different cultures
and customs ranging from Gauchos in South America to the Bedouins of the Sahara.
Listening to Julian was as good as, if not better, than going to the cinema and many a night
parents would come knocking on the cabin door as darkness fell. We’d all be sitting around
the coal fire listening to Julian read about one African tribe or another.
‘Goodness me!’ would say someone’s Mam. ‘How do you keep this lot quiet? When
they come to my house you’d think the circus had come to town. Come on our so-and-so, bed
time!’
Of course when one is bursting to put one’s detective skills to the test, no bugger
wants to commit a crime. Before going to sleep every night I would turn my bedroom light
out and sit by my window peering out into the gloom in the hope of seeing a flicker of
torchlight or the glow of a cigarette ember, which would obviously belong to a member of a
hardened gang of criminals. Sitting in the dark, I would play out the scene in my mind somewhere out among the unfinished houses, a light would flicker, I would make my way
quietly downstairs, out through the back door, climb the garden fence and head for where the
thieves were about the business of putting up Mam’s rent. It would be a gang of four or five
silently removing building materials out to a lorry parked on the road. I would sprint away
from the scene, across the site to the cabin, alert Julian who would accompany me back to
the scene and on a given signal we would jump out, surprising the thieves and I would shout
something like:
‘You’re caught red-handed! The game’s up!’
Oh, the innocence and infallibility of the childish daydream. The thought never
crossed my mind that our captives might turn nasty and knock seven bells of shit out of us;
why would it? I would have Julian the Great at my side, a veritable Batman and Robin, what
could go wrong?
Night after night I would sit in the dark peering out, sometimes into the wee small
hours - but I never did see the flickering torch of a criminal gang.
Thieves did come to the site, but what transpired bore no relation to my midnight
imaginings. It happened early one summer’s evening. I was sitting in the cabin listening to
an account of Julian’s university adventures when the door burst open and in piled Jim and
the others.
‘Whoa!’ said Julian. ‘Where’s the fire?’
Jim, who was obviously out of breath from running spluttered one word, ‘Thieves!’
‘Where?’ cried Julian, leaping to his feet.
‘Down the bottom of the site,’ gasped Jim. ‘They’re loading up those long lumps of
wood.’
‘Show me!’ said Julian. ‘Come on everyone, and don’t forget what I’ve told you, stay
behind me at all times, let me do the talking and be ready to run on my command!’
We were all out of the cabin and running along behind Julian when my analysis of the
situation kicked in. Stay behind, be ready to run? Julian had also looked a little nervous in
the cabin - this was nothing like how I had imagined it would be.
Still with my thoughts racing we came dashing round the corner of a shell house and
into what would eventually be known as Burns Road, sliding to an immediate halt.
There, not ten yards from us were two nasty looking characters both shouldering
lengths of sawn timber; they stopped and glared at our intrusion. One was tall and thin with
a sunken sallow face, which reminded me of the weasel caricatures in Toad of Toad Hall.
The other was swarthy, short and squat, with a mean looking face with a scar from ear to lip;
he spoke first.
‘What do you lot want?’ he snarled. ‘This is a building site, no place for kids, go on,
bugger off!’
We all stood stock still, waiting for Julian’s lead.
‘Go on!’ hissed Skinny. ‘You heard him, bugger off!’
Julian cleared his throat nervously.
‘This is council property,’ he said in voice as bold as he could muster. ‘That wood
does not belong to you and I suggest that in the best interest of all parties you put it back at
once.’
I was impressed, Scar Face obviously wasn’t.
‘Listen, you snotty-nosed little fucker!’ Scar Face directed this remark at Julian with
some menace. ‘If you don’t piss off and mind your own bloody business, I’ll ram this fourby-two right up your arse till it comes out your mouth!’
The mental picture conjured up by Scar Face’s threat made me shudder, but Julian
didn’t move.
‘This is my business,’ he said, producing a plastic I.D. card from his pocket. ‘I’m the
night watchman.’
‘You’re not the night watchman, you little cunt; old Dewy walks this site.’
‘Old Dewy,’ said Julian, ‘was sacked and arrested three weeks ago - and if you don’t
put the council’s property back this minute, then I’m back to the site office to call the police.
I have made a mental note of your registration number.’
‘You fucking little upstart!’ cried Scar Face, now red with anger. He dropped the piece
of timber from his shoulder and started toward Julian. Skinny was at his side grabbing his
arm.
‘Steady on, Joey, we can’t catch all of them and besides they’ve had a good look at the
bike.’
Scar Face didn’t turn his mask of violence away from Julian but said in a low voice, ‘I
hear you, I hear you.’
Then without another word, he turned on his heel, approached the sidecar and with a
mighty kick sent the ready-placed four by twos scattering to the ground. The motorbike
engine responded to Skinny’s kick-start and they were gone, but not before Scar Face
delivered a parting shot.
‘I’ll meet up with you again, son!’ Scar Face spat at Julian. ‘One dark night, oh yes,
we’ll meet again!’
As the sound of the motorbike engine died away, Julian let out what must have been a
huge sigh of relief.
‘Wow!’ said Jim. ‘That was close, I thought that little fat bastard was going to go
berserk, especially when you told him you’d got the bike number.’
This was said in a tone of admiration and such sentiment echoed the feelings of the
rest of us, Julian had stood his ground and I for one thought him very brave.
‘Right!’ said Julian. ‘I’ve got to get back to the cabin and report this incident; don’t
suppose you guys feel like stacking that wood back on the pile?’
‘No sweat!’ said Jim, and as Julian turned to go, we all set to until the scattered four
by twos were safely stored away. Back at the site cabin, we found Julian talking to a
policeman who was writing down everything he said.
‘You sure about the registration number?’ said the policeman.
‘Absolutely!’ replied Julian. ‘The lads here will confirm it, tell him lads!’
‘FAO 412,’ we chorused.
‘Well now, that’s fairly unanimous,’ said the man in uniform. ‘I think I’ve got enough
to be going on with for now, so I’ll say cheerio, but don’t forget, if they turn up back here
again, get straight on to us.’
‘We will,’ Julian replied.
The perfect answer as far as we were concerned, we meant us, we were important, we
had played our part in this grown up drama and it felt good.
As the policeman peddled off, Julian put the kettle on the cabin stove saying as he did
so, ‘I think this calls for cocoa all round.’
This was greeted with a resounding cheer from our quarter.
The rest of the evening was taken up with the telling and re-telling of the night’s
events, each one of us telling a different slant on the story. How brave and cavalier we all
were after the event, heroes all - and not a mention of the near-incontinence experienced by
the majority when Scar Face dropped the piece of four by two, looking like he was about to
rip Julian’s head off. No, the criminals had been defeated and we wallowed in our glorious
involvement.
We never did hear whether Scar Face and Skinny had been brought to justice, but
word must have gone round the local criminal fraternity that our site was well patrolled, for
throughout the whole of the summer theirs was the only attempt at stealing from the site.
As those holiday weeks rolled by, life had never been better. The new house was
great, even Mam, after a few weeks, declared that she wouldn’t dream of returning to the
streets.
‘We should have done it years ago, kid,’ she would say to Dad.
Dad, who didn’t possess an “I told you so” attitude, would just laugh and say
something along the lines of, ‘I think we’ve made the right move, pet.’
The gardens of the new house, no more than postage stamp sized plots back and front,
became Dad’s labour of love. Never having had a garden before, Dad was starting from
scratch as he put it and he spent hours with supposedly green-fingered workmates, gleaning
tips about preparing the ground for seeding lawns, planting hedges and growing vegetables.
The hard part, as with most things in life, was the preparation. Dad, from a life of labour,
was fit and strong, so wielding a pickaxe for hours on end to loosen up the impacted ground
did not appear to leave him exhausted. His effortless rhythm made it look easy, so much so
that I thought, ‘Anyone can do this.’
One time when Dad stopped for his pipe I said, ‘Have a rest, Dad, I’ll take over for a
while.’
Dad just gave a wry smile and said, ‘OK, son.’
Five minutes later my arms had lost all feeling, I thought my heart was about to burst
and I had hardly broken through the surface.
Dad could obviously sense my distress and said, ‘That’s enough, son,’ taking the pick
from my trembling hands and returning to his smooth and deeply penetrating rhythm.
To this day I’ve never got on with gardening.
Dad stuck to his task, and within a couple of months had transformed the front and
rear wastelands into gardens to be proud of. Unlike most of the men who were newly moved
into our road, Dad had attacked the garden from the outset. This did not go unnoticed by the
surrounding women folk who obviously used his example to galvanise their men into doing
something about their own plots. Soon, men from up and down the road would come to our
door or stop Dad in the street to ask him how he got started. Dad passed on his new-found
expertise freely, enjoying the attention and deference shown by the enquirers. Mam was
proud of her man.
I had become a regular in the bowls team and, between an almost daily practice
session and regular hiking trips to the North Yorkshire moors, my days were fairly occupied.
Evenings in the main would be spent chatting and drinking cocoa in Julian’s cabin.
As the holidays drew to a close, I started to get twinges of apprehension about the
impending move up to Sir William Worsley Secondary Modern School. Everyone I spoke to
about the move would tell you one thing or another, but all stood firm on one point initiation rituals. To listen to them one couldn’t help believe that having your head pushed
down the toilet and flushed on would happen at least once a day. With a week to go before
start of term, I was definitely not looking forward to what lay ahead - the Worsley School
didn’t come with a good reputation.
There was a film released in 1955 starring Glen Ford called, “Blackboard Jungle”,
which was supposed to portray the then new “pupil power” in its worst possible light. Up
until the advent of Bill Hayley and the Comets and rock and roll, schools throughout the land
were places of discipline and obedience - that’s the way it had always been. Parents and
teachers alike were not prepared for the whole culture attitude change that would rapidly
sweep across the world, carrying the youth of the day with it. The film pre-release was
slammed by the old guard critics as an abomination, the churches of course got in on the act,
advocating a ban and calling upon Government to intervene. All such bally-hoo only served
to give the movie high profile status, guaranteeing a box office hit and a determination by
just about every young person in the land to make sure they saw it. I don’t quite know what I
was expecting of the film apart from something outrageous, which much to my
disappointment didn’t materialise. Compared to the Sir William Worsley, the school in the
film was like having Sunday afternoon tea with the vicar – in short it was tame and not at all
like the brutally frightening experience about to be endured by myself and the rest of the new
first year.
However, in that last week of the holidays, I tried not to dwell on the subject - making
the most of every glorious minute of freedom before the start of term.
We had two bowling matches that week; both were away from home. Eston needed
the points from the two fixtures to clinch the league championship; tactical match talk was
the only topic of conversation around our dinner table that week. Even the sports pages of
the Evening Gazette were covering it and although they didn’t print my name they made
mention of Eston’s newest signing as a schoolboy wonder.
I could tell Dad was pleased by this, but in his usual down-to-earth way said, ‘Don’t
let it go to your head, son. Let the bowls do the talking.’
The first game was at Redcar, a then small seaside town some six miles away and,
because it was deemed not to be far enough distant, the club decided to forego the expense of
Rheuben Turner’s coach, informing players to make their own way to the venue. Some of
the younger players, ever mindful of the tight family budget, would walk both there and
back, such was their dedication, especially after a hard shift down the works. Wilkie, Dad’s
best pal amongst the bowling fraternity, had never married and Dad used to say that’s why he
always seemed to have more money than the other men. Anyway, unbeknown to everyone in
our house apart from Dad, that week Wilkie had done the most unimaginable thing and
bought a car. He had told Dad at work, saying that he would pick us both up on Wednesday
night for the trip to Redcar. Dad, armed with this information, couldn’t resist having a bit of
a wind up with Mam, so as we sat down for dinner on the Monday evening, he introduced
the issue of how we would get to the match.
‘I’m off work on Wednesday,’ said Dad, ‘so we could set off late afternoon and walk
it, what do you say, son?’
Son never got to have his say for Mam took Dad’s bait in a flash.
‘If you think I’m having this child walking back from Redcar at God knows what time
of night, you’ve got another thing coming! What are you thinking about, Jack? It’ll be gone
midnight before you get back, I’m not having it and that’s final!’
‘Aw, Mam,’ I cried. ‘I’ll be alright, and I’ve walked back from Redcar loads of times.’
‘Not in the middle of the night you haven’t and you’re not starting now.’
Dad said, ‘Well the only other thing for it is we’ll have to go on the bikes.’ (Somehow
Mam and Dad had saved up enough money to buy me a bicycle for my eleventh birthday, but
more about that later.)
‘Jack, have you lost your marbles?’ said Mam. ‘Cycling at that time of night in the
dark is worse than walking. I can see it now, our John’ll get so tired he’ll fall asleep and end
up under a bus I don’t wonder.’
‘Aw, Mam. I’ll be alright.’
‘Don’t “aw, Mam” me! You’re not riding that bike home from Redcar in the dark and
that’s an end to it!’
‘Well, I don’t know what we’re going to do then,’ said Dad with a sigh. ‘We’re not
going to have money for bus fares, not on a Wednesday night that’s for sure.’
‘I don’t care about that,’ said Mam, obviously now getting a bit hot under the collar.
‘If a bunch of grown men want a bairn like this playing in their bloody bowls team, then
they’re gonna have to make proper arrangements to get him back safe and sound.’
This was not going well, Mam never swore; I knew that she was serious and I could
see my place in the team being given over to one of the reserves. As Mam launched into
another tirade about feckless bowlers, I rapidly went into brainstorm mode. Surely there must
be a way around the problem?
Neither of us heard Dad, when without changing his tone of voice he said calmly,
‘We’ll both have to go in Wilkie’s new car then.’
Mam suddenly stopped in mid-sentence, ‘What did you just say?’
‘I said,’ said Dad, suddenly starting to laugh, ‘we’ll have to go in Wilkie’s new car.’
‘You little twerp!’ said Mam to Dad, realising she had been caught hook, line and
sinker. ‘Wilkie’s bought a car! Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I just did!’ said Dad, now laughing more than ever.
I suddenly caught on to what was happening and burst out laughing at the trick Dad
had played on all of us.
‘Laugh is it?’ said Mam. ‘I’ll give the pair of you laugh.’
And in one swift movement, she had the rolled up Evening Gazette raining harmless
blows down on our heads - that only served to heighten our amusement. We roared; me and
my Dad together, now on our knees with Mam dancing around trying to whack us both with
the newspaper. Mam, who was never a dab hand at rounders and the like, aimed a blow at
Dad’s head, missed by a mile and came tumbling down in the middle of us. This sent Dad
and I into further hysterics and Mam, suddenly seeing the funny side of it, joined in. So
there we all were, rolling around on the floor with tears of laughter streaming down our
faces; amazing really, such incredible family fun - and not a penny spent.
Later that night in bed, I was imagining what the trip down to Redcar in Wilkie’s car
would be like - only my second ride in a car. If we won the match leaving us needing only
one more win for the league, everyone would be in high spirits and Wilkie, who loved a
drink, would almost certainly head for the pub. If things went according to plan, I could well
see a pint of shandy in the offing.
Wilkie had arranged to pick Dad and me up at the traffic lights on the main
Middlesbrough to Redcar road at 5:30 p.m. on the Wednesday. We were early, standing on
the corner with our bowls’ cases at our feet. Wilkie turned up dead on time with his shiny
new chariot, Dennis and Ernie already in the back. I joined them whilst Dad slid into the
passenger seat alongside his pal. In no time at all we were at the ground in Redcar and, to
the exclusion of all else, everyone’s thoughts turned to the match ahead.
We beat Redcar with plenty in hand, having now just the one game between our team
and the league championship; spirits were - to say the least - high. On saying farewell to our
team mates, some of whom still had the six-mile trudge back in the dark, we headed for the
car.
As we pulled away Wilkie said, ‘Well, lads, I think after such thirsty work, not to
mention success, that a little celebration’s in order.’
‘What you got in mind, Wilk?’ said Dennis.
‘Well I thought we might take the back road and stop off for a couple at The Ship in
Lazenby. Oh, and by the way, the drinks are on me, had a bit of a flutter on the horses today.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ said Ernie.
I was just conjuring up the mental taste of a pint-shandy when Dad said, ‘What about
lad, Wilk?’
‘Not a problem!’ I was delighted to hear Wilkie say. ‘I know the bloke who owns it,
he’ll put the lights on in the lounge for us, it’ll be alright, just trust old Wilkie.’
‘Just how many landlords do you know?’ said Dad.
‘Quite a few, Jack,’ laughed Wilkie. ‘And I’ll be getting to know quite a few more,
now I’ve got this little beauty!’ he said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
All that Wilkie promised came to pass. The landlord opened up the small lounge for
us and obviously turned a blind eye to my drinking pint-shandies; he patently held Wilkie in
high regard. Playing bowls for three hours had certainly given me a thirst, and half of my
beery lemonade pint went down in one go. This did not go unnoticed by Dad and the other
men.
‘Good lad!’ said Wilkie. ‘Come on lads, knock ’em back like young John here and I’ll
get another round up. He’ll be chucking out in fifteen minutes.’
And so I got a second pint that night - the combination of pints, the match excitement
and the lateness of the hour all taking their toll - for once, back in the car, I went out like a
light. Dad said that on arriving back at our house, I just got out of the car, said goodnight
and went straight upstairs to bed; I didn’t remember anything after leaving the pub - an
experience I would embrace often in future adulthood.
Saturday’s match was to be a much grander affair with Rheuben Turner’s coach
booked to take the team to Billingham, where the bowling greens were only a small part of a
newly built sports complex which boasted its own clubhouse and bar.
DAY FOURTEEN
“I fought against the bottle
But I had to do it drunk
Took my jewellery down the pawnshop
But that don’t make it junk”
L Cohen
Another week has now passed and last night I believe that I may have stumbled, in my
musings, onto a remarkable fact not yet discovered or correctly interpreted by the medical
profession, especially those practising in the cause-and-effect of drug and alcohol addiction.
Not being a man of medicine or the sciences, I could well be wrong in this assumption - but
to date I have never heard mention or read reference appertaining to it.
The seeds of my supposed discovery had begun sowing themselves earlier in the week,
when I travelled to Cambridge with the sole purpose of visiting an established Emmaus
community in order to see the sort of working model we would hope to create in the West
Country.
Emmaus, Cambridge, was a converted farm complex some seven miles from the city
centre. On arrival I was met by the local executive and community co-ordinators. I was given
a guided tour, followed by lunch in a communal dining hall; the lunch being prepared and
served by the companions. It was a good lunch and the people responsible all appeared to me
to be happy and contented in their surroundings. After lunch, the community co-ordinators
and local executive were scheduled to have a meeting, so I asked if they would mind if I just
went for a wander around on my own. This approved, I decided to find out what the
companions did to occupy themselves in normal working hours. I started off to walk around
the perimeter of the complex, but on rounding the first corner I encountered three guys
sitting amidst what appeared to be a huge pile of rusting bicycle parts.
‘You guys collecting scrap to sell?’ I enquired by way of introduction.
‘This ain’t scrap, man!’ said one of them. ‘This little operation is worth its weight in
gold to the community.’
‘How come?’ I replied.
‘Well, it’s like this,’ said another, ‘Cambridge is a university town, see? So what you
got in a university town? You got students.’
‘So?’ I interjected, wondering why he was stating the obvious.
‘Well,’ he continued, ‘students need bikes and students don’t have a lot of money. So
students need cheap bikes and here they are,’ he said, pointing at what I had believed to be a
heap of rubbish.
He went on using the same staccato phraseology, ‘All these old bikes are donated. We
advertise all over Cambridge. People phone us up. We go and collect in the van and here we
are. We strip them down; anything we can re-use goes in that pile over there; anything we
can’t goes in the skip. We then build bikes from parts we cannibalise and sell them in our
charity shop - sometimes as many as ten or twelve a week. We pay our way here mate.’
This last statement was said with a kind of defensive pride, boiler-suit letting pinstripe know that they weren’t just washed-out bums, and that their work was important to the
whole operation.
‘Impressive!’ I replied, reaching into my pocket for cigarettes and offering them
around. Ice broken, without being invited I squatted down on an up-turned bucket (bugger
the suit; it would always clean) and said, ‘Look, I’m up from Plymouth where we’re trying to
set up an Emmaus centre and though I’ve seen the video and read all of the literature, until
today I’ve never met a companion. The concept, in principle, tells us that the companions run
the centre and the co-ordinators do just that – co-ordinate - but I would like to know from a
companion’s point of view how well the whole Emmaus principle works. Does it…?’
I was cut short mid-sentence by the third of the trio who spoke for the first time.
‘This place saved my life.’
The others both nodded in a way that indicated “theirs too”. I stayed silent and waited
to hear if this dramatic, but obviously sincere, statement would have any follow-up. My
silence of respect I believe was both felt and acknowledged by these men and, over the
course of the next few hours, I was riveted by the potted life-stories of three remarkable
human beings. In essence, they had survived the horrors and despair of broken lives; all at
different times had been close to death, yet somehow managing to teeter on that fine
dividing-line until finding their own particular road to Emmaus.
Addiction, drugs, drink, prison, abuse (both suffered and inflicted), begging, stealing,
despair and depression were all common denominators weaving their way through the frank
and courageous testimonials I heard that day.
The long drive back to Devon gave me plenty of time to reflect on the various reasons
as to how and why some people find themselves in the situation of being alone and homeless.
One thing I had learned was that any addiction is only one part of a much greater and overall
problem - underlying effects such as being abused, loss of a loved-one and feelings of deep
insecurity were just a few of the root-cause factors of escapism that lead to a habit-forming
dependency.
The other thing that kept coming back to me was that, as my discussion on addiction
with the bicycle trio came to a close, “Staccato”, who for the most part had been the least
verbose of the three, suddenly chirped in with, ‘It’s all in the brain see? It’s all in the brain.’
He didn’t elaborate on this profundity, and in all probability he may not have been
able to construct a rational and reasoned case to substantiate such a claim, but it certainly
prompted me into the process of analysis.
Over the course of the next few days, I set to thinking about Staccato’s “It’s all in the
brain” theory, and by the time Saturday evening came round, my contemplations were posing
a major question. Various media medical pundits have been “banging on” for years about
substance abuse and the possibility or probability that dependency users have, in their makeup, an addictive gene. The Oxford dictionary definition of the word “gene” states: “a unit of
heredity composed of DNA, occupying a fixed position on a chromosome and transmitted
from parent to off-spring during reproduction”. The addictive gene theory would appear to
lack credence in this definition alone. There are tens of thousands of well-documented cases
world-wide where parents of devout sobriety are devastated and confused as to why their
beloved child has a life-threatening addiction to one substance or another. How is it possible
for moderate, temperate couples, who have practised total abstinence to pass on this gene of
self-destruction? The addictive gene theorists will immediately counter with the argument
that the gene has lay dormant – in short that it has missed a generation – and will
immediately go searching through the family history for the grand, or great-grand, parent
who was given to bouts of excessive behaviour. Sometimes they can find the link and
sometimes, no matter how far back they research, it is just not there to be found; this, in my
opinion, leaves the addictive gene theory flawed, and seriously open to question.
It was on reaching this conclusion that I started to consider what other possible
common-denominator could be linking addict to addict regardless of the substances used,
and two words, above all others, kept re-circling around my mind – “escape” and “brain”.
“Escape and brain. Escape and brain”. All of the three testimonials I had heard in
Cambridge that had led to substance addiction were deep-rooted in escape – but escape from
what? In each case it had been escaping from themselves - escaping from their own thought
processes, escaping from the brain. I was immediately reminded of the lyrics of a song
written, I believe, by a guy called Bert Jansch, a brilliant acoustic guitarist, prolific writer
and one-time addict:
“When sadness fills your heart
And sorrow hides a longing to be free
When things go wrong each day
You fix your mind to escape your misery
Your troubled young life
Has made you turn ………… to a needle of death
One grain of pure white snow
Dissolved in blood spreads quickly to your brain
In peace your mind withdraws
Your death’s so near your soul can’t feel the pain
Your troubled young life
Has made you turn……………to a needle of death”
Regardless of the substance and regardless of whether or not you inject it, inhale it,
stick it up your nose or drink it, it does, to give effect, have to go via the blood stream and
pass through the brain. On reaching this juncture, I resolved to seek out as many testimonials
from practising or reformed addicts as possible with a view to proving my newly-discovered
theory, that being - forget the addictive gene standpoint, it’s too woolly - consider instead the
addictive organ – the brain.
Consider it? People who are well-adjusted, confident and happy with both their past
and present, seem rarely, in my own experience, given to bouts of excess. Accordingly, they
are not on a regular basis contaminating, i.e. addicting, the brain. I myself, after only 14
days’ abstinence, notice a marked reduction in the physical traumas experienced in those
first few days of denial - yet through my thought processes I am still getting regular waves of
the old “I could really murder a pint” syndrome. As part of on-going research, I decided to
create my own graph in order to monitor progress regarding any lessening of the reduced, but
still apparent, physical distress bouts.
I must return now to past days of senior school and the probability of a working life in
the steel mills - but before doing so, and in order to acquaint the reader with the size of my
previous drinking habit, I will refer back to the Emmaus bicycle trio. In the course of our
conversation, I asked one of them just what his daily intake of alcohol had been at the height
of his addiction. I was somewhat shocked by his reply and can remember mentally
commenting to myself, “Jesus, that’s not heavy drinking,” - a sobering thought - if you’ll
forgive the pun!
A NIGHT TO REMEMBER
I awoke on Saturday to a perfect summer’s morning with not a cloud in the sky. This
augured well for the forthcoming match, with little chance of rain to disrupt proceedings.
The details of the match itself are unimportant to this tale; suffice it to say we lost and,
if the truth were known, I don’t really remember much about it. When the bowling was
finished, both teams plus officials from the league repaired to the new Billingham clubhouse,
which I considered to be a very grand affair - most bowling club buildings in those days were
no more than large glorified sheds - this was entirely different. The main area was devoted to
a long bar, a proper stage, raised some two feet off the floor - and there were enough tables
and chairs to seat hundreds. A corridor, which housed ladies and gents toilets, led through to
a dining room where we were asked to be seated around an arrangement of long tables in a
U-shape. The tables were covered with crisp white linen - each place having an array of
various knives, forks and spoons etc and as we took our places, I stared down to a white
convex card with my name printed on it. I was impressed.
I turned to Dad and asked, ‘Dad, what’s all this about?’
‘I don’t know, son, but Wilkie thinks we’re in for a slap-up meal.’
‘Brilliant!’ I replied. ‘But what are we supposed to do with all these knives and forks?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Dad again. ‘Keep your eye on Wilkie. He’ll know what to do.
He’s been to restaurants,’ said Dad impressively.
Nobody in our house had ever been to a restaurant and accordingly we had no idea
about table etiquette. We had once gone into a café in Whitby for a fish and chip treat,
which we had thought very posh, but we still had only one knife and fork.
Wilkie was Dad’s best pal and, outside of our family, my favourite adult. He was a
big man, with a round face and ruddy complexion. He smiled a lot and always appeared to
me to be of jovial demeanour. Wilkie always dressed well and with the advent of his new
Hillman motorcar, I thought him the richest man in the world. He always seemed to have a
pocket full of money and he was generous with it. On occasions when Dad would attempt to
buy the first round of drinks, Wilkie would be heard to say, ‘You can put that away! Your
turn will come later, and besides you’ve got your lass and the bairns to look after.’
Wilkie had never married and consequently didn’t have the overheads that go with
raising a family, and I really believe it gave him great pleasure to be able to treat his mate
Jack to the odd pint a couple of times a week.
Back in the Billingham club dining room, six or seven ladies, all dressed the same,
came from what I presumed to be the kitchen, carrying bowls of steaming soup. When placed
before us, I watched as Wilkie picked up a round-looking spoon and proceeded to tuck in.
Dad and I followed suit. He then picked up the smaller of the two knives on show, and after
cutting a bread roll in half, deftly swept a twirl of butter from one of the many dishes onto it;
Dad and I did the same.
These copycat manoeuvres were repeated through courses of roast beef, followed by
sponge pudding and custard. As the last plates were cleared away, I can remember thinking,
“Thank God for Wilkie”.
Throughout the meal, wine had been placed on the table, but most of the men opted to
go through to the bar and bring back a stout or bitter. The men of the north were not wine
drinkers in those days. However, this exodus to the bar revealed a phenomenon the like
never experienced by our club members before.
Old Walter was the first to be served his pint, and on enquiring of the barmaid, ‘How
much is that, pet?’ was reduced to a mouth-open speechlessness by her reply.
‘That one’s in, my luv; I’ve been told that all drinks for the bowlers are free of charge
tonight.’
‘Bloody hell!’ wheezed the astonished Walter. ‘Did you hear that, lads?’ he said to no
one in particular. ‘The beer’s free all night!’
Gasps went up from the assembled and then someone sallied forth with, ‘You
shouldn’t have told him that, missus. You’ll need to call for a hand cart to get the old bugger
out of here.’
Walter’s protestations were drowned out by the ensuing laughter. As this good, but
unexpected, news filtered back to the dining room, it was greeted with nods and murmurs of
approval.
Wilkie returned from the bar clutching three pint glasses and as he placed one of the
shandy variety in front of me, he pronounced, ‘We’re in for a good night tonight, Jack! Not
only are they putting on free drinks for us, but they’ve got a top concert party lined up!’
‘What’s a concert party?’ I asked.
‘Well, son,’ said Wilkie, ‘you’ll love it. Lots of different acts, there’ll be a comedian,
singers, a magician and a proper band I’ll warrant.’
‘Aw, Dad. Can we go in there?’ I pleaded.
‘Of course you can,’ said Wilkie before Dad could answer.
‘They’ve got tables in there with “reserved” signs on for Eston Bowls Club, right at
the front as well mind.’
‘We’ve still got the presentation to get through in here yet, Wilk,’ said Dad. ‘How
long do you think that’s gonna take?’
‘Not long, Jack. Look they’re lining up the trophies on the top table now!’
Dad needn’t have worried. The presentation, including speeches, was over in no time
and forty-five minutes later we were all at our reserved tables in the functions’ room.
Without warning, the lights started to dim, coinciding with the stage curtains parting, to
reveal a man in evening dress holding a large red-headed doll, whom he introduced to the
crowd as his able assistant, Ginger. As he stopped talking, and, to my absolute astonishment,
the doll spoke back.
‘Don’t you go giving me any of your “able assistant” crap! I was doing this when you
were still in nappies.’
The audience, myself included, burst into roars of laughter.
‘Now now!’ admonished the MC. ‘Mind your language. We’ve got ladies in the
audience tonight.’
‘Yeah? Then you just make sure you stay up here and keep your wandering hands to
yourself,’ the doll hit back.
The timing and tone of the dummy’s reply was practice-perfect and the whole place
just fell about laughing again. This was my first experience of ventriloquism, and although
totally enthralled, I hadn’t a clue as to how the Master of Ceremonies was getting Ginger to
speak. The two-way banter carried on with the MC letting the audience know who would be
performing on the bill that night, whilst being constantly out-played by his dummy. Great
stuff!
Next up was another guy in evening dress, who pulled rabbits from hats, doves from
pockets and performed a whole string of magical tricks, to the enthusiastic applause of the
audience. Back to MC and wee Ginger, who then introduced a singer, who with piano
accompaniment, gave a more-than-passable rendition of Mario Lanza classics, very much
appealing to the female contingent in the crowd.
MC and dummy took centre stage again, informing the audience of a thirty minute
intermission, reminding all not to forget to buy their raffle tickets for the Grand Draw, which
boasted a first prize of a giant food hamper. Wee Ginger had the job of describing the
hamper contents:
‘How’s about this?’ he cried. ‘A succulent joint of beef, a lovely fresh chicken, bacon,
sausages, black pudding and every fresh vegetable you can think of; all the lovely grub this
stingy old bugger never gives me,’ he wailed, gesticulating at the feigned look of resignation
on his partner’s face.
The MC then stuffed the dummy’s head under his jacket, winked, waved to the crowd
and walked off stage to laughter and applause.
I was in a state of bemused captivation. From that moment on I knew that I wanted to
be part of this thing called “entertainment”. But how? Yes, I was in the choir, and yes, I had
sung a solo in a cathedral. But what I had just witnessed was something else.
My reverie was interrupted by Dad who turned to me saying, ‘Just imagine the look on
your Mam’s face if we turned up with that hamper. I’m gonna have a go and get a shilling’s
worth of tickets.’
‘Steady on, Jack!’ said Wilkie. ‘It’s my round. You stay with the lad and I’ll get us
some tickets on the way back.’
Off he went, returning with three frothing pints, plus three strips of raffle tickets,
which he threw on the table saying to Dad, in his forever open and unassuming manner,
‘Fifty-fifty. If our number comes up, you have the beef and I’ll have the chicken.’
Wilkie was certainly a very generous man, and I was on my third pint of shandy.
The raffle draw then took place and sadly none of our tickets came up. Dad just said in
his usual philosophical way, ‘Never mind, Wilk, we can’t win ‘em all.’
Intermission over, MC and wee Ginger had the spotlight again, going through a
different but strangely similar routine to the first session, and exited the stage after
introducing a four-piece kilted band from Scotland. Lead by an accordionist, they played
long-established old favourites, to which the audience sang along with gusto and clapped
them all the way to their dressing room at the end of their performance.
Rheuben Turner, who was driving the coach home that night, suddenly appeared as if
from nowhere demanding to know what our intended time of departure was.
No one could answer before old Walter, who was several sheets to many winds, piped
up, ‘What’s the rush, Rheuben? Your lass got you on a promise tonight?’
Walter’s attempt of inebriated sarcasm had the desired effect, striking a chord with the
now red-faced Rheuben.
‘You’ve got until ten-thirty,’ said Rheuben. ‘Anyone not on the coach by then gets left
behind and that’s final.’
And so it was. At ten-thirty we left the Billingham club, thanking our hosts for a
wonderful evening and trudged out to board Rheuben’s coach. For everyone, but me
especially, it certainly had been a night to remember.
A SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS
The week after the bowls league final was to be my first at senior school, and from
what I had heard about the reputation of Sir William Worsley Secondary Modern, I was less
than enamoured with the prospect of going there.
I think all children are daunted by the move from junior on to secondary education –
like the first day ever at school; it’s another great leap into the unknown in a small person’s
life. However, the consolation in my case was that I was only going to be there for two
terms, as the construction of a brand new comprehensive school was nearing completion just
at the end of our road.
So it was back to Grangetown every weekday for me and I was to find that the bad
reputation the school carried had not been exaggerated. The headmaster of the time was
weak and consequently discipline was almost non-existent, which allowed the pupils, for the
most part, to do what they liked. The intake of children was sourced from two junior
schools: the Board school which was situated at the bottom of our old street and the
Alderman Jones at the other side of town. A rivalry had always existed between the two
schools, especially at soccer and the like, but as these two groups of junior pupils merged
into the first year at the William Worsley, such rivalries were not restricted to the sports
field. Because of poor leadership and management from the top, the rival factions did not
merge and integrate; instead the rougher elements from both sides formed gangs that
physically skirmished with each other on a daily basis. If the reason for any confrontation
was deemed important enough, then the gangs in other years would take their respective
sides and it was not uncommon to witness, or be involved in, sixty-a-side pitched battles of
some not-inconsiderable ferocity. I say “be involved in” because sometimes it was just
unavoidable not to be.
In one case after having only been at the school for about four weeks, I and another
boy who came from the Board school contingent, were to be the central reason for one of
these potential mass brawls. Each year had its own soccer team that would compete against
the other secondary schools within the district. The sports master would hold trials with all
the new first year intake of boys in order to pick a combined best eleven. My pal and I were
widely tipped to be automatic choices for our respective positions, but our counterparts from
the Alderman Jones element weren’t having any of it. The day before the trials two lads, who
were bigger than us and had reputations of being good fighters, cornered us in the school
yard at morning break. The message was simple – if we, as was likely, did get picked to play
for our school year and not them, then they were going to beat the living daylights out of us.
However this threat was overheard by several other people and as is the way with such things
news of the confrontation spread like wildfire around the playground. Within minutes the
school had divided into the customary two sides, with respective year gang leaders squaring
up to each other. The fourth year element decided that this issue could not be resolved then
and there, electing for an all-gang confrontation after school, with combatants to meet on
what was then known as St Matthew’s field.
After school the two sides massed on this holy field of battle, but the expected bloodbath was averted after a meeting was held between the third and fourth year gang leaders in
the centre circle of the football pitch. Although these rivals were permanently daggersdrawn, they had no compunction in joining forces to do battle if a rival school wanted
trouble, and at this centre-field council it was agreed, in respect of school pride, that each
year should field the best team possible against an outside enemy. Our two antagonists were
informed of the decision and told in no uncertain terms that if they wanted places in the
school team, then they would have to win them fair and square. This done, the two mobs
disbanded and I headed home across the fields, feeling no small measure of relief.
As an aside, one of our lieutenants that day, the third year gang leader, was a sullen,
broody kind of lad called Roysten Vasey, who will be better know to some readers as Roy
Chubby Brown the comedian. Roy seemed to come and go at school much as he pleased, and
I do believe the fewer appearances he made, the better the teachers preferred it! He definitely
had a dark side to his character, which I think can be seen in his brand of humour today.
Though I congratulate him on his success, back in those days I would never have considered
him to be a future star of stage and screen.
I did play soccer for the school’s first year eleven and I also kept my head down on the
academic front, but after two terms was delighted to be getting out of there and looking
forward to a new school with its own sports field, tennis courts and gymnasium.
The new school, Eston Grange, was an entirely different affair. Every pupil had to
wear a smart new uniform, with the headmaster and teachers sporting black gowns draped
over their everyday clothes. The headmaster, Mr Radford, set the tone from the start and,
although his intake came from several different schools in the area, he somehow managed to
unite all factions, breeding a sense of pride, honour and discipline. I do believe he had done
his homework well, making himself aware of the hotchpotch of unruly, if not unmanageable,
children he was about to take charge of. To this end, he persuaded the local education
authority to allow him to open the school without a fourth year, which I am sure formed the
cornerstone of his overall strategy when dealing with the disruptive elements he was sure to
inherit. For one thing, a smaller school at the outset would be a much more manageable
proposition; also not to have the influence on the other children of a potentially time-biding
fourth year, would free up a considerable amount of teaching and management time which
could then be devoted to moulding his vision. His plan worked; the gang culture longexperienced by other schools was nipped in the bud and, leading from the front, he drove
staff and pupils alike with a passion that was infectious.
All in all, my academic prowess, or should I say lack of it; painted a pretty grim
picture. Inside myself I didn’t feel at all stupid, it just seemed to look that way every time
exam results came around.
My one and only beacon of light with regard to those who had the unenviable task of
trying to educate the no hopers amongst us, came in the form of one Mr Roberts.
Eddie Roberts, a giant of a man, in more ways than one, from the Welsh island of
Anglesey. In the main he taught geography but willingly deputised in other subjects when
staff numbers were down.
Now, in those then secondary modern classes of forty pupils plus, geography featured
way down the pecking order as a lesson of interest for the majority of oiks such as I, and I
can clearly remember thinking on attending his first lesson ‘here comes another hour of
boredom to sit through’. I knew that places like Hungary and Brazil had great football teams
but I hadn’t a clue where they were, why should I, to me Brazil was a place that grew nuts
we only ever saw once a year in our Christmas stockings; and Hungary had a genius of an
inside forward called Puskás, what else was there to know?
However, my pre-forecast hour of boredom was quickly dispelled by this most
engaging of giants.
Eddie didn’t just teach you, he somehow, with a concoction of personal magnetism
and enthusiasm, managed to convey both the aesthetic and exotic relating to many faraway
places. Captivating as a word would be but a poor description of the man’s natural ability to
engage. To this day, I am still able to rattle off most of the station names dotted along The
Trans-Siberian Railway; not that anyone is greatly interested in such remote backwaters as
Omsk, Minsk or Novosibirsk, but by god, he had me hooked.
When I look back on it now, I can fully appreciate his simple but extremely effective
approach. People in those times including friends and family, would often, after discussing
my litany of limitations with regard to academia; say things like ‘ah, but he’s got a good
football brain’.
Although Eddie Roberts was very supportive and most encouraging when it came to
my prowess on the soccer front; he didn’t see things the same of the aforementioned others.
As far as he was concerned, from A stream to D stream, we all had good brains and he
saw it as his life’s work to turn the key in that multitude of small minds, and get us to use
them; which he did with his natural born talent of a gifted communicator; to whit; he made
things interesting.
An amazing teacher and one of life’s all round good guys.
My observations on the style of this man are obviously made with hindsight – like
most children I rarely gave a second thought as to how important my own future was to be in
the custody of a good shepherd.
An example of how unaware the average child can be regarding a good teacher really
knowing his charges, is one of the few memorable moments of my undistinguished school
career. By the time I entered the fourth year at Eston Grange I had attained the academic
status of an also-ran, plodding along with little purpose, somewhere mid-division in the ‘B’
stream. Obviously to the teaching staff, who would have been fully aware of the “Pop Burton
report” giving yours truly reprieve from the backward school, this ‘B’ stream achievement
could have been considered a comparative success story. I, of course, was oblivious to their
assessments and quite frankly couldn’t have cared a jot unless the remarks related to the
school soccer team of which I was captain. At that time, football occupied a major chunk of
my waking life, as I had also become automatic choice for the district schools’ team, whose
monthly games were always played in a proper stadium in front of a decent crowd. It is one
such game that serves to illustrate just how little a school boy appreciates the close attention
paid to him by a dedicated teaching staff.
On this particular day, we were matched against a combined school side from the East
Durham County District and it was apparent from the kick-off that we had by far the superior
fire-power. As all sportsmen and women will testify, there are certain special days in one’s
career when the gods smile and you just can’t put a foot wrong. I had one of those days.
Everything fell for me that day and I repeatedly tore apart the opposition’s admittedlyinadequate defence, laying on eight goals for my team mates and scoring a ninth myself for
no reply.
As we left the field, a stranger in a smart suit and trilby hat asked my name; which I
supplied without thinking anything more. That night at home we were all sitting around the
new television – Dad in his chair reading the broad sheet edition of the Evening Gazette
sports’ pages.
I can’t remember what was on the TV at the time, but as Dad turned one of his pages
he gave out a, ‘Well I’ll be blowed! Come and read this, pet.’
He beckoned to Mam. This was normal procedure in our house at the time, with Mam
taking over if anything had to be read aloud, as Dad was still having difficulty pronouncing
certain words, as well as struggling with punctuation. Mam read the article; a whole quarter
page had been devoted to the schoolboy match report and the name “Hare” featured in every
column. The editorial forecast a great future for me in the professional game, suggesting that
Middlesbrough should snap me up before some other team did. Mam and Dad were over the
moon with pride, whilst I was ecstatic and couldn’t wait to get out of the house and show the
paper to my mates.
The following Monday morning in assembly, after prayers and the obligatory hymn,
Mr Radford read out the usual notices and concluded by saying, ‘Now pay attention
everyone, I have a piece of excellent news to report.’
Everyone, including the assembly daydreamers like me, was awakened from their
reveries by his enthusiastic tone.
‘This news is particularly good as it concerns a boy who came to this school with what
can only be described as “a bad reputation”.’
I, not for a moment thinking I could fit this “bad reputation” description, looked
around to see if I could detect a flicker of recognition on a face of any of the known,
tolerated n’er do wells .
‘As most of you are no doubt aware, our district schools’ soccer team entertained East
Durham Boys at the South Bank Football Ground on Saturday.’
I was immediately thrown into a red-faced state of stupefaction; it had to be me, he
couldn’t be speaking about anyone else, I was the only pupil from our school who played for
the district. Bad reputation? What did he mean?
Mr Radford continued, ‘Not only did Eston boys come away with a convincing ninenil victory - but as extensively reported in the Evening Gazette, it was an almost one man
demolition display and I quote, “by inside-forward John Hare of Eston Grange School”.’
As all eyes turned in my direction, I didn’t know where to put myself so I just bowed
my head and stared at the floor with feelings ranging between pride and embarrassment.
‘Head up, Hare!’ barked the headmaster. ‘You’ve done yourself and the whole school
proud. Well done, lad! School, I think a round of applause is in order.’
With applause ringing in my ears, I was experiencing a whole gamut of different
emotions – was I really being portrayed as the bad boy turned good? In truth I was confused.
The rest of my school days passed off without major incident, and as I was to be
fifteen in the November of that year, I would be allowed to leave when we broke up for the
Christmas holidays – great, I couldn’t wait!
Of course, as my time at school was coming to an end, I had to think about what I
would do for employment and to this end Mam organised appointments for her and me to
meet with the Schools’ Careers Officer - a newly-created post in those days. The meetings,
for there were twenty or so leavers that Christmas, were scheduled to take place the week
after we received our final school reports. On the appointed days, an empty classroom was
allotted to the Careers Officer and respective meetings would take place approximately every
half hour. Mam came to the school and when our turn came around we entered the classroom
and sat down. We passed over my final report to the Careers Officer who took about ten
minutes to examine its contents. My report, I have to admit, did not make encouraging
reading with regard to prospective employers, and in some important areas it was more akin
to an indictment. For instance, the summing up of Mr Davidson the maths teacher described
my endeavours like this:
“The only mathematics John understands are those relating to the football field.”
That was it.
And although the Careers Officer was both conciliatory and sympathetic in her
deliberations with Mam, she ended by saying, ‘Well, I am sorry, Mrs Hare, but on the
evidence of this report I’m afraid that the best you can hope for your John is a job in the
mill.’
‘What about an apprenticeship?’ countered Mam, hopefully. ‘He’s got an uncle who’s
a carpenter.’
‘As you are probably aware, Mrs Hare,’ said the Careers Officer, ‘John’s not eligible
to take a trade test until he’s coming up sixteen, but he’ll be up against better commendations
than this report - not to mention the grammar school contingent with their GCEs. I really
wouldn’t build your hopes up on that score if I were you.’
Poor Mam!
On the way home she said, ‘I don’t know, our John. What are we going to do with
you?’
‘Don’t worry, Mam -’ I replied in my usual cheery way, ‘- this time next year I might
be playing for Middlesbrough’
‘Aye,’ said Mam, ‘you might not be either, and besides football’s not a job for life.
What you need is something steady like a trade.’
‘Oh, Mam, don’t go on! Everything’ll turn out right,’ I replied.
Mam just said, ‘I hope so, son. I hope so.’
My last day at school was the best, or so I considered in my worldly wisdom at that
time. There were to be no lessons that day and, with the school festooned in pupil-made
decorations, a party atmosphere prevailed. The day started with a carol service and although
by then I had given up the choir and church-going, I enjoyed, as I still do, the massed singing
of Christmas carols. After the service, pupils were allowed to roam around the school
exchanging cards with friends and teachers, stopping off in various classrooms to chat, play
board games, or in the case of the studious element, read a book of their choice. I and some
of the older “Likely Lads” took advantage of the holiday atmosphere and much-relaxed
demeanour of the teachers, by skiving round the back of the school to share a cigarette. A
few of my mates, whose birthdays fell the other side of Christmas, still had six months’
schooling to do and were understandably apprehensive about getting caught having a sly
puff. I, on the other hand, was wallowing in the role of nonchalant super-cool, safe in the
knowledge that if the whole school staff to a man came round the corner, it wouldn’t make
the slightest bit of difference to me. What could they do? They couldn’t give me a worse
report than I already had; lines or a detention were out of the question; I’d just refuse and leg
it out of the place. No, as far as I was concerned I was now well and truly beyond the
authoritative arm of the educational system.
One by one, the lads who still had time to do sneaked back into school leaving myself
and a pal called Sam Shingler.
He was just offering me his freshly lit cigarette when a voice boomed out, ‘Hare!
Shingler! Put that out and get inside!’
The voice was that of Mr Davidson, who before I could think of any wise-crack reply
continued with, ‘And I don’t want any backchat. You may be leaving this place today, but it
won’t stop me calling round to see your parents tonight. Come on inside at once!’
Shit! An angle I hadn’t considered; I couldn’t afford for that to happen. I’d been a
regular part-time smoker for some three years and up to that time had managed to keep it a
secret from Mam and Dad, especially Dad, as he was always going on about ruining one’s
professional football chances if taking up with the nicotine. We obeyed Mr Davidson’s
command meekly, with heads bowed and, although he was never one of my favourite
teachers, I have to credit him with allowing the matter to rest there.
School Christmas lunch was a grand affair, followed by prize giving and a short
concert by the school band. Needless to say I didn’t make the journey home clutching
armfuls of books, silver cups or diplomas. Still who cared? Not I. Once outside the school
gates I loosened off my tie and, openly for the first time, lit up a cigarette and strode out for
home. That was it. No more school, a man at last, or so I naïvely thought.
Christmas came and went, along with any money I had saved, used for the purpose of
buying family presents, cigarettes and booze, which was purchased from the local off-licence
by older mates on my behalf; mates who appeared to be a lot more matey now I was no
longer stigmatised with the categorisation of “school kid”.
TO BE A WORKING MAN
After the holidays, it felt quite strange to be indoors watching other kids going off to
school every morning and myself not having a structured day to contend with. At first it was
great being a free agent; laying in bed till all hours; riding my bike all over the place;
meeting up with pals who were not working that day or others who were nicking off school;
this was the life! However, the perceived good times can’t go on forever and as pals who had
left school at the same time as me one-by-one found employment, my days gradually became
more empty and for the first time I felt the onset of frustration and boredom. I had to get a
job, not just because I was bored with my lot; other factors were coming into play. I was
starting to feel left out. or was it behind? My mates all had interesting work stories to tell;
they had money for clothes, trips to the cinema and what seemed to be a never-ending supply
of cigarettes. Something had to be done and done quickly. I kept pushing back thoughts of
that bloody awful school report and why I hadn’t tried harder.
Sister Carolyn, now aged eighteen, who had passed her Pitman secretarial courses with
flying colours, and landed herself a plum job as a PA to one of the chief engineers in the
steelworks, came once again to the rescue. She had heard on the grapevine that there was a
vacancy going in the works’ post room for an office boy, and using her position of not
inconsiderable authority, managed to get me the start. Big celebrations in the Hare household
that night, with Mam and Dad and me all ecstatic at the prospect, each taking turn to heap
high praise on the head of good old Carolyn, who in Mam’s eyes had achieved the nighimpossible.
‘And,’ stated Carolyn importantly, ‘it pays three pound seventeen shillings and
sixpence a week.’
‘Phew!’ whistled Dad. ‘Not bad for a first job, blimey, that’s more than I was picking
up only five or six years’ ago.’
I think this last remark was said more to attach importance to my new found status, but
I didn’t care now that I could truly be “one of the boys”, standing as I imagined shoulder-toshoulder with the best of them, a few shillings jingling in my pocket. We then sat around as a
family and it was decided that I would pay Mam two pounds a week for board and lodgings,
leaving me with what I considered to be the princely sum of one pound seventeen and six.
‘Mind you,’ said Dad, ‘if you don’t use your bike to get there in the winter, then
you’ve got bus fares to come out of that.’
‘OK, Dad,’ I replied, ‘that sounds fair.’
‘There’s another thing to consider.’ It was Carolyn again obviously, and deservedly,
enjoying the warm glow of the feeling you get when able to come to the aid of a close friend
or family member. ‘You’ll have to work a week in hand the same as everyone else in the
works. So that’ll mean you won’t see a penny for two weeks.’
This wasn’t such good news, but Mam made light of this by saying, ‘Well, Jack, we’ve
kept him for this long, I’m sure another week won’t break the bank?’
Dad replied in his own inimitable way, ‘Aye, I reckon you’re right there, lass.’
This little family conference was taking place on a dark winter’s evening in February.
Conditions outside, although not uncommon for that time of year, were atrocious with galeforce winds rattling the window panes and driving in a snow storm from the great North Sea.
‘Looks like this is set in for the night,’ said Mam to no one in particular.
This immediately prompted a discussion between herself and Carolyn concerning what
kind of work was involved in this new job of mine and what would be needed in the way of
clothing and footwear. Thank God for the practical mentality of the women of those times. I
would never have given such matters of detail a second thought.
‘You don’t have to worry about shoes, Mam;’ said Carolyn with authority, ‘he’ll be
given a chitty on day one and sent to the stores to choose a brand new pair of tough boots
with steel toe caps.’
‘By, God’s good!’ said Mam.
‘Things have changed since I was down there,’ said Dad. ‘They wouldn’t have given
you an Elastoplast if you had been bleeding to death in my day.’
‘It’s all changed now, Dad,’ said Carolyn. ‘You should hear the rows that go on
between the engineers and the union shop stewards - they’ll come to blows one day, mark my
words!’
Anyway, it was decided that I would need a woolly hat to pull down over the ears and
warm gloves, both of which Mam would knit or make from her bag of fabric remnants – little
or nothing was thrown away in those days.
‘He’ll need to wear a vest, a shirt and pullover underneath his jerkin all winter;’ said
Carolyn, ‘the wind off that river will cut you in two at this time of year.’
Dad said to Mam, ‘Get a pair of my old waterproof leggings and cut them down for
him, they’ll come in handy for riding his bike in weather like this.’
‘Good idea, Jack,’ said Mam with that lovely fondness they shared with each other.
So there we all were; a family who had little in the way of material things, all pulling
together to help one of their own make his start out in the big wide world.
Under Carolyn’s instructions, I arrived the following Monday morning outside the
works’ gates and reported to the security office to gain directions to the post room. The
office was occupied by four burly men, all clad in dark blue uniforms with the word
“security” indelibly printed on the shoulder seam of each sleeve.
‘Hello, son,’ said one in a friendly, but patronising, adult-to-child voice. ‘Come with a
message for your Dad have you?’
‘No, sir,’ I replied, ‘I’ve come to work.’
This was greeted with smiles and roars of good-humoured laughter.
I felt myself going red and getting angry, but before I could state my case another one
spoke, ‘You can’t come to work in this place,’ he said, jerking his thumb over his right
shoulder, ‘until you’re at least fifteen and have left school. Now off you go, run along,
there’s a good lad.’
At that stage in my young life I was a fifty-fifty made up mixture of my parents’ traits
and ideologies. Mam instilled humility of the “respect your elders and betters” mentality,
intermingled with love and a caring concern for all creatures great and small - at this point I
surmised that this must also include security men. Dad’s advice on life was “keep a civil
tongue in your head, but never kowtow to anyone and always stand your ground”. Civil
tongue and ground-standing came to the fore.
‘I am fifteen, I have left school, my name is John Hare and I’ve come here to start
work in the post room,’ I said in a voice containing as much defiance as I could muster.
They all gaped down at me with mouths wide open, then simultaneously burst again
into roars of side-splitting laughter. Looking back on it now I can see the funny side of this
tableau. There I was, a five foot, seven-stone pixie wearing a woolly hat giving off in my
best indignant tone to four well-seasoned men of the working community. No wonder they
laughed. However my stand-up-for-myself pose amid the enduring laughter had gained me a
modicum of respect, for one of them had reached for a clip board and was flicking over the
pages. He stopped abruptly, narrowing his eyes as he scrutinised the sheet.
‘He’s only bloody right! Look, it’s all down here on the start sheet: J Hare. The post
room. Eight-thirty.’
A sudden wave of relief swept over my, by now tense, little frame and any thoughts
I’d had seconds ago of legging it back to the safety of Mam and Dad were banished and
gone.
‘Come on, son,’ said the first speaker, ‘I’ll show you the way. It’s nearly eight twentyfive. Don’t want to be late for work on our first day, do we?’
He directed me to a large grey shed which was full of clocks and, on finding one with
a large letter “H” above it, I looked down the racks on the side and sure enough there was an
oblong card with my name printed on the top of it. I took the card from the rack, inserted it
into the slot at the centre of the clock and pulled down hard on a lever at the side. A bell rang
out and the card popped up again showing the correct time printed against the day’s date –
just like the security man had said it would. The time read eight twenty-eight, so I ran fullpelt out of the other side of the shed, down an asphalt road criss-crossed with railway lines
and up to a large grey Victorian stone building. On one side of what I presumed to be the
main entrance, stood a door on which someone had stencilled “Post Room” two-thirds of the
way up. I knocked, turned the handle and walked in just as a clock on the wall clicked onto
eight-thirty.
Four lads, who I estimated to be around my age or slightly older, were sitting at a table
that fitted neatly on one side into a floor-to-ceiling wall of wooden pigeon holes. One of the
group stood up and looked like he was about to speak, but was cut short by the entrance into
the room of a grey-haired, short, plump woman from an adjoining office.
‘Bobby! Joe! Alan!’ she commanded. ‘There’s nothing more for this morning’s rounds
- so empty your boxes and I’ll see you back here by lunch time. Davey, you hang on a mo’
and you, young man, follow me.’
As the boys leapt into action, pulling mail from the boxes and stuffing it into satchels,
I followed her into an office where she walked around a large desk and almost slumped into
a high-back red leather chair. She picked up a packet of cigarettes from the desk, lit one,
exhaled and looked me up and down.
‘So you must be Carolyn’s younger brother.’
‘Yes, Miss,’ I replied meekly.
She laughed. ‘Thank you for the “Miss” but it’s Mrs I’m afraid - Mrs Brown to be
precise. Not that it matters, you can call me “Wendy”, every other bugger round here does.’
I mumbled an, ‘OK’, thinking to myself that I hadn’t heard another woman swear
since that night long ago, when Edith had dragged Alan Hall into their house by his neck tie.
‘Now then,’ said Wendy, ‘you probably won’t be around here for too long. No one
ever is; within six months you will be off to a trade if you are lucky or the mills if you are
not.’
She hardly paused for breath and continued, ‘However, this will be one of the most
important jobs you will ever do – the whole of the works depend on this department. Without
us they don’t function. Understand?’
I didn’t but nodded anyway.
‘When you’re on a round always check that the letter or parcels you deliver are for the
department you’re delivering to then double-check to make sure, otherwise I get it in the
neck. Davey out there is leaving for the mill next week, so you’ll be with him for the next
five days learning the round and getting familiar with the place. Any questions?’
I couldn’t think of anything meaningful to say, so I offered up, ‘Where do I get my
boots please?’
She didn’t reply at first, but picked up a pad, scribbled something on it, tore off a leaf
and, handing it to me, said, ‘Take this to Central Stores, it’s on your round. Davey’ll show
you where.’
I took the slip of paper thanking her and then dutifully followed her back out to the
other office. Davey was sitting on the corner of the table, clutching a large hessian satchel –
the kind you see paper boys delivering with.
Wendy was speaking to him before I’d got through the door, ‘Right, Davey, this is
John who’ll be taking over from you when you go down the mill next week. God knows why
your mother doesn’t make you sit a trade test.’
‘Simple, Wend,’ said Davey with a familiar air of confidence, which I couldn’t help
admiring, ‘I can pick up twelve quid a week with overtime in the mill and Mam’s got five
little uns at home to feed with no breadwinner since Dad died.’
‘Yeah, I know, lad,’ sympathised Wendy. ‘It just seems a bloody shame that’s all.
Anyway take young John here out with you and show him the ropes, and properly mind. The
way you do it – oh, and by the way, get him down the stores for a pair of boots. He’s got the
chitty.’
‘OK, Wend,’ said Davey and with that we were out of the door, Davey saying to me as
it shut behind us, ‘Come on, mate. Let’s grab a quick cuppa down the canteen before we
start.’
‘OK, Davey,’ I said respectfully.
The steelworks, like most large manufacturing concerns, was a twenty-four hour
operation with sections such as blast furnaces and steel mills working around the clock in a
three shift system. Support functions like clerical, carpentry, paint and engineering shops in fact any section classed as maintenance to the core business of making steel - worked a
normal eight hour day.
As we entered the packed canteen, I was reminded by the wonderful smells of fried
bacon and freshly baked bread, that in my early morning excitement I had completely
forgotten to have breakfast.
Good old Mam hadn’t missed the oversight and although she had prepared a lunch box
of sandwiches with a slab of cake for afters, she still slipped a two shilling coin in my hand
at our gate saying, ‘Just in case you get caught short, pet.’
Thruppence for a steaming mug of tea with a further nine being the cost of a hot bacon
bap, the size of a side plate, made me reflect on the fact of just how wonderful and allknowing most Mams were.
We squeezed on the end of one of the tables and through a mouthful of bap, I asked
Davey, ‘Is it always crowded?’
‘Nah,’ he replied, sipping from his mug of tea. ‘Within the next couple of minutes, all
these bachelors and widowers will be gone.’
This strange answer puzzled me, but before I could seek an explanation the men at our,
and just about every other, table started to get up and leave, just as Davey had said. A mass
exodus.
‘How did you know that was going to happen?’ I asked, ‘and what’s it all got to do
with bachelors and widowers?’
‘OK,’ laughed Davey, ‘this is how it works; all the blokes in here when we came in are
on the six-till-two shift and half eight is their morning snack time, see? As for the bachelors
and widowers, that’s what most of them are - don’t have a woman to look after them, see?
There’s nobody to pack a lunch box and make a flask of tea.’
We left the canteen, and from my point of view embarked on the most frightening
journey of my young life to date. Davey’s post round took us through blast furnaces, where
white-hot molten metal spewed from the mechanical beast’s innards into huge rail-mounted
cauldrons called ladles; into steel mills where red-hot steel sections sped on a rolling system
across the factory floor, until hitting a buffer with an ear-splitting clang. A mechanical saw
slid along the buffer, slicing through the hot metal creating a storm of sparks which
momentarily lit up the gloom. To my horror I saw a young man standing in the middle of this
red-hot hail shower, who with the dexterity of a practised juggler, swung a long-handled pair
of tongs, catching up the bar’s severed end, flicking it as he did so over his right shoulder
into a large metal bunker.
At the sight of this apparent lunacy I was awestruck – rooted to the spot and
completely gob-smacked when Davey remarked with an air of nonchalance, ‘That’s what I’ll
be doing next week.’
‘You what?’ I exclaimed with genuine incredulity.
‘Yeah,” said Davey matter-of-factly. ‘Billy over there’s moving onto the rolling gear
and I’m taking over as cropper – everyone who starts in the mill goes cropping first.’
The words of the Career’s Officer to Mam, concerning my apparent destiny for the
mill, hit me like a sobering ton of bricks and I felt genuinely afraid. At that moment I
resolved to take whatever steps necessary to ensure that I would not end up holding the
cropper’s tongs in this dark satanic place.
Just then, Billy the Insane spotted us and waved for Davey to join him and I was more
than a little relieved to hear him say, ‘Wait there a minute.’
Another red-hot fifty-foot steel projectile hurtled by and I looked on in astonishment
as Davey calmly stepped over it in full flight, joining Billy on the cropper’s platform. There
was another deafening “clang” as steel hit buffers, followed by the scream of the saw,
producing a further storm of red-hot particles which engulfed the two lads. Billy handed the
tongs to Davey who struggled to get a grip on the crop end, somehow finally managing to lift
and throw it into the bunker.
Billy laughed and clapped Davey on the back as if to say ‘Don’t worry mate, you’ll
soon get the hang of it’.
I could only surmise as to the content of their shouted conversation as the combined
roar of the rolling stock and overhead cranes blotted out all form of human sound – this was
truly a God-awful place. Davey skipped back over the next hot bar and signalled for me to
follow him down a checker-plated gantry, through a series of doors and back out into the
open air.
‘That’s Number 8 Mill,’ said Davey. ‘Next stop is the Stores for your new boots. Then
we’ve got the Weighbridge, Paint Shop, 6 Mill, Coke Ovens, the Garage, Boiler Yard and 9
Mill.’
He went on to tell me there were many other ports of call on the round that he would
point out which did not have any mail that day. I was having a private worry as to how I was
ever going to learn the whole round in just five days and Davey must have picked up on this
as he gave a little chuckle and said, ‘Don’t worry. You’ll have it off-pat in no time.’
The company stores functioned from a large, grey, five- storey building, and on
entering Davey took the chit from me and addressed one of the six men serving behind a long
counter.
‘Morning, George. Can we have a pair of size six steel toe caps for my mate here?’ he
said, as he handed over the piece of paper.
George picked up the chit and disappeared through a door, returning only moments
later carrying a large shoe box which he handed to Davey.
As we left, Davey passed the box to me saying, ‘Remember to wear two pairs of socks
tomorrow, they’ll stop you getting blisters on your heels.’
The round continued through a labyrinth of paths and alleyways, most of which were
engulfed in a tangle of hissing steam pipes, with old or damaged ones spewing out horizontal
jets of scalding mist.
Davey explained the dangers involved; ‘This stuff’s boiling hot, so never attempt to
walk through it. If the pipes are below waist height, jump over them – see?’
And he demonstrated by leaping over a steam jet some twenty inches off the ground.
‘Anything you can’t jump over, get down on your knees and crawl underneath, got it?’
‘Got it,’ I replied, thinking to myself that this whole dark, dirty, hot and dangerous
place was reminiscent of my childhood imaginings of what it must be like if you missed out
on heaven and were cast down into hell.
More stops to mills, offices and workshops followed and suddenly on rounding a
corner we were back where we started with Davey saying, ‘That’s it mate, time for dinner.
We’ll do it again this afternoon.’
That evening I regaled Mam and Dad and Carolyn with the day’s events, Mam
interjecting with, ‘Gawd love us’ or ‘God bless us’, whenever I elaborated on the dangers
encountered.
I ended my tale by saying, ‘I know one thing; I am not going down that mill to work, it
wouldn’t surprise me if somebody didn’t get blinded doing that bloody cropping.’
‘Somebody already has,’ said Dad quietly.
His confirmation of my fears was enough and I turned to Carolyn in serious earnest
saying, ‘Carolyn, how do I get to sit a trade test?’
‘Well,’ said Carolyn with an air of unsure caution, ‘the forms were all sent out weeks
ago, in fact the first completed ones started coming in today and that’s it really until next
year.’
I greeted this news with a despondent, ‘Oh shit!’
‘Mind your language!’ said Dad.
Mam who had been sitting thoughtfully throughout these latter exchanges, looked up
and enquired of Carolyn, ‘Isn’t there anything you can do, pet? I don’t want our John going
down the mill.’
‘I don’t know, Mam,’ Carolyn replied carefully. Then as an afterthought she said, ‘I
know what I’ll do.’
The ensuing pause from my point of view was unbearable and I exploded, ‘What?
What Carolyn? What will you do?’
Carolyn did not respond to my excitable outburst, but continued in the calm sort of
voice of one who, because of necessity, was reluctantly about to commit a crime, ‘I’ll bring
an application form home tomorrow night, we must fill it in immediately and you, our John,
will have to sign it. Then, if I take it back the following morning and wait for the right
moment, I can ask Mr Morgan if he will allow it to be included with the rest.’
‘Brilliant!’ I shouted jubilantly.
Mam, who could obviously tell from Carolyn’s tone that by taking such action she
may be over-stepping the mark, said, ‘You won't get yourself into any trouble will you, pet?
It's not worth risking your job just for an application form, especially considering our John's
track record with exams.’
‘Aw, Mam,’ said I.
‘Never mind “Aw, Mam”,’ said Mam. ‘Listen, son; I don't want you spending the rest
of your working life in that dirty mill, but I also don't want our Carolyn getting into trouble or worse - on the off-chance of you passing a trade test - it just wouldn't be fair.’
Any thought of further protestations on my part were nipped in the bud by Carolyn,
‘I'm sure it'll be alright, Mam. I know Mr Morgan likes me; only the other day he told me
how pleased he was with my work, and besides, trying to get your brother a decent job
doesn't exactly constitute committing a crime now does it?’
Put like that, it made Mam smile proudly at her daughter saying, ‘OK, pet, if you think
so.’ Then turning to me, ‘Now listen, our John, if Carolyn pulls this off I want you to
promise us all here and now that you'll really make an effort to pass this blessed test.’
‘Yippee!’ I shouted, dancing round the table and plonking a kiss on my big sister's
head. ‘I promise, I promise!’
The following evening I was late home owing to a flat tyre on the bike, but my spirits
were lifted when I walked in to see Mam and Carolyn sitting at the table; the latter holding
up a large brown envelope whilst giving me a conspiratorial wink.
‘Is that it?’ I cried.
‘Yes it is, son,’ said Mam, ‘and our Carolyn's got some more good news, come and sit
down and she'll tell you all.’
I took my place at the table and that's literally what it was - my place. We had a square
table, just big enough to seat four adults, and although the chairs were identical, we each
knew our own; their position at meal times never varying. This territorial occupation was
common amongst families in those days - an unspoken custom handed down through
generations, which probably went as far back as the Goldilocks and the Three Bears story nobody apart from me ever sat in my chair.
However, Carolyn placed the envelope on the table and said teasingly, ‘The good news
is twofold.’
‘What? What? Go on tell me! What is it? What is it?’ cried impatient youth.
‘Well,’ said Carolyn, ‘by the time I got to work this morning, I was in a right
quandary. The more I thought about last night's plan, the more I started to worry that if I
carried it out the way I said then Mr Morgan might think I had acted in an underhanded, if
not disloyal, way. I was just considering what to do for the best when he came walking
through reception and said, “Carolyn, can I see you in my office for a moment?” Not
knowing what to expect, I went in, pad and pen in hand, closing the door behind me.’
By now Carolyn's delivery had slowed to the dramatic and I was beside myself in a
state of fidgety agitation.
‘Go on, go on!’ I implored.
Carolyn slapped the envelope down onto the table, obviously irked and railed, ‘Do you
want to hear this story or not?’
‘Yes, yes!’ I cried.
‘Then be quiet and sit still!’
‘OK, OK.’ I replied, subduing the urge to say something like, 'Will you ever get on
with it?'
Carolyn composed herself and continued, ‘Anyway, you could have knocked me down
with a feather at what happened next.’
I bit my lip to curb another impatient outburst.
‘Mr Morgan asked me to sit down, then told me he was impressed with the report I had
done on the recent breakdown in Number 6 Mill and, as of now, he would like me to attend
all site meetings with him using my shorthand to keep an accurate record of proceedings.
Then he said, “This may involve you in sometimes staying on after five o'clock and
accordingly, if you are prepared to accept this, then as of today I will authorise a ten shillings
a week pay rise”.’
‘What did you say? What did you say?’ I blurted.
‘What do you think I said, you berk?’ continued Carolyn sarcastically. ‘A full ten
shillings extra a week! Of course I said yes, sir, and thank you, sir. I'll be able to give Mam
an extra half crown a week and have enough left to buy a new outfit every month; but Mr
Morgan hadn't finished. He asked me if I had everything that I needed in the outer office and
was there anything that I wanted. I was about to say no, when it occurred to me that I would
never have a better opportunity to ask for a favour so I said, “Well there is one thing, sir, and
I hope you won't think me impertinent for asking”.’
“What is it?” he said. I hesitated. “Come on, lass, out with it, I can only say no.”
‘So I told him about you and how you had recently started in the post room and that
you wanted to get a trade and not end up working in the mill.’
“Admirable,” said Mr Morgan. “We've got too many young men throwing their
prospects away for a short term few pounds. But why are you telling me this?”
‘I took a deep breath and asked if it would be possible for me to take a trade test
application form home with me for you to fill in, adding that I could have it back completed
first thing in the morning.’
“I can't see why not,” pondered Mr Morgan. “The tests don't take place for another
four weeks. Have it back here in the morning, mind.”
I was up from the table, flinging my arms around my amazing sister, she had worked a
miracle by engineering an opportunity for me to avoid a working life in Satan's waiting
room.
That night, after Dad came home from work, the story was retold as he ate his evening
meal in silence.
Finally, putting his knife and fork down, pushing his plate away as was customary, he
said, ‘Well done, lass, I think this calls for a little celebration.’
‘What, Dad? What, Dad?’ I piped in with my usual over-exuberance.
‘Nothing fancy now,’ said Dad. ‘I'll just nip round the off-licence and get a few bottles
of stout. You’d better get that application form filled out, son.’
‘Right away, Dad,’ I replied.
Carolyn, with her practised organisational aplomb guided me through the form-filling
and by the time Dad returned clutching a large brown carrier bag of stout, lemonade and
crisps, there was only one section that remained blank.
‘Well done, son,’ said Dad as he placed the carrier bag on the table.
‘Nearly finished, Dad. But I just don't know what trade to go for.’
‘What's on offer?’ he asked.
Carolyn read out the list giving her own running commentary as she did so.
‘One - painter.’
Mam said, ‘He'll either die of fumes or get pneumonia painting the transporter bridge
year-in-year-out.’
‘Two - electrician. He's scared stiff of electricity. Three - carpenter. I don’t think so, it
took him three years at woodwork in school to make a coffee table and the moment Mam put
a plant on it, the legs collapsed. Four - draughtsman. Let's face it; we all know our John can't
draw to save his life - that's a total non-starter. Five - fitter and turner, he doesn't want to
spend the rest of his life standing at a lathe.’
‘What's left?’ asked Dad.
‘Not a lot,’ Carolyn replied. ‘A choice of two in fact: six is an instrument artificer and
seven is a boiler-maker stroke welder.’
Having just listened to how hopeless I was at everything in life, and with my
confidence well and truly shattered, my lips as if by magic opened and I pronounced that I
would sit the trade test to become a boiler-maker.
‘It can't be that difficult,’ I continued. ‘I went through the boiler yard on the round
today and all they seem to do is stand around and hit lumps of metal with a big hammer. I'm
sure I could learn to do that.’
So that was that. “Boiler-maker” was entered into the vacant space on the application
form and as Dad poured out the stout shandies, Carolyn took centre-stage again.
‘Now listen, our John; the trade test won't be like a school exam. There will be a small
section on maths and English, but the bulk of it will be general knowledge, current affairs
and of course the most important question of all - why do you want to be a boiler-maker?
The test papers will be marked by the instructors over at the Apprentice Training School and
by all accounts they'll forgive mistakes or lack of knowledge in the other sections, if they
believe you've taken the time and the trouble to learn about your intended trade.’
‘What should he do, pet?’ Dad asked of Carolyn.
‘Firstly, you need to find out exactly what a boiler-maker does,’ said Carolyn. ‘You've
got four weeks to learn why the boiler-making function is necessary to the ongoing
production of steel. Find out what kind of jobs they are doing and why they are important.
You pop into the boiler yard when you're on your post round and see what you can find out;
I'll go through the reference books in the office and between us we should be able to cobble
together a synopsis that'll impress whoever is marking the paper.’
‘OK, sis,’ I said with enthusiasm, thinking better of the impulse to ask what a
“synopsis” meant.
‘Oh, and by the way, start watching what you call “the boring old news” on television
and learn about what's going on in the world - that's current affairs before you ask why!’
As usual, Carolyn was right, but to my surprise once I started watching it, the “boring
old news” wasn't boring at all - in fact within a couple of weeks I became an avid student of
political and world affairs. I made daily visits to the boiler yard, which resembled a rundown aircraft hangar, engaging whoever would give me the time to glean bits of information
as to how this department contributed to the making of steel. In general its primary function
was one of maintenance, making and replacing worn out pipes and steel structures of various
shapes and sizes.
Every evening Carolyn and I swapped notes and information until we had enough for
her to type a full sheet of foolscap, which I set about memorising for the forthcoming test.
The only other memorable event that occurred around that time was the taking home
of my first ever wage packet which contained a princely three pounds, seventeen shillings
and sixpence.
For that element of the work force who were on the day-shift, Friday was a three
o'clock early finish and on the sounding of the works' hooter, I, along with hundreds of
others, headed for the clocking office and home. Home, however, was not to be - least not
straight away, for on exiting the works' gates I encountered my erstwhile mentor Davey.
‘Hiya, young 'un. You off home?’ he asked good-naturedly.
‘Yeah,’ I replied. Then almost as an afterthought said, ‘Why, where are you off to?’
‘I'm off down Mucky Pots for a couple of pints and a game of cards with the lads.
Wanna come?’
Never having been one to miss out on a distraction, I let out with an enthusiastic,
‘Yeah.’ Then checking my obvious interest in such a jaunt countered with, ‘But they won't
be open, it's gone three o'clock.’
‘No problem, mate,’ said Davey. ‘That old Alfie's got his head screwed on - at three
o'clock on pay days he locks the front doors, draws the curtains, then opens the back door
and Bob's your uncle! I'll bet he takes more money in the next couple of hours than he will
over the rest of the weekend.’
I fell into step with Davey; being led astray can sometimes be such a splendid
diversion. As we turned into the alleyway which led up to the back door of the infamous
Mucky Pots, another thought occurred to me.
‘Don't you think it's taking a bit of a risk trying to get me in there? I mean, just look at
me; five foot tall, fifteen and everybody thinks I look even younger.’
Davey laughed and said, ‘Listen, mate. Old Alfie'd let the baby Jesus in there if he
thought he was carrying a wage packet. Come on, you'll be alright.’
Through a door from the back alley into a large yard half-full of empty beer barrels,
Davey led the way, pushing through another door into the public house. Inside, the place was
packed with men all still dressed in their working clothes, several of whom acknowledged
Davey with usual greetings acquaintances use when meeting in such places. The main bar
room hung heavy with a fug of smoke and that, combined with the dimly lit surroundings,
made it near- impossible to distinguish anybody clearly unless you were within feet of them.
Davey jostled his way to the bar, shouting above the din for two pints of best, which
he paid for with a shiny half-crown (twelve and a half pence in today's money).
Davey stuck a pint in my hand saying, ‘Come on, the lads'll be over in the corner,’
pushing through the crowd as he did so.
I followed closely behind, trying desperately to look the part of a working man. I only
succeeded as far as the corner table, which was occupied by three more steel men.
‘Fuckin’ hell, Davey!’ said one. ‘What you got there? Called in at the kindergarten on
you way here did yer?’
‘Piss off, Harry!’ said Davey, with the kind of familiarity used by long-standing pals.
‘This is John - he took over from me at the post room and he’s come in here for his
pint like the rest of us, so let him be.’
‘OK, OK!’ replied Harry with a feigned tone of pique. ‘Sorry I spoke I’m sure.’ And
then he said to me, ‘No offence, son, only joking. Come and sit down.’
Harry I gauged to be about thirty years old and I was greatly impressed with the way
he and the other two treated Davey as an equal. Davey couldn’t have been more than six
months older than me, but at nearly a foot taller and sporting facial hair by way of long
sideburns, anybody could be forgiven for thinking six “years” instead of “months”. Davey
could easily have passed for a twenty year old, whilst I was having great difficulty in
convincing people that I wasn’t still at school and had actually had my fifteenth birthday.
Once seated, Harry asked of Davey, ‘What kept you, mate? And where’s Billy?’
‘Billy won’t be in, he’s working half a shift getting clued up on a new saw they’re
installing. That’s why I’m late; all the mill lads got an extra hour’s pay for training on it.’
‘So we’re down to four for nine-card,’ said Harry.
I spoke for the first time, ‘If you’re playing nine-card brag, I’ll take Billy’s place.
What’s the ante?’
‘Good lad,’ said Harry. ‘It’s thruppence a hand mind. Kitty could build up a lot of
money. Are you sure you want to get involved?’
‘Count me in,’ I replied without hesitation, despite all Mam’s warnings concerning the
vagaries of gambling; backing out was not an option at this moment in time.
‘OK Davey,’ said Harry, ‘your deal first, usual rules, best three hands to win the pot,
four of a kind takes it automatically. Is that alright with you, young John?’
‘That’s OK by me,’ I replied.
Thruppence a hand, with five people playing, meant that the kitty would increase by
one shilling and thruppence with each round played. Anyone who has played nine-card brag
will know that it takes no longer than a minute to deal and play each hand. Subsequently,
after around fifteen minutes play, the kitty had built up to nineteen shillings and nine pence,
which meant I had contributed nearly four shillings from my three pound seventeen odd
wages. Doing some quick mental arithmetic, I calculated that at this rate of play over a two
hour session, my contribution to this and subsequent kitties would amount to a staggering
three pounds two shillings. God! I thought as my stomach churned over. What had I gotten
myself into? Even worse, I would still have to buy my round when the time came, which
prompted me to imagine having to face Mam and Dad, smelling of beer with my wages
gambled away.
This imagined scenario filled me with dread, and I inwardly cursed myself for being so
stupid as to get involved in the first place. I looked around at the other players, who all
appeared to be relaxed and cool. Well they would be, wouldn’t they? I thought; losing three
pounds odd out of a ten pound wage packet would hurt, but it wouldn’t be the end of their
financial world. It would mine! I felt the recently acquired knot of fear twist another turn in
my gut.
At this juncture, Davey called for a pee-break and, draining his glass said, ‘Ready for
another, mate?’
I responded in the way I thought a real man should, ‘Yes, mate, but it’s my shout,’ I
said, reaching a clammy hand down to my pay packet.
‘Forget it,’ said Davey, ‘this session’s on me. With overtime I picked up more than ten
quid this week. Besides, you might need your cash for the game.’
I experienced another twist of the old fearful knot. Davey’s reference to the game and
my money was not lost on the other players and they’d obviously calculated that a winless
session on my part would sink me completely.
‘You do realise, son;’ said Harry, ‘you could get completely wiped out in this game.
An office boy’s wages don’t go far you know.’
I felt like saying, ‘Thank you, for stating the fuckin’ obvious!’, but instead I focussed
this wave of anger into a determined nonchalance replying, ‘Yeah, sure. You play your game
and I’ll play mine. OK?’
‘Well said, young ‘un!’ remarked a bystander; for the size of the kitty had now
attracted several onlookers, who would watch with interest to see the final outcome.
Davey returned from his pee carrying two frothing pints saying, ‘Here, mate, get that
down your neck!’ followed by, ‘Come on then. Let’s get this show on the road. Deal ‘em!’
God, providence, maybe both, Lady Luck even; call it what you like - my inner self
was praying to all of them as a further thirty minutes’ play bolstered the kitty up to a mindblowing fifty-five shillings.
On my way to the clocking office, I had called in at the works’ canteen to buy ten Park
Drive cigarettes – price one shilling and tuppence (about five and a half pence in today’s
money). As the next hand was dealt, I reached for the packet to light one and, discovering
only two left, realised that for the last hour I had been subconsciously chain-smoking. This
gave immediate reinforcement to my inner turmoil and with feelings of fear-ridden guilt, I
could hear all of Mam’s past warnings concerning the slippery-slopes of life. Normally, at
that stage of my smoking career, a packet of ten cigarettes would last me all day, still leaving
a couple over for the following morning, and it hit me hard that I had just squandered, under
pressure, a whole day’s intake.
Cigarette alight, I reached down for my cards, stacked them together as one and started
to squeeze the cards into view one at a time. As the seventh card revealed itself, I had three
fives and not much else; possibly a stopping hand I thought. Oh God, what I would give for
another five! It’s amazing how, when the shit really starts hitting the fan, the lowliest, foulmouthed, non church-going heathen suddenly wants to cosy up to God. I squeezed the eighth
card and a rush of adrenalin, the like I had never experienced before, sent my whole body
into momentary shock. In a split second, I went hot and cold, I felt my face redden and then
pale. I felt rivulets of sweat stream from both my armpits as, simultaneously, my stomach
turned a double somersault. I swallowed hard so as not to squeak when I opened my mouth,
pulling the hand together as I did so. The unwritten rule of nine-card brag is that if a player is
dealt four of a kind, then he or she should declare it to the table immediately, forgoing
protocol of the sequential showing of hands.
‘Anybody beat four of a kind?’ I queried in a voice as calm as I could muster, laying
the four identical numbers, face-up on the table as I spoke. A murmur went up from the
onlookers, then silence as everyone waited for the other players to respond.
‘Beats me,’ said Davey, grinning at me from across the table, nodding as he did so in
the direction of Harry’s grim countenance, glowering down at my four life-savers.
‘Me too, me too,’ joined the other players.
This left Harry, who finally threw his cards into the middle of the table, saying in a
knowing tone that couldn’t hide a trace of thwarted malice, ‘You’re a jammy little fucker, so
you are. If you’d have lost that game, you’d have shit your pants and run home crying to your
mammy.’
I wasn’t fully aware of it at the time, but Harry’s attempt at derogatory humiliation
was almost certainly intended to elicit some back-chat from me, which would give
justification for a beating in the pub back yard.
Davey intervened, ‘Lay off, Harry. He won that pot fair-and-square and no matter how
hard you tried, you couldn’t make him bottle out.’
This defence of my position was greeted with murmurs of approval from the
surrounding crowd and Harry, realising that his angst toward me had garnered no support,
nearly spat, ‘Yeah, well, are we playing fuckin’ cards or what?’
The next hour saw a further three games completed, with individual kitties never
reaching much above ten shillings – consequently I walked away from Mucky Pots forty-four
shillings richer (that after having bought another two pints each for me and Davey).
On the tram ride home, and even though feeling more than a little tipsy from the four
pints of strong ale, I made a resolution which I have kept to this day - I resolved never again
to gamble with money I could not afford to lose. That night, on going upstairs to bed, I
slipped two pound notes under the paper lining of my sock drawer. I knew I’d be back to
Mucky Pots, the pints and the card game were too big an allure, but I would do so safe in the
knowledge that, regardless of any slippery-slope antics on my part, Mam’s housekeeping
would not be put at risk.
DAY TWENTY-ONE
“Sometimes my mind turns into a cupboard
Sometimes the cupboard turns into a room
A place where I can live a different lifetime
A place where only you can share this tune
A place that harbours all the things we dream of
A place to chase the shadows from your mind
And lock them in a box bound up with silence
In the room within the cupboard of my mind”
O’Hare
Do we have such cupboards in our mind and, if so, are they really bound up in gentle
prose or are they actually dark and fathomless recesses where frailty and fear go to hide.
Three weeks down, forty-nine to go. Although still suffering, admittedly less-frequent,
bouts of craving for a drink, I was growing in confidence daily and the alcohol-free fortynine weeks that lay ahead now seemed a less daunting prospect.
On the addictive gene versus brain organ theory, I had already interviewed a further
two recovering alcoholics and both had confirmed to me that any craving for a drink was
now purely of the mind and that physical reactions to alcohol starvation had abated long ago.
Both of the individuals concerned have been in recovery for over six months and both readily
lent their personal-experience support for the addictive brain organ theory. However, more
on this later, as we must return to the past where the pints and card games of Mucky Pots
were about to have a profound and lasting affect on my life.
A CLOSE SHAVE WITH NASTY HARRY
The emotional merry-go-round I had experienced in the Mucky Pots’ card school set
me thinking along several lines: yes, I could and would return there the coming Friday
afternoon – secure in the knowledge that whatever happened Mam’s housekeeping was
safely tucked away in the sock drawer and could not be put at risk. However, considering the
law of averages, there would surely come a day when it would be my turn to lose. This
accepted, and if I was to avoid the gut-wrenching, sweaty-palmed fear of the first game, then
somehow I would have to build up a fighting fund to fall back on. Accordingly, that Saturday
morning I separated out from my money twenty-four of the shillings I had won and set off for
the local post office.
The lady behind the counter greeted me with a, ‘Yes, young man and what can I do for
you?’
I pulled out the one pound note, along with two two-shilling pieces and, placing them
on the counter said, ‘I’d like to save this please.’
‘Good for you,’ she replied producing a small booklet from under the counter. ‘It’s
always handy to have something put by for a rainy day.’
She took my money and across the top line of the first page of the booklet I watched
her write the date, the amount and her signature before stamping it with a post office seal.
‘There you go,’ she said, handing the book over the counter. ‘You can withdraw
money Monday to Friday nine o’clock to four and Saturday mornings up till one o’clock,
when we close.’
I thanked her and left, feeling quite proud of myself; for the first time in my life I had
money in the bank.
On the way home, I resolved that if my luck held the following Friday, then whatever I
won would go straight into the account. This led on to glorious daydreams of consecutive
wins resulting in a burgeoning bank account, which would give me the confidence, if and
when I had a losing day, to look nasty Harry in the eye with nonchalant aplomb and say,
‘Easy come, easy go, mate.’
Much cheered by this reverie, my thoughts wandered to other potential ways of
making extra money, but nothing sprang immediately to mind; it would be Mam that
evening, with her ever-thoughtful and caring approach, who would get me started.
In the late afternoon a bitterly cold wind blew down from the north, bringing snow.
That night, as we sat around a roaring coal fire discussing the bleakness of the weather
Mam said, ‘It’s going to be mighty cold on your round next week, son.’
‘That’s alright, Mam,’ I replied. ‘The only real bad bit is when I have to go down by
the river; that wind coming in off the sea makes my ears go numb, but I can always nip in
somewhere to get warmed up.’
Mam got up from her chair, left the room and returned with both sewing basket and
remnant bag.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ she said, pulling old woollens and pieces of cloth out.
‘What’s all that in aid of, pet?’ asked Dad.
‘I’m going to make our John that woolly hat,’ replied Mam, already pushing scissors
through an old red cardigan that had once belonged to Carolyn. ‘One he can pull down over
his ears when he goes down by the river.’
Half an hour later I was standing in front of the mirror sporting Mam’s creation. It was
bright red with a yellow zigzag pattern running around the middle. It reminded me of the
posters on advertising hoardings depicting rich people skiing down mountains in a world so
very far removed from mine.
The following morning being Sunday and with no work to go to, I lay in bed making
my first crude stab at money-management; after paying Mam her two pounds house-keeping
and also having stashed another two pounds in my sock drawer, plus the twenty-four
shillings in the post office - I was left with eighteen shillings and six pence to last the week.
Bus fares for the week at six pence per day would total two and six, leaving sixteen shillings.
Take out a further three and six for a two-ounce tin of rolling tobacco, that should last me
through the week, and I was down to twelve shillings and six pence, or half a crown a day if
divided equally. Plenty I thought, basking warmly between the sheets, feeling proud with
myself for organising my finances to good effect.
The snowfalls of Saturday afternoon had persisted throughout the weekend and into
Monday, which made me all the more appreciative of Mam’s woolly hat as I delivered the
works’ post. I made my usual detour to the boiler yard and, on entering, strolled down to the
large pre-heating furnace where groups of maintenance men stood warming their hands,
whilst waiting for further assignments.
‘Hiya, young ‘un,’ said one of the assembled. ‘That’s a corker of a hat you’re wearing
– just the job for this weather. Where’d you get it?’
Before I could answer, another guy with a bald head and wild staring eyes demanded
to know if the hat could be pulled down over the ears.
‘Sure,’ I replied, pulling the two sides of the hat down by way of demonstration.
It is worthy of mention, that although we had just entered the decade known as the
swinging sixties, the men of the North had yet to catch onto the “swinging” bit and a
traditional approach to life, values, dress-code etc still prevailed. There were only two
acceptable types of headwear for northern men in those days; the widely-worn flat cap, and
for the few who were known to have a bob or two - a trilby. This would only be worn on
high-days and holidays and neither were adequate protection for the ears when a big freeze
came in.
‘I’ve been down on that river all morning,’ said Starey Eyes, addressing nobody in
particular, ‘and I can tell you,’ he emphasised, ‘it’s enough to freeze your balls off - never
mind your ears! I kid you not. Tell ‘em, Geordie! I had to take a leak and when I pulled him
out, he’d shrivelled down to that!’ he said, holding his two index fingers seven inches apart.
The men of the furnace roared and jeered with laughter, whilst Starey Eyes danced
among them, hands still parted, singing, ‘She won’t be pleased with this. She won’t be
pleased with this.’
I was still trying to figure out whether he was joking or not, having no real idea about
grown men’s proportions, when Starey stopped right in front of me, dropping one hand down
into his pocket and pulling out two half-crowns, ‘I’ll give you five bob for that hat now,’ he
said.
‘Sweet Jesus!’ I thought. Five shillings for a bit of old rag out of Mam’s remnant bag!
As the unknown entrepreneur in me sent one hand reaching for the hat, I thought, ‘Mam’ll
understand. Surely she will?’
‘Done!’ I replied, exchanging hat for silver - which I resolved to split with Mam when
I got home.
Starey’s mate, Geordie, stepped forward, ‘Crazy Horse is right. Where can I get one,
son? It’s just the kind of headgear a man needs down on that river.’
I couldn’t answer immediately; did he just say “Crazy Horse”? Crazy Horse? Every
night after tea we’d sit round as a family and I would regale everyone with my day’s
adventures. How would I tell this one? I couldn’t just come out and tell them I’d sold Mam’s
hat for five shillings to a bloke called Crazy Horse who had a seven-inch, shrivelled-up dick
when the weather was cold.
‘Are you listening, son?’ reiterated Geordie.
‘Oh? What? Yeah. Yeah,’ I said quickly, dragging myself back from fireside to boiler
yard. ‘My Mam makes them. Why?’
‘Then ask her if she’ll make me one will yer? I’ll meet you here on Friday at one
o’clock after pay time, you bring the hat and I’ll have the five bob waiting. OK?’
‘I’ll ask her,’ I said.
‘Good lad. Good lad,’ said Geordie.
Mam didn’t notice I was hatless when I walked in after work and it wasn’t until we sat
down that evening that the whole family were made aware of the day’s events. As the story
unfurled, minus Indian war braves and exaggerated male genitalia, I placed the two halfcrowns on the table and asked, ‘Can you make two more, Mam?’
‘At five shillings a throw I’ll make everyone in the works one!’ replied Mam. ‘Just
imagine it,’ she continued. ‘If everyone had one, we’d be rich beyond belief!’
Mam made two more hats that night, and the following Friday, another bitterly-cold
day, I rendezvoused with Geordie by the boiler yard furnace.
‘Smashing, son!’ said Geordie as we exchanged hat for money. ‘Now then,’ he
dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, winked and carried on, ‘how many of these
hats can your Mam make?’
‘How many do you want?’ I asked.
‘Well, it’s like this see; Crazy Horse has got a right little number going down on the
river with your Mam’s hats. You know how cold it’s been down there this week. Well the
Horse has got them all at it; try mine on says he and the moment they pull it down over their
ears they’re hooked. Here, take this,’ he said, slipping me a ten-shilling note. ‘He needs
another five for Monday morning. You bring them here at the usual time and he’ll give you
the other fifteen shillings.’
‘No problem,’ I replied, pocketing the ten-bob note without giving a thought to the
capacity of Mam’s remnant bag.
‘Tell your Mam,’ said Geordie, ‘tell her that Crazy Horse has already taken orders for
over twenty more; he’s putting a few bob on the top for himself, mind – so if anyone asks
you how much they cost, tell ‘em they’re seven and six. Got it?’
‘I think so,’ I said.
With that Geordie was gone.
My mind was racing: five hats by Monday – ten shillings already in my pocket, fifteen
to come, plus the five Geordie had just given me for his own - totted up to a handsome thirty
shillings. Fifteen bob each then for me and Mam. Not bad! Not bad at all. However, any such
thoughts of me becoming a baron of the millinery industry had to be banished immediately.
For me it was back to the post room to pick up wages and do a little mental preparation for
the fast-approaching card game at Mucky Pots.
I was feeling fairly confident about the forthcoming game – not so much from the
point of view of winning, because providing a player can competently put three hands
together, then the rest of nine-card brag is purely down to chance. My confidence stemmed
from the knowledge that, whatever the outcome, no matter how badly the cards may fall, I
still had the basic financial situation covered. Mam’s housekeeping was safe in the sock
drawer; my wage packet still unopened contained three pounds, seventeen and six and, if the
worst came to the worst I had fifteen shillings hat money as a back-up. I’d covered all the
angles and, although I didn’t know it at the time, I was basically practising one of the
fundamental rules of business; examine every possibility at the outset, identify any possible
downside and the most important part, make provision for such an eventuality should it
occur. I had made my provisions. Even if I was completely wiped out – with wages and hat
money lost, Mam would still have her housekeeping. I could survive the following week by
dipping into my post office account and Mam’s share of our new venture was, dare I say it,
safe in the hands of Crazy Horse until Monday?
I was, in fact, practising what dear old Dad often preached, but sometimes had not
managed to follow through on; never gamble what you can’t afford to lose – a good lesson in
life if you’re ever going to enter the business of risk. These musings took me mechanically
through the process of quitting the post room, clocking off, exiting the works and all the way
through the grimy, snow-bound streets to the back door of Mucky Pots.
I slipped in through the back door of the public house and took up a position at the end
of the bar nearest to where I’d entered. As my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I could
make out through the crowd those seated at the far corner card table: Nasty Harry and two
others, but no Davey.
I turned away just as old Alfie poked his head across the counter and said, ‘Are you
drinking, son, of have you just come in to get out of the cold?’
‘Sorry, Alfie,’ I replied, affecting a similar familiar tone. ‘I’ll have a pint of best
please.’
‘Pint of best it is,’ said Alfie shuffling off down the bar.
My thoughts were racing; I hadn't considered being in the card game without Davey
present and in my covering all-of-the-angles scenario, I'd completely forgotten about the mill
lads three-shift rota. Davey, I realised, must be working “two till ten”. Win or lose, I didn't
fancy two and a half to three hours at the mercy of Nasty Harry and was just contemplating
giving the whole thing a miss when Alfie returned with the pint of best bitter.
‘There you go, son,’ said Alfie as I handed him the money. ‘You in the brag school
this afternoon?’
I didn’t get chance to answer.
‘Nah, Alfie,’ sneered an unmistakable voice from behind me. ‘He got out with his shirt
last week, don't reckon the little fucker's got the balls to try an' mix it with the men again.’
Harry's derisive tone and volume of delivery had arrested the attention of several
bystanders which I felt left me in a 'red-rag-to-a-bull' situation. Still looking at the nowmotionless Alfie, I picked up the pint glass, downed a third of its contents, turned around
with a smile on my face and stared straight up into the eyes of my antagonist.
‘Ready when you are, Harry,’ I said in an affable tone, pushing past him as I did so
and heading for the corner table - knowing full-well that those malicious eyes would be
trying to burn little holes in the back of my neck.
I said “hello” to the two other players with the only acknowledgement being of a
knowing remark from one of them who observed, ‘I see Harry managed to rope you in then?
He said he would. I'd watch him if I were you, Harry's got a vicious streak.’
This wasn't said by way of a friendly warning, but more in a tone that suggested
complicity toward Harry meting out some form of gratuitous violence; I was in up to my eyeballs and I felt not a little afraid.
Harry returned from the bar carrying a full pint. He didn't sit down right away but
instead stood close to the back of my shoulder and, towering over me, he spoke in a low
tone, ensuring only those around the table would hear.
‘Now listen to me, you little shit-head. We don’t take well to mouthy upstarts around
here.’ He emphasised the “we” in an attempt to include the other two players in the
sentiment expressed. ‘One way or another, you're gonna get taught a lesson you won't forget,
understand?’
I understood alright, but I could see little mileage in getting Mr Nasty's back up even
further, so I busied myself by taking all the loose change from my pockets and stacking it
into piles.
Harry held his position momentarily, then walked round the table, took his seat and,
fixing me with a belligerent stare, said, ‘Usual rules, shit-head, OK?’
I stayed silent as one of the other guys dealt the first hand.
It was apparent that I had a real problem on my hands. As the first few hands were
dealt and played out, I started to evolve the embryo of a plan which would hopefully help me
avoid a kicking when the pub closed. The one and only advantage I possessed in this
situation was speed, and if I read Harry correctly, his athletic prowess would be no match for
mine in the “live-to-fight-another-day” stakes. Although my back was to the exit, I was, in
reality, the closest to it and my plan was to wait for some kind of diversion to occur then
take-off like the wind. I had been playing my hands on automatic pilot, and as the tenth
round of cards was dealt, with the kitty standing at one pound, two shillings, I drew another
poor fist. My best hand was a medium run followed by a jack flush, then a pair of tens, a
stopper on the pair of tens at best. However, as the first hands were laid down, my six, seven,
eight was the best on offer; the same occurred with the jack flush and when I produced the
pair of tens, the other players threw their cards into the middle, signifying that the pot was
mine. Harry's face bore a look of apoplectic madness as I emptied the ash tray.
‘Stop friggin' around with that money and deal the fuckin' cards, you little arsehole,’
he hissed. Followed by, ‘If you win the next hand, it'll be your fuckin' last.’
Suddenly, in winged the good old Angel of God and providence.
‘Pity you won't be here to see it, Harry,’ said a voice from behind me.
I swivelled round to see Davey standing there, flanked by Billy the Insane and a whole
crowd of mill men. Oh sweet Jesus, what a sight for sore eyes!
‘What the fuck are you lot doing here,’ spluttered Harry. ‘What's happened?’
Billy the Insane took centre-stage as Davey gave me a quick wink.
‘I'll tell you what we're doing here,’ said Billy in a voice that salivated cold malice.
‘Davey here told us all about the game last week and how you were picking on the lad here.
He said he was worried that you might be getting up to your old bully-boy tactics, he said
you'd given young 'uns a kicking before, so we all thought we'd come here and have a look
see, see?’
‘What about the mill?’ said Harry shiftily.
‘Ah,’ said Davey. ‘That's why you won't be here to see the next game.’
‘Wha..?’" said Harry, visibly irritated.
I stayed quiet - the cavalry had arrived and I could see no point at this stage in
involving myself further, especially as Nasty Harry's attention appeared to have been totally
diverted from me.
Davey continued, ‘Breakdown see, Harry? You know how it is; the rolling gear
somehow got jammed and, as you are the shift's maintenance fitter, you're on. You told the
gaffer where you'd be and he's asked us to tell you to get your arse back there pronto; in fact
his exact words were, “Tell him to be back here by four o'clock or he'd better look for
another job”.’
‘Fuck!’ spat Harry, half-rising to his feet.
Then, a sly look of recognition crossed his face; a look of someone who suddenly
realised that they had been well and truly stitched-up.
‘You bastards!’ he snarled again. ‘You've done this! You've set this up so I'll have to
spend my Friday afternoon in that fucking mill. I'll…’
A brawny, tattooed arm shot past my right shoulder lifting Harry from stooped
position to that of being on tip-toes and I was about to find out why Billy had 'the Insane'
adjoined to his name.
‘You'll do fuck-all till I tell you to,’ said Billy, still gripping by the throat a nowfearful Harry, whose face had turned the colour of a cardinal's cloak. ‘We all heard what you
said to this lad.’ He nodded down at me. ‘Now hear this! If I as much as hear that you've
looked at him the wrong way, then I'll rip your head off and shit down your neck,
understand?’
Harry, whose countenance had now taken on a bluish tinge, just nodded puppetfashion. I was shocked and even afraid by the extreme violence that emanated from Billy,
even considering the bare-fist fights of the street men I had witnessed when I was younger. I
had never experienced an outburst of such focussed ferocity from one human being.
‘And another thing,’ said Billy. ‘The lads here fancy a couple of pints, so take your
pissy-arsed tradesman's time when you get back there, we'll be back by six. Got that?’
Billy released his grip and Harry slumped back into his seat, holding up the palm of
one hand as a signal of compliance, while he coughed his breath back.
‘OK, Billy. Sure thing! Six o'clock. I've got the message.’
‘Just make sure you have,’ said Billy. ‘Now get the fuck out of my sight! Move!’
And with that Harry was gone, tail between his legs, and the back door was left
banging in its frame.
Throughout this altercation, the whole pub had stopped to watch and old Alfie, who
had climbed up on a stool so as not to miss any of the action, jumped down and shouted,
‘That's it, lads. It's over. Get your pints in. No extra charge for the entertainment.’
As for me, the emotional rollercoaster I had been riding suddenly halted, leaving me
feeling quite numb and perplexed. Only moments ago Harry's snarling had engendered real
fear and danger. Within seconds a complete reversal; safety with the appearance of Davey
and co, followed swiftly by a new and different fear - a fear for the red-faced Harry emitting
strangulated gasps, whilst held in the vice-like grip of the Insane One.
I was just considering my own position, realising that, in the main, I was the one
responsible for the whole hullabaloo - not to mention the mill breakdown, when Davey
dropped into the seat beside me saying, ‘Well? You still winning, mate?’
‘I'm not so sure, Davey,’ I replied, still contemplating my part in all the goings-on. ‘I
don't feel like I've won. I feel like I've been the cause of a lot of trouble, but I didn't set out to
upset anyone.’
‘Don't give it a second thought, mate. You haven't done anything wrong; that Harry
can be a right bastard if he thinks he can get away with it. But you needn't worry on that
score again. He wouldn't dare cross Billy.’
As if summoned by name, Billy appeared carrying pints for him and Davey.
‘There you go, mate!’ he said, setting the two beers down on the table. As he eased
himself into the place of a now-vanquished Harry, he turned to face Harry's two card-playing
pals, ‘Why?’ he half whispered the word in a questioning tone of malice, and then repeated
it, ‘Why?’
‘Why, what, Billy?’ ventured the one nearest to him, clearly looking and sounding
extremely uncomfortable.
‘Why do yer think I stuck up for the lad here and why do I think that you two are a pair
of fucking tossers, sitting there while that arsehole was scaring the living daylights out of
him? You tell Billy why?’
Both of the men now looked terrified and the one who had yet to speak said, ‘We
weren't a part of it, Billy. Honest, ask the kid here. He'll tell you. Go on, son,’ he pleaded.
‘Tell Billy the truth, we didn't threaten you, did we?’
I nodded in agreement, thinking it the best response if further violence was to be
avoided. Billy seemed to ignore this exchange and continued in his manic voice of insanity.
‘I'm going to tell you a little story about why I'm mad and why I won't have little
tackers set upon by the likes of that cunt Harry. It happened to me, see? Yes, me. Mad Bad
Billy; five fucking years of it, every fucking week, and I mean every fucking week.’
A high pitched laugh of the demented seemed to be torn out from him - it was as if he
had entered another world; beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, flecks of foam bubbled
from the corners of his mouth, and with his glazed, wide-eyed stare not eighteen inches from
the faces of Harry's pals, he truly looked an awesome sight - they were visibly afraid.
‘Every fucking week,’ he continued in tormented reverie. ‘I was ten when it started.
Ten years old,’ he emphasised. ‘Told by the Old Man to go round to his brother's in the next
street to do chores. My Uncle Kenny the fucking bastard.’
At this Billy cleared his throat and spat disgust on the bar room floor.
‘My own fucking uncle.’
Billy paused as if gripped by his own mental pictures and no one around the table
moved a muscle.
‘Lived on his own, see?’ Billy continued, ‘Didn't look after himself properly the Old
Man said. That's why I had been sent there. Ten years old on my hands and knees cleaning
his fire grate out when he comes in roaring drunk and smashes his fist right into my face.
Before me head could clear, he was dragging me up the stairs by me hair, telling me just
what he was going to do to a little toe-rag toss-pot.’
Billy paused again as the formation of a tear manifest itself on the lower lid of one
eye, which only served to enhance the vision of abject madness he'd become.
‘Then he did it,’ he half wailed. ‘Pushed me over the end of the bed, the bastard did,
pulled my shorts down and rammed his todger up me arse. When I screamed, all he did was
curse me and push a pillow around my head so the neighbours wouldn't hear. I begged for
mercy, that day and every Friday for five fucking years. And do you know what?’ he asked
no one in particular. ‘Do you know what? The more I begged the more he liked it and the
more he made sure it hurt me - and I went to hell.’
I felt appalled and even violated just listening to this gruesome tale, and around the
table all heads were bowed to avoid the now evil eye of my insane and tormented saviour.
‘To hell I went and in hell I stayed,’ continued Billy. ‘For five years the bastard beat
me and shagged me, always reminding me after each session that he'd kill me if I told
anyone. Tell? Tell who? Who'd believe a raggy-arsed kid like me? Nobody, that's who. I was
backward, see? Couldn't even read or write my own fucking name.’
Billy, whom I thought had now completely lost the plot and looked like he was going
to explode at any moment, suddenly leaned back in his chair and dropped his demonic mask.
He picked up his pint and drained it in one.
‘The week of my fifteenth birthday,’ Billy said more evenly. ‘That week I came
halfway back from hell. He came home the usual time and told me to get my poxy little arse
up the stairs. I took the steps two at a time with that drunken, dirty old bastard stumbling up
behind me, walked to the door of the bedroom, turned round to see him hanging onto the
stair rail, swaying around about three steps from the top - and then I snapped. Four strides,
that's all it took. Four poxy little strides: for five years of hell. With those four strides and a
jump, my feet hit him smack-bang in the middle of his chest - and it was over!’
I looked up to see the once-formed tear now running down Billy's cheek, but now his
countenance beamed the smile of the insane.
‘He flew backwards like a bird; a look of disbelief on his pissed-up ugly face, and he
hit the bottom step and wall with an almighty crack. I knew he was dead and I felt like
dancin'. I went home as normal and said nowt. Two days later the neighbours found him and
we all buried him a week later. Accidental death, see? Fell down the stairs drunk. No more
to be said apart from the “go to hell you bastard” that I said to myself as they lowered the
coffin. Now, if the Old Man and the Old Woman were still alive, I wouldn't have told you
this story, but they're not, God rest their souls, so I don't care any more, see? That's why
you've heard it and that's why I don’t hold with grown men picking on young 'uns like the lad
here. So both of you, mark my words - don't be in Harry's company if he forgets the warning
I have given him; because if you are, as God be my judge, I'll kill him and then I'll kill you.
Got it?’
Harry's pals mumbled acquiescence.
Billy said, ‘Good!’ then suddenly and remarkably turned away from them and changed
into Mr Happy. ‘Right!’ he said good-humouredly, rubbing his hands in anticipation. ‘Let's
have a nice friendly game of cards. Get the beers in, Davey boy!’
‘Sure thing, Billy’ said Davey, rising for the bar; I was at his side in a trice.
I insisted on paying for the beer, by way of thanks for his and Billy's timely
intervention.
‘Don't mention it!’ said Davey. ‘You shouldn't have any more bother with that bastard.
There aren't many around this neck of the woods who would go against Billy without giving
it some very serious thought and Harry ain't in that league.’
I could well imagine Davey being right on that score.
The afternoon's cards passed off in a good-natured atmosphere and without further
incident; I didn’t win again and to be perfectly honest that suited me fine. I was beginning to
realise that in the potentially extremely violent world of the steel men, being in the limelight
as a five-foot, seven-stoner was not a good idea.
On the way home I played back the afternoon's events which, when condensed, boiled
down to a scene verging on the bizarre. One minute I am within a whisker of having the shit
kicked out of me by a vindictive, serial bully, only to be saved the next by an insane, selfconfessed, murderer! When looked at in such stark terms I resolved two things. One: as much
as I enjoyed the card games and the imagined kudos of drinking with the “real” men - I
would not be returning to Mucky Pots on a Friday afternoon, and two: I had somehow got to
find a way of passing the imminent trade test and thereby avoid the mill and all of its
inhabitants.
On Saturday morning, I put ten shillings in the post office account and a further two
pounds the following Wednesday, after trading Mam's weekend hat-making with Crazy
Horse. On Friday I was allowed the morning off from the post room and at nine o'clock I
presented myself, nerves a-jangling, at the Apprentice Training School to sit the trade test.
The examination was to take place in the school's lecture theatre, situated on the first floor,
and as I filed in with another forty-nine hopefuls, I couldn't help saying a little prayer to the
God I had not long deserted.
The tests were conducted over three days, with some three hundred lads taking part in
morning and afternoon sessions. Carolyn had told me that only the top fifty would be offered
a place on the apprenticeship scheme. As we took our seats at desks four feet apart from our
neighbours, all my past academic failures gathered up to haunt me, and any self-belief that I
had thought I had instilled, fled like a sailboat before the storm. Four instructors were there
to oversee proceedings and ensure that no cheating took place. The one at the front, who
explained that on his signal we were to turn over the test papers and complete as much as
possible in two hours, sat behind a large table on a raised dais. Two of the others took up
positions of vigil at the back of the room, whilst the fourth, it was explained, would patrol
the aisles. On no account were we to remove anything from our pockets throughout the
duration. The instructor at the front then informed us that if anyone completed their papers
before the allotted time expired, then they were to bring them forward to him and leave the
room without speaking.
He then checked his watch and said, ‘You may begin.’
The test paper consisted of eight foolscap sheets with lots of one-line “yes” or “no” or
“tick the right box” answers, interspersed with questions that had large spaces underneath
that required a more in-depth reply.
Carolyn had, to some degree, given me the low-down and had advised a strategy of
quickly scanning through all of the questions and answering any easy ones, before returning
to the front and methodically working my way through the rest. Following her advice, I was
greatly relieved to find a large number of the questions were to do with basic logic, which I
thought were easy, giving me a well-needed boost of confidence. There was a section on why
I wanted to be a boilermaker which required a hand-written response of not more than one
hundred words. With the information gleaned from my many visits to the boiler yard, and the
evening coaching sessions courtesy of Carolyn, I gave what I considered to be an
enthusiastic reply as to why the boiler-making trade played such an important role in the
overall business of producing steel. A few relatively simple multiplication and subtraction
questions, a couple of “if a car went so many miles in so long, at such a speed” type
questions and an hour and forty minutes later I was finished. Following Carolyn's advice I reread the whole paper and, with fifteen minutes to spare, I was the eleventh lad in the room to
hand it in at the front and leave.
That night, around the table eating dinner, or “tea” as we called it then, I was
subjected to a question-and-answer session by Carolyn, with Mam and Dad making the odd
murmur of appreciation, as I gave what I thought was a fair account of the morning's
proceedings.
Finally, Carolyn ceased with the questions and said, ‘Well, Mam, if he's done half as
well as what he's just told us, he could well pass. I'll soon know, cos the instructors will be
marking the papers over the weekend and they'll be on Mr Morgan's desk on Monday
afternoon. He knows you sat on Friday and I'm sure he'll tell me how you got on.’
I went to bed that night with a warm glow inside; I did believe that I had acquitted
myself well in the trade test and also I had avoided Mucky Pots, cards, violence and, of
course, Nasty Harry. However, although I didn't know it at the time, Harry was far from
finished with me.
Saturday night was a going-out-for-a-drink night for me and my mates, and it would
always go in one of two directions. Sometimes it would be catch a bus to Middlesbrough and
visit a couple of back-street pubs where the bar staff would turn a blind-eye to our apparent
youth, then around ten o'clock, head off to the dance at the Astoria ballroom. The other
option open to us was to take a four-mile hike over the Eston Hills to a remote country pub
called the Cross Keys Inn, where the landlord would also overlook our youthful appearance,
as in that rural location customers were at a premium.
On this particular Saturday, Les Gibson, a life-long friend to this day, and I decided to
forgo the dubious delights of the Astoria ballroom and head out to the country. It was a
wrap-up-warm job for, although most of the snow from the previous week had dispersed, the
nights were still bitterly cold. However, the first part of our trek was uphill all the way and
by the time we reached the top of Eston Nab, the blood was well and truly circulating. The
climb to the Nab was steep and, apart from the sound of our own heavy breathing, it was
normally tackled in silence. The way down the other side was a much gentler affair, and on
this occasion we used the time to compare notes regarding the trade test. Les, who had sat
the test to become a fitter and turner, was a bright lad with a better-than-average command of
general knowledge, and I was much encouraged to discover that we concurred on most of the
answers.
The Cross Keys, then a step-back-in-time ancient coaching inn, with low-beamed
ceilings and welcoming log fire burning in the hearth, had two major attractions regarding
our Saturday night jaunts. One was, of course, that we could get served, and because of the
pub’s isolated position it was a million-to-one in those days that the police would pay the
venue a visit. The other was darts, played for money, doubles at sixpence per man, with the
winners staying on to play the next set of initials at the top of a long list that was chalked on
the side of the scoreboard. The games would start around 7 p.m. and with anything up to ten
sets of partners, would continue non-stop throughout the evening until closing time. Getting
there early to ensure that our names were somewhere near to the top of the list was a priority
and, consequently, we would set off from home no later than five forty-five and make a brisk
walk of it. Les walked with a limp, due to being one of the many casualties of the polio
epidemic which swept across Britain in the early nineteen fifties, however, he always kept up
with the pace and never once made reference to his impediment; a true mark of a man.
The Cross Keys darts marathons were good-natured affairs, and with just about all of
the other contestants being at least twice our age, we were treated with a parental air of
camaraderie. As far as they were concerned, the whole procedure made for a convivial social
evening, not so for Les and I; we played as if our lives depended on it. A barren evening for
us could mean up to three precious shillings wiped straight off our pocket-money.
Accordingly, and much to the amusement of the older contestants, we played every game as
if it were an international match, with no quarter asked or given.
Our particular styles made for a good partnership, with Les always playing a rocksolid, dependable game that rarely failed to produce a good average match score. I, on the
other hand, had a much more erratic style that could range from crap to brilliant in the course
of one game of five-o-one. Still, our styles complemented each other and on several
occasions, we managed to stay on the board, unbeaten, all night, which meant a free five-pint
evening and around seven and six cash profit to boot! The walk home on such nights, had
anyone been listening, could have been misinterpreted as the old war lords reliving past and
glorious victories, with Les, who possesses a fine memory for detail, giving commentary on
this game or that. We still speak about such times today, as they rank high on my list of good
memories among the few associated with adolescence.
On Monday evening, Carolyn, who was last to finish work, burst through the door just
as Mam was setting the table for tea and, in a state of high excitement, proclaimed to no one
in particular, ‘He’s done it! He’s passed his trade test!’
Everyone started to speak at once, with confusion reigning until Dad held up a hand
and said, ‘Settle down. Settle down. Let’s hear what the lass has to say.’
Carolyn, with her coat still on, took her seat at the table and adopting a conspiratorial
whisper told how, having to stay back late to type a report, she’d seen the pass and failure
lists on Mr Morgan’s desk.
‘Our John’s at the top of the list for those wanting to be boiler makers, I know he’s at
the top, because he’s got the highest mark. I checked – two hundred and seventy two out of
three hundred.’
‘Ee!’ said Mam with an air of disbelief. ‘Are you sure, pet?’ Then frowning added,
‘Now listen, our Carolyn. You haven’t had anything to do with this have you? I don’t want
you getting into any trouble with the bosses; I’d be the proudest woman in the world if our
John got a trade, but if you’ve…’
Carolyn cut her short, ‘No, Mam. It’s nothing like that. He said he thought he’d done
well the other night, and he has. Apart from a few things I told him to look out for, he’s done
it on his own.’
‘Well, God bless us and save us!’ said Mam. ‘I never thought I’d see the day when
we’d have a tradesman sitting at the table.’
‘Put that tea on hold for a minute,’ said Dad, getting to his feet and reaching into the
drawer for brown paper carrier bags. ‘This calls for a celebration. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’
And with that he was out of the door, heading in the direction of the off-licence;
tonight was going to be a good one!
Dad back, and a glorious fry-up tea washed down with bottled Guinness shandies; in
Mam’s case a glass of Mackeson, the conversation settled into and around what it would
mean to be a tradesman.
‘A qualified man at twenty-one is picking up twenty pounds a week before overtime,’
said Dad. ‘That’s nearly eleven pounds more than me and that’s with me doing an extra half
shift.’
‘Twenty pounds a week,’ said Mam, slowly in a tone which intimated no small amount
of awe. ‘You’ll be able to afford to buy your own house and have enough left over to get a
car, get married and goodness knows what else.’
I was thinking more along the lines of a motorbike and one of these Beatle suits this
new band were wearing. Carolyn must have read my thoughts for she cut in with, ‘Aye, but
you’ll have to do five years on apprentice’s wages first.’
I was far too pleased with myself to consider the financial ramifications of five long
years on penurious wages and besides, I always had Mam’s hat money to fall back on.
The following week the weather warmed up and the bottom fell out of the woolly hat
market.
Four days later, an official-looking letter duly arrived, confirming Carolyn’s news that
I had indeed passed the trade test and that I was to report to the boiler yard at the beginning
of April for two weeks’ induction before being sent to the firm’s Apprentice Training
School.
The following Friday night I had arranged to meet Barry Foreman, remember Barry of
church warden bum-kicking fame? We planned on going to the Majestic Cinema to see “The
Mummy” – a new horror film starring the formidable dark duo, Peter Cushing and
Christopher Lee - and we’d agreed to meet outside at six-thirty. By six-fifty Barry had still
not arrived and it was beginning to look like he wouldn’t show at all. Barry’s family still
lived in our old street and as I now lived on the new Teesville housing estate, there had been
a couple of occasions when, for one reason or another, one of us would be unable to keep a
planned appointment.
Although the year was now 1962, if two parties lived any distance apart, a short-notice
cancellation of an appointment was nigh-on impossible; mobile phones were yet to be
invented and only the wealthy minority of the area possessed a house telephone. One just had
to be philosophical about such occurrences and that, now rare, commodity of patience would
be exercised on such occasions. As the time approached seven o’clock, I was just about to
give the situation up as a bad job, when two lads I knew as little more than nodding
acquaintances rounded the cinema corner and stopped to say hello. They both were a year
older than me and had gone to the local grammar school. I had said, ‘Hi,’ to them the
previous Friday when they too had taken the trade test. They were nice lads; well-spoken and
they came from what I then called “one of the posh areas” where the better-off families lived.
Our recent common denominator was, of course, the sitting of the trade test and on sharing
the good news that all three of us had passed, there was an immediate bond that usually
comes with the sharing of any alliance.
‘We should be celebrating,’ said one, a lad called Peter who I had played football
against when our two schools had met for the twice-yearly matches.
‘Fat chance of that,’ said the other, whose name was Gerry. ‘Who’s gonna serve the
likes of us with beer round here on a Friday night?’
‘I can get us a drink if you fancy one,’ I replied, trying my best to feign nonchalance.
‘Gee!’ exclaimed Gerry, half in disbelief looking down at me. ‘You can get the three
of us in a pub round here?’
‘Yeah,’ I said matter-of-factly. ‘I play cards in there every Friday after work.’
Although a year older than me, both Peter and Gerry were still at school and wouldn’t
enter the steelworks until after the Easter school holiday; they had yet to sample the delights
of such places as Mucky Pots and they were visibly impressed with my apparent assurance
regarding a venue to celebrate in.
‘How far is it?’ enquired Peter.
‘Only a five-minute walk,’ I replied.
‘What are we waiting for?’ said Gerry enthusiastically. ‘Let’s go!’
With my street cred up some tenfold and as the now-obvious leader of this little
expedition, I decided to milk the situation for all it was worth.
As we wended our way through the dimly-lit streets, I gave out my instructions; ‘Now
listen,’ I addressed them importantly. ‘When we get in there, let me do the talking and on no
account look surprised if I introduce you as my workmates. Understand?’
‘Sure thing,’ said Peter.
‘You’re the man,’ said Gerry.
“Sure thing” and “you’re the man” were two of the new hip phrases springing out of a
language genre associated with the new music scene, and if my little chest could have puffed
out any further, it would have done.
‘What do you guys want to drink when we get there?’ I continued. Peter said he’d like
a pint of lemonade shandy and Gerry said he would go for the same.
‘No way,’ I said without breaking stride, but immediately stamping the authority of
leadership on the situation. ‘Pint shandies are a dead give-away. No self-respecting bloke in
the steelworks would be seen dead holding a pint shandy. It’s either a straight pint of bitter
or a pint touch.’
‘What’s a pint touch?’ asked Gerry.
‘It’s a pint of bitter with a half inch of lemonade on the top -’ I replied, adding, ‘if you
like a shandy, then that’s the one to go for.’
‘OK, two of them, then,’ said Peter.
I had decided to go in at the rear entrance, but as I turned off the street into a pitch
dark back-alley, my two companions stopped.
‘Why are we going up here?’ asked Gerry, a hint of suspicion in his voice.
‘It’s the back way in,’ I replied evenly. ‘Look, we are all under-age and if we go
traipsing in through the front door, God knows who might see any one of us, and old Alfie
might get reported.’
As they were considering this point, I added, ‘Listen, you guys, I’ve got a nice little
number going here and I don’t want to mess it up. After tonight, you’ll be able to do the
same, with or without me. So let’s just slip in quietly by the back door, have a few quiet pints
and go out the way we came in.’
‘He’s right,’ said Peter. ‘We’ve come this far, let’s do it.’
Having negotiated the pitch-black alley, not without bumping into each other several
times, I opened Alfie’s backyard door to reveal a faint beam of light that afforded us safe
passage through the rows of empty beer barrels. The first person I saw on entering was about
the only person on the planet I didn’t want to see - Nasty Harry. He had just been served by
Alfie and, as he turned toward his usual seat, he stopped momentarily, didn’t say anything,
but if looks could kill I’d have been a goner. I just turned away quickly and made my way to
the bar.
‘’Ello, son,’ said Alfie. ‘Where you off all dressed up?’
‘Hi, Alfie,’ I replied. ‘Might take a run up town a bit later, but me and a couple of
workmates thought we’d pop in for a couple of pints, this is Pete and that’s Gerry.’
‘Hello, lads, what’s it to be?’
‘Three pints of best,’ I replied before the others could say anything. ‘And make two of
them touches please, Alfie.’
Alfie brought the pints and I asked for a set of darts, not so much that I wanted to play,
but the board was situated at the opposite end of the pub to where Harry was sitting.
‘Fancy a game?’ I said to my new drinking partners.
‘Sure!’ said Peter and we carried our drinks to the far end of the room.
Another bloke came over and asked if he could make up a four for a game of doubles,
which was alright by us and we all settled in for an evening’s darts. After a couple more
rounds of drinks, Peter and Gerry seemed to be having a great time and as the beer started to
take effect, they were voluble in their praise for me setting up a great night. I, of course, was
as pleased as Punch to be the hero of the hour and receive such plaudits from older lads, and
grammar school ones at that.
By now the pub had filled up with the usual Friday night drinkers and on taking a
sneaky glance I could not see through the wall of bodies to where Nasty Harry had been
sitting. I wasn’t feeling particularly worried about Harry’s proximity as I had faith with
Davey’s view that only a fool would ignore warnings from Billy the Insane. However, there
were two things going on in the pub of which I was blissfully unaware: the first was that
Harry had been drinking all day and had now worked himself into a high state of angst, and
although he could not observe me through the crowd, he had taken up a position where he
had clear view to the back door and the toilets in the yard beyond. The second was that three
people were holding a clandestine meeting in the little snug room on the other side of the bar.
After three pints, my teenage bladder was becoming somewhat insistent and as we
finished another game, I told the lads that I was going out the back for a leak. Using what I
thought of as the crowded bar to shield me from Harry’s gaze, I slipped out of the back door
and down the yard to what was Alfie’s excuse for a male urinal. The bogs, as we then called
them, had no light, were in semi-darkness and reeked of stale urine; not a place to hang about
in I thought as I started peeing for all I was worth. I wasn’t quick enough; as I turned away
from the trough the outline of a figure became silhouetted in the doorway; I knew it was
Harry.
‘Everything comes to ‘im who waits,’ he sneered drunkenly. ‘And I’m gonna give you
a lesson you’ll never forget.’
I tried to stay calm and said, ‘Billy’s told you what he’d do if you lay a finger on me.’
Harry spat back with the bravado that only a drunk can sometimes muster, ‘Billy?
Fuck Billy and that Davey who looks after your raggy little arse! I’m the tradesman around
here - they’re just bums see? Labouring shit is what they are and besides, they’re not here
now - it’s just you and me - and you’re the one who’s not walking out!’
As he said this he lunged forward with his boot which I easily side-stepped, but in
doing so I slipped on the wet floor, fell backwards and banged my head on the wall.
Harry let out a cruel laugh. ‘Look at him, the little piece of shit has gone down and I
haven’t even touched him yet. I’m gonna give you the hiding of your….’
He didn’t finish the sentence. All I heard was a thud, a crack and then Harry was
down on his knees beside me. I felt a hand lift me from the floor and, as was I propelled
through the door, Billy’s voice said, ‘Take him inside, Davey.’ Followed by, ‘I fucking
warned you what I’d do.’
Then there was the sickening sound of steel-capped boots connecting with bone and
tissue - accompanied by Harry’s screams.
Davey pulled me back into the pub, but took the side door into the snug.
‘Are you alright?’
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘but where did you two spring from?’
He said, ‘We didn’t spring from anywhere. We’ve been here all night. We saw you
come in with your two pals and we watched Harry through the servery over there in the
corner.’
He pointed to the corner of the bar that could be seen clearly through the hatch.
‘We could see him getting all angry and worked-up, then, suddenly, he was on his feet
and out of the back door like a whippet; we knew then that you’d gone out for a slash.’
‘Well, I’m grateful, I’ll say that. But what are you and Billy doing in the snug? I
thought only old women used these places.’
Davey laughed again, ‘Billy and I had a private meeting with a fella up from London;
a gent he is – Billy met him when he was in the nick for GBH. Wants us to do a little job for
him and it’s worth a couple of grand each.’
I whistled. That was two year’s wages at current rates for a tradesman.
‘Actually,’ said Davey, ‘we need a lookout for the job. Billy likes you. Do you want
in?’
‘What’s the job?’ I said innocently.
‘Piece of piss, really,’ said Davey, ‘but it’ll mean us getting out of this shithole of a
place for good. It’s a big house in the Dales. He’s given us a complete plan of the place and
all we’ve got to do is get in, lift four paintings and head for “the smoke”. He said he’d give
us a grand for each painting and two one way tickets for the States. Do you want in?’
My answer was immediate, ‘No thanks, mate. I start my apprenticeship in two weeks
time and I’ve promised the old lady that I’ll see it through if it kills me.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Davey. ‘It’ll probably serve you best in the long run. It’s different
for us see? We ain’t got no future here, but I’ve got an uncle in the States who reckons he
can get us jobs in the Texas oilfields and with a couple of grand each - man we’ll be rich!’
‘What about your Mam and the young ‘uns? How will she manage with you gone?’
‘Well, it’s coming up rosy for her by the looks of things – she’s took up with this
bloke who works down at Smith’s Dock as a foreman carpenter. He’s loaded and thinks the
world of Mam and the kids. I’d probably get in the way. Aye up! Here’s Billy coming. Not a
word of what I told you to anyone, OK?’
‘Sure thing, Davey,’ I said.
At the time, I thought my silence to the grave was a foregone conclusion – I couldn’t
begin to imagine what Billy would do to someone who grassed him up.
Billy joined us and shouted through the hatch for Alfie, who came scuttling round
from the bar, ‘Set up some pints, Alfie, and you’d better have a look out back; there’s
somebody out there looks like they’ve fallen over pissed drunk.’
Alfie brought the beer and, taking a torch from the shelf, headed out for the back yard.
He returned minutes later saying to no one in particular, ‘Fell over; it looks like he’s fallen
off the fucking roof. I’m calling an ambulance and that’ll mean the police as well. I think you
lot had best be gone when they arrive. Go and get your mates, son,’ he said to me. ‘Save a lot
of questions, OK?’
‘Sure thing, Alfie,’ I replied. Then turning to Billy, I said, ‘Thanks for looking out for
me.’ And then as an afterthought; ‘You didn’t kill him did you?’
‘Nah, son,’ was Billy’s reply. ‘The piece of shit’ll live, more’s the pity!’
A moment later I was back with Peter and Gerry. ‘Drink up!’ I said. ‘We’re leaving.’
This sudden turn of events seemed to take them aback. ‘What’s the rush?’ said Gerry.
‘There’s been some trouble out the back and the police will be here in no time. Let’s
go!’
Without further questions, glasses were drained, coats put on and I led them out
through the front door. Two minutes later we were all on the tram, heading away from South
Bank in the direction of Teesville and Normanby.
I never did see Davey or Billy the Insane again and I can only presume they carried out
their plan and headed for America. As for Nasty Harry, he was hospitalised for eight weeks;
he never worked again.
FOUR WEEKS IN
“If you take the path that leads down to your heart
You’ll find it a hard road to travel
Mysteries abound that you can’t understand
Things which only true love can unravel
You say you can’t cos the pool is too deep
And the line of your vision is fading
I say you can if you follow it now
By the light of your colour and shading
Chorus:
For the light of love
Is something you can’t climb above
For the light of love
Is something you can’t climb above”
O’Hare
Just a few words from a wee song I was writing, purely inspired by the now-daily self
analysis born of four whole weeks of sobriety. I was sitting on the balcony of Number One,
The Crescent at early evening, watching Mirror dinghies bobbing and weaving as they raced
each other across Plymouth Sound.
Debby sat close-by, cold glass of Chablis in hand, also watching the colourful, if
somewhat haphazard, pageant being played out below. For the first time in four weeks I
didn’t have the urge to rip the glass from her hand and down-it in one - I knew then that I had
started to mend.
I was now beginning to feel fit, healthy and, not just a little, pleased with myself - for
the past two nights I had foregone the ritualistic joint of cannabis and had managed a
reasonable, if somewhat fitful, sleep. I had stopped the joint smoking on reaching the
conclusion that my, or mine and Staccato’s, addictive brain theory really did have some
merit, and the last thing I wanted was to end up with another substance problem on my
hands. I had resolved that from there on in, my proposed eleven month period of abstinence
still to do, would be endured and accomplished without another crutch to lean on.
With regard to the addictive organ/brain theory, I had started to make daily diary notes
focussed around my past life, to try to analyse exactly why, anytime I had experienced a
physical or emotional crisis, the mind and bottle had become inextricably linked. Escape,
block it out - whatever it may have been - numb it down - so far that it couldn’t be felt - so
far down until it didn’t hurt anymore - that is of course until the effects of the whatever
tipple I was on wore off. However, in my case, the effects of any such over-indulgence
would usually wear-off in my sleeping hours, leaving me to rise early the morning after, and
use the busyness of the day to hide away from my inner fears. To the outside world;
acquaintances and even members of my family, this confused melting-pot of fears, escape
and alcohol, did not exist - or to be more precise - was being skilfully hidden from them with
a cloak of deception, worn by yours truly. Obviously, there were chinks in my secret armour,
but for the most part, my outward persona was one of the relaxed, confident businessman,
who appeared to be in control at all times. The same applied to my social life, in the
restaurants and bars I would invariably be the life-and-soul of the party; playing guitar;
singing songs; telling stories - to the casual onlooker, I must have seemed like a man without
a care in the world. Healthy, wealthy, but so, so unwise! Why?
Why indeed? Compared to the three bicycle builders at Emmaus, and countless
thousands like them - I had been treading a comparatively easy and stress-free path. So why
the need to escape by way of alcohol, and escape from what? These inner fears and doubts why did I have them? And then like the parting of the Red Sea my mind cleared and I knew
the answers to all of these questions.
The fears, the doubts, the stress, and the route of alcoholic escape I chose to alleviate
the pain - suddenly culminated together in one big, why? And there it was staring me in the
face all the time; I was walking the tightrope of personal life-tragedy because the brain organ
was manipulating the slightest blip to afford itself a trip down to the old alcoholic well. In
that “eureka” moment, I realised that the only part of my body that could be addicted to any
form, substance, trait or ideology - was the brain.
It now stood to blindingly clear reason - I had learned enough through Emmaus to
know that, over certain given amounts of time, every part of a human being’s physical
structure can be completely detoxed from any substance, every part but one that is; the brain!
The lungs, the liver, the heart, the kidneys – need I go on? All of them can be cleaned and
never crave to go back to the old ways; why? Because they can’t remember. Only our tricky
little friend, the brain organ, can remember.
Remember, remember – what is it in the long-time detoxed heroin addict that makes
them re-abuse again? What is this immensely powerful force that can dilute the horrors once
experienced by such a person, and get them to consider the option of re-abusing? It had to be
the brain. What other part of the human being’s physiological make-up is there, that could
conjure up a positive case, in reason, for the horrors of hell versus that first blissful hit of
smack? We have all heard the old adages; “oh, she weakened” or “oh, he fell off the wagon”
in the context of people who have tried to beat their own personal monkey. This observation
suddenly made me realise that the brain organ, with its addiction-stained memory, could not
wholly dictate the outcome of choice, without first disarming the thought processes of
reason.
I instantly knew, having now opened this immensely complicated can of worms, I
would have to search deep down inside my own consciousness to seek out answers I may
eventually not want to face. I felt I had theorised as much as I possibly could for one evening
– there was a great deal to consider and with another alcohol-free weekend to fill, I opted for
bed and, hopefully, sleep. That night I dreamt I not only smelt, but tasted, a ten-year-old malt
whiskey – oh naughty, naughty brain!
MY FIRST REAL DAY AT WORK
In the weeks running up to April and the beginning of what I considered to be my
“real” working life, I started to have reservations about becoming a tradesman in the steel
industry. Just about everyone I spoke to concerning my imminent start in the boiler yard
came up with lurid acts of initiation that I would, in their opinion, have to undergo. It was
pretty daunting to imagine one’s head being held down a toilet, whilst the old hands took it
in turns to piss on it, or even worse; being stripped naked by a mob who I was assured would
hold me down so one of them could smear foul-smelling, black, truck grease all over my
private parts. It did not bear thinking about, but according to so-called well-informed
sources, these ritualistic initiations were a formality for all new apprentices, regardless of
which department they were seconded to.
I couldn’t go for help in this matter to the family table; it just wasn’t the sort of topic
that would come up for discussion, and besides, what would happen if I did tell them about
it? I had nightmare visions of Mam coming to work with me and telling some hapless
foreman just what would happen to him if her son got his head pissed on. No, I had to go it
alone but swore to myself that, if I was to be subjected to any such ordeal - then I would kill
one of the bastards first. I did, on a couple of occasions, weakly suggest that I might be
better-suited to the outdoor life – ‘You know, Mam, cutting grass for the council or working
in the parks – things like that.’
Mam would reply in her usual good humour along the lines of, ‘Don’t be daft, our
John. You’ve got a trade to go to and that means you’ve got a future ahead of you – any silly
so-and-so can cut grass – and besides those poor men are out there in all weathers. You’d
catch your death of cold.’
It was no use, I’d gone and passed the bloody trade test and I was going to have to
make the best of it.
The first Monday in April eventually dawned and, with no shortage of trepidation, I
made my way through the steelworks to the boiler yard and entered by one of the large newfangled roller shutter doors. Once inside, I saw a group of lads all standing at the far end,
some of whom I knew from the trade test. Although the letter I was carrying clearly stated
that I was to report to the shop floor foreman, a Mr Tommy Keanan, my reasoning opted for
the safety-in-numbers theory and I made my way over to where the new lads were standing.
‘Hiya, Sam,’ I said to a lad I knew from school. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Dunno, we’ve just been told to wait here for the foreman,’ said Sam, eyeing the
hundred or so workmen who were busy in groups doing God knows what. ‘All I do know,’
continued Sam, ‘is that if any of those bastards rush us, then I’m off and they can stick their
poxy job up their arses!’
I was somewhat strangely comforted by the fact that Sam was also expecting to be
violated into his life as a tradesman and I readily echoed his sentiment with a, ‘Me too.’
Before this vein of conversation could continue, a small, energetic, ball of a man
appeared from nowhere and demanded to see our letters.
After quick inspection, he said, ‘Right. Which one of you is John Hare?’
My heart sank, as I formed the word, ‘Me.’
‘OK,’ said Tommy Keanan. ‘You’ll spend the next two weeks with the pre-heating
furnace gang - that’s down in the bottom corner of the yard. Report to one-eyed John – you
can’t miss him, OK?’
I was dumb-struck and just stood there. I knew where the pre-heating furnace was; I’d
sold hats to Crazy Horse there. But why me? Why had I to be the first to walk alone past
these squads of hardened steel men, all waiting to commit God knows what sort of atrocity.
I was awakened from this nightmare by the bark of Tommy Keanan, ‘Well? What you
waiting for? Get a move on – there’s work to be done.’
I started to walk away from the relieved faces of the other lads; they were all hoping
and praying for the same thing; I might be the sacrifice they thought; they might only do one
initiation as a token to the “god of steel”. Worst ways for them was that if I was mobbed and
defiled it would give them a chance to scatter and take their chances, legging it.
I walked the walk, trying not to show fear and was totally both disarmed and bemused
as friendly faces shouted above the din, things like, ‘Morning, son.’ or, ‘How’s it going,
young ’un?’
By the time I reached the pre-heating furnace, I realised that I, and probably every
other apprentice starting a trade in any part of the works that day, had been well and truly
hoodwinked! There were of course lots of pranks played on the new boys; like being sent to
the stores for “a long stand” or “a left-handed shovel”, but the atrocities we were expecting
had died out generations ago. However, the men of the pre-heating furnace had their own
little ritual for the new boy, which would involve me witnessing one of the funniest things I
have ever seen in a public house.
Conditions at the steelworks had improved dramatically since my father’s early days,
but even in the beginning of the nineteen sixties, they were still pretty basic. Hard hats were
only issued to and worn by senior management or important visitors; everyone else had to
look out for themselves. Health and safety at work training was non-existent and there were
still some ancient customs being practiced that, by today’s standards, would be considered
dangerous in the extreme.
It was one such practice, specifically unique to the furnace men, that was supposed to
be my undoing in the initiation stakes. Because of the intense heat generated as the white-hot
pre-heating furnace opened, when large pieces of twisted steel would be man-handled with
tongs, chains and pulleys – the union, historically, had negotiated as part of a wage deal for
each man to have two pints of beer both morning and afternoon. Can you imagine that today
- alcohol in the workplace, paid for by management? However, as part of the furnace boy’s
duties, he would be sent, twice every day, with two copper pails out of the works to a nearby
pub, get them filled and bring them back to the men. The initiation ruse was as follows:
The night before any new boy started, the furnace men would be drinking in the pub,
as usual, and would alert the landlord to this fact. In time-honoured tradition, the landlord’s
part in this little lark was to sucker the new boy in with excuses as to why he could not fill
the pails and send him on his way. These excuses, I was to find out later, could range from,
‘Sorry, son, the drays in.’ Or – ‘The pumps have gone down.’ Or even – ‘The cellar is
flooded.’ His real role in this charade was to make the boy late back after plying him with
strong ale, so he would spill most of the beer en route and receive a cuff round the ear for his
trouble. A harmless enough initiation for a new recruit to undergo and one I would certainly
have swapped for being pissed on or greased around my privates earlier that morning.
Big one-eyed John was, by nature of his impediment, a formidable-looking man, but
he was, in fact, a real decent sort, as I was to find out later. But on that first morning, he
reminded me of a Cyclops – a name lesser men sometimes called him; but never within
earshot.
At around ten o’clock, he pulled out the two copper pails from a steel locker and said,
‘Right, lad. Do you know where the Bottom House is?’
I told him that I did; there were only three pubs in Grangetown, colloquially known as:
the “Bottom”, “Top” and “Middle” Houses - the “Bottom” being adjacent to the works’
perimeter.
‘Good,’ said John. ‘Now I want you to take these pails in there. Give ’em to the
landlord. Get ’em filled up and bring ’em back here. Have you got that?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘But do I have to go all the way round, or can I nick out through the
boards at the back of Nine Mill?’
John gave a laugh of admiration, which made his countenance look even more
gruesome. ‘You can go any way you like, lad, as long as you don’t spill any ale.
Understand?’
‘I won’t,’ I said, confidently picking up the pails.
Once outside the yard, I broke into a trot and within five minutes I had rounded the
back of Nine Mill, pulled aside two loose fencing boards and exited the works almost deadopposite the Bottom House.
The pub itself was a pretty run-down affair, almost to the point of making Alfie’s
Mucky Pots look palatial. On entering, I was struck by the impoverished feel of the interior;
this really was the archetypal spit-and-sawdust drinking house. The bar room was quite large,
which only seemed to emphasise the absence of any welcoming feature and I remember
thinking that you’d have to be sorely pressed for options to make this your regular wateringhole. There were seven or eight men sitting in ones and twos at various tables, who, I was to
learn later, were men with no work to go to that day. No work meant no money, so it came as
no surprise to also find out later that most of them could, and would, make one pint last a
whole morning’s session. Some of them, because of financial constraints, would be drinking
the one and only pint courtesy of the landlord allowing a small amount of credit to seasoned
regulars. Still, one pint in such insalubrious surroundings was a preferred option to sitting in
their own dark and dingy back-kitchen staring at four walls; only the rich families of the area
had television at that time (and even so the programmes did not start until 5 p.m.). At least
here they could get out from under the feet of wife and kids and chat with other men about
the usual football, whippets, pigeons and, who knows, one might even hear of a chance of
some work.
I walked over to the unattended bar and placed my pails on the counter. Not knowing
the form, I resisted knocking for attention, took a stool and waited. After a few minutes, a
wiry-looking individual with a drawn face and one bloodshot eye came from the back of the
premises and without introduction said, ‘You could be in for a bit of a wait, son. We’re out
of Strong Arm until the dray turns up.’
‘What about the Tetley’s?’ I said helpfully, pointing at one of the pumps.
‘Your lads won’t drink that. More than my life’s worth to send you back with that. Oh
no, Big John and his boys are Strong Arm drinkers. Listen,’ he continued, ‘the dray should
be here any minute, so you just take a pew and have a pint on me. The lads’ll understand.’
Who was I to argue? I didn’t want to go back with the wrong beer on my first day and,
besides, getting in with another landlord at my age might come in handy, not to mention a
free pint!
‘You’re the boss,’ I said, using a phrase I had heard the men speak when indicating
acquiescence.
As he poured the pint I turned away to survey the scene around me, but couldn’t fail to
see him in the bar room mirror opposite adding something to the pint glass from a bottle. I
turned again to face the bar and on taking a sip from the freshly poured pint, I remarked in an
open-handed and not suspicious tone, ‘By, that’s a bit strong!’
‘Good ale that Tetley, son,’ he replied adding: ‘Good strong ale, it’s what your lads
drink night-times, won’t touch it at work though, that’s why you’re waiting for the weaker
“Strong Arm” to come in.’
I still had no real inkling of what was going on, and although his answer relating to
strong ale and the workplace was more than plausible, big rats were definitely starting to be
smelt! Why would he do such a thing? Why would he be lacing someone’s drink for no
charge at all? My ever-active imagination kicked in, and realising that the pub was situated
close to the dock’s road, I recalled a history lesson where men would be grogged-up, find a
shilling in the bottom of their glass and be dragged off by the press gangs to God knows
where. Having straightway made a comprehensive assessment of the pint, and on not finding
the king’s shilling, my fears of kidnapping and the like subsided and I once again turned to
observe the other customers. They were a drab looking bunch, who it appeared to me
blended in perfectly with their surroundings. The infrequently sipped pints were obviously
their passports to admission, giving them the accepted right to take warmth from the
landlord’s coal fire. It probably made good economic sense to them; why pay good money to
have a daytime fire at home, when one could trade it for a pint and a bit of company? The
abject sadness of the whole situation suddenly gripped me and I started to imagine what
possible circumstances in my life to come could lead me to be sitting here in, say, thirty
years’ time. I gave an involuntary shudder at the thought.
Just as I was saying to myself, ‘It’s time to be out of here,’ the door from the street
opened and in walked a local character of some not-insignificant folk status, accompanied by
half a dozen poorly dressed men. The person in question was Swanny the local rag-and-bone
man, who plied his trade around the small towns surrounding the industrial heartland. He
was a man of average build who always dressed in black; boots, trousers, shirt, waistcoat,
topped-off with an old serge coat and a trilby hat – he was always unshaven, spoke with
some sort of Irish brogue and cut a dash somewhere between “dapper” and “scruffy”. He
would normally spend his days atop his horse and cart, trundling through the streets
shouting, ‘Any-ya-bone?’ Which translates back to ‘Any rags or bones?’ He would take any
unwanted item away and somehow convert it into money. There wasn’t much thrown away
in the streets, but in the better areas of most towns, some of Swanny’s minor killings were
legendary; today was to be his crowning glory.
Swanny marched straight up to the bar, banged loudly three times with the palm of his
hand, and shouted in a voice that could have been heard in the next street, ‘Come out here,
Joey, you swindling, conniving old bastard – Swanny’s come to town.’
The landlord, who had served me and who was obviously descended from the Irish
somewhere along the line, appeared from nowhere and declared, ‘Ah, Swanny. It’s yourself.’
Swanny responded with an affected air of confidence befitting an Irish squireen, ‘And
who else would it be standing at yer bar dressed head-to-toe in black, with a feckin horse cart
outside ya door?’
For the first time since entering the place, I wanted to laugh, but thought better of it.
Joey made to respond but Swanny cut him short, ‘I was coming up here for a day’s
refreshment, when I came across these lads shivering on a street corner who are after telling
me that you won’t let ‘em in for a warm because they’re of the Catholic persuasion.’
‘Aw now, Swanny,’ said Joey. ‘You know the score. If there’s trouble it’ll be more
than my licence is worth; it’s happened too many times in the past and the rozzers’d love to
give me my marching orders.’
‘There’ll be no trouble while Swanny’s in the chair. Isn’t that right, lads?’ said the
ragman squire, as he simultaneously produced from his pocket a roll of folding money that
would have choked a donkey.
A gasp went up from the assembled and I was reminded of the lines from that old
chestnut of a folk song “Wild Rover”:
‘Then out from his pocket he pulled sovereign’s bright
And the landlady’s eyes opened wide with delight’
Joey’s eyes were like transfixed organ stops.
‘Well?’ said Swanny, leaving a moment for effect. ‘What’s it to be? Is it drinks all
round on Swanny or do I take these lads and me money elsewhere?’
Swanny already knew the answer, but to guarantee the outcome, he made a deliberate
show of peeling a crisp five-pound note from the roll and held it up not six inches from
Joey’s face. No contest.
‘I’ll allow it this once because of the high regard I have for a gentleman like yerself,’
he bull-shitted. ‘But no trouble, mind.’
A roar went up from the assembled and everyone, including the original drinkers,
flocked around Swanny, back-slapping him and paying compliments to his generosity and
good fortune. Swanny had called for pints all round and large whiskies from the top shelf. I
took a half, watching the landlord’s every move as it was poured. With this sudden and
unexpected surge of activity, the landlord was joined by his wife, Beryl, a thin red-lipped
harridan of a woman, who swiftly started pulling pints, while telling Swanny what a fine
figure of a man he was. Swanny then regaled the crowd as to the reason for both his good
fortune and largesse.
‘It was just sitting there outside the back door of this big house with a bag of old rags
on top of it. I knew what it was as soon as I saw it – but those who had put it out obviously
didn’t. But I knew see? Swanny’s got books on such things; looked at the pictures a hundred
times or more. It had been painted a horrible Welsh-lavatory blue and someone had stuck an
old piece of oil cloth on the top; but there was no mistaking what it was to the trained eye.’
Swanny had told the story thus far in a slowly-spoken hushed and dramatic tone,
milking his captive audience for all it was worth. It was too much for one bystander, who
interrupted with, ‘What was it Swanny? What was it?’
‘What was it?’ mimicked Swanny, miffed at being put off his stride so to speak. ‘I’ll
tell you what it was,’ he continued, reverting to his conspiratorial tone; ‘It was a piece by
Sheraton.’
Everyone looked at everyone else and the bemused faces told Swanny that nobody had
a clue what he was talking about. Swanny shook his head in mock despair, drained his barely
five-minute old pint and said, ‘Set ’em up again, Joey, whilst I educate these gossoons on the
refinements of period furniture.’
Another roar of approval went up from the gossoon department and in the ensuing
exchange of glasses another pint of who-knows-what was pushed by Joey in my direction. I
still had half left in my glass and resolved to make it last until this dray arrived. In the next
fifteen minutes, Swanny told his tale of taking the table to antique dealers somewhere on the
outskirts of Middlesbrough and of how they tried to palm him off with ten pounds until he let
them know in no uncertain terms that he was aware of its constructor and the value attached.
At five-minute intervals, more pints and double-drams were downed till at last Swanny
ended the story with him horse-trading the dealers to part with seven hundred and fifty quid!
Once restored the declared the piece would be worth ten times that amount. By now, and as
he called for the sixth successive round, the whole pub, landlord included, was three parts of
the way to being well and truly pissed.
It was then that Joey, courage fuelled by Swanny’s money, said, ‘How come that you,
with all that money, haven’t sent a pint of best out to that poor old horse of yours?’
I thought I’d misheard, but Swanny swung round on his stool and said, ‘Jesus and
Mary. I clean forgot about Flossy and dear God above, look at it out there. It’s raining cats
and dogs! Barney! Bring her in!’
Before Joey could gather his wits, Barney, one of the previously shivering Catholics,
was off his stool and out of the door, returning moments later with a rein attached to a cart
horse. I couldn’t help it! I started to laugh and within seconds the whole pub, landlord
included, was in fits.
‘Another round!’ shouted Swanny. ‘And a pint for ma horse.’
The whole place fell about again and someone started playing jigs and reels on a
harmonica. Sitting back in my corner, still no more than a pint into the day, I could hardly
believe my eyes. As more rounds were bought and drunk, the horse included - for a foil tin
tray had been provided as a receptacle - the tableau looked like a bizarre scene from an IrishAmerican western. Several of the Catholic contingent were drunkenly attempting some form
of Irish dancing to the strains of the harmonica. Swanny was re-telling his story to no one in
particular and Flossy, the horse, was slurping up everything that came her way; it was a truly
fantastic sight. And then it happened:
Flossy let out a low, long, resounding fart, which gathered volume as it rose in pitch
and tone; silence for a second, then the whole pub clapped and guffawed with raucous
laughter; but Flossy wasn’t finished. She swayed momentarily, then sank down on front
knees only, back end still in tact, swayed again, then keeled over completely onto her side,
taking a table of drinks as she went. The whole room was stunned into silence, as Joey’s
harridan wife came rushing in from the back.
‘Oh dear God, wha…?’ but she was cut short by Flossy, who briefly emitted another
low back-end moan, then proceeded to have the most enormous shit. What seemed to be an
endless stream of straw-coloured, tennis-ball sized pellets began to pile up beside Flossy’s
rear end and the stench arising from the clouds of steam sent the squeamish searching for
their handkerchiefs. Then all hell broke loose.
It is difficult to remember the sequence of events exactly, but I seem to recall that
Swanny started to shout in a pained, drunken voice, ‘Ma horse is dead! Ma horse is dead!
Another round, we’ll drink to ma poor dead Flossy!’
The stifled roar of approval that went up from the kerchief-holding crowd was
immediately silenced by a bloodthirsty scream from the landlady, who used this vocal
phenomenon purely as a means to get order.
She then turned to Swanny and spat, ‘Your friggin’ horse isn’t dead, you stupid old
bastard! It’s blind, fuckin’ drunk. Look, see for yourself, it’s still breathing!’
‘A miracle! A miracle!’ shouted the now-bemused Swanny. ‘Flossy lives - another
round for the miracle!’
The crowd roared, the landlady screamed, and when order was restored in full, she
spoke; ‘There’ll be no more rounds in this pub till that horse is back outside and that pile of
shit has gone from my floor. Barney, you great lummox, you brought the bloody yoke in
here, take this penny and dial 999 in the box outside. I want the fire-brigade and tell them to
get a move on!’
At that, Joey appeared from the back with two full pails of what I presumed to be
“Strong Arm” and said, ‘Here, son. Make yourself scarce. If the brigade is coming then old
Bill won’t be far behind.’
I didn’t need a second telling; one-eyed John had told me to be back before noon and
the pub clock now read ten to twelve – just right I thought, using the short cut I’d make it
back with minutes to spare.
As I came to a halt by the closed furnace door and lowered the pails, the furnace men
gathered round to watch big John administer the initiation cuff to the new boy. John looked
at me, then at the intact pails and back to me again.
‘Are you alright, lad?’ he enquired of me suspiciously, his one eye half closing.
I assured him that I was, but he asked again, ‘Are you sure you feel alright?’
I said, ‘I’m OK, but there’s some funny goings on in that Bottom House.’
‘How do you mean exactly? Funny goings on?’
‘Well,’ I said, taking a deep breath. ‘I gave the pails to the man in the pub and he told
me there wasn’t any Strong Arm until the dray arrived and that I’d have to wait.’
John and the men nodded and smiled.
‘Go on, son,’ said John.
‘He then gave me a pint, said not to worry and that the firm would pay for it, but I saw
him putting something from a bottle into the pint. Honest, I saw him in the mirror doing it.’
They all nodded and smiled again, as if they already knew what I was telling them –
weird.
‘Then?’ prompted John.
‘Then Swanny the ragman turned up with a load of other blokes and he had a huge pile
of money, said it was seven hundred and fifty pounds.’
At this all the men raised their eyebrows.
I continued, ‘He started buying everyone pints and doubles off the top shelf: every five
or six minutes – I kid you not. There was a party in full swing in no time. Then somebody
brought his horse, Flossy, in and the horse started drinking with them.’
The men were now staring at me, open-mouthed.
‘Go on, son.’
‘Well the rounds, as I said, were coming thick and fast and it got a bit much for the
horse and it fell over drunk and then had a great big shit all over the floor. The landlady’d
gone ballistic and when I came away they were sending for the fire brigade!’
Big John stroked his chin for a moment, then started to bark orders, ‘Right lads, we’re
off. Alec, go and find Tommy Keanan and tell him the furnace is shut until the morning,
there’s nothing urgent needs doing. Bill, you leave now, go the long way round and clock us
all out, the lad as well. Let’s get this ale drunk first though. Come on, look sharp or we’ll be
missing the action!’
Beer drunk, big John said, ‘Come on then, lad. Show us your short cut out through the
boards.’
So there I was, midday on my first real day at work, leading five or six furnace men
round the back of Nine Mill and out through the boards to the Bottom House, a long road of
career drinking ahead of me.
SIX WEEKS TO SUNDAY
A glorious early September, Sunday morning; a celebration breakfast on the balcony
consisting of fresh orange juice, croissants and hot coffee; it was six weeks to the day since
I’d last had a drink. It could have been months, it could have been years, it seemed like an
eternity; probably because I knew that in my short period of abstinence I had learnt more
about myself than I had in the previous fifty years.
The brain organ theory, as opposed to that of the addictive gene, had sent me looking
for answers as to why my adult life, with all its comings and goings, had for the most part
been alcohol dependent. There! I’ve written it down. Six weeks ago I would never have
considered it a possibility – six weeks ago – yes, I was a heavy drinker, but a drinker in
control – or so I had convincingly led myself to believe.
In my deliberations as to why my seemingly ordered and successful life had leaned so
heavily on the crutch of alcohol, I kept playing over again my conversations with the three
Emmaus bicycle builders. Each of their testimonials were intertwined with a common thread
– all three were registered recovering alcoholics, but in every case their stories told of deeprooted, underlying traumas that had, in essence, robbed them of their inner sense of security
and normal well-being.
I was discovering that when any individual loses his/her confidence and moral
fortitude, facing up to the every-day roller-coaster of life can be fearfully daunting and a
seemingly impossible challenge. When any human being experiences uncontrollable fear, the
natural instinct is to look for a means of escape and escape they did, we did, I did. Whatever
the problem, large or small, my first stab at a solution was always, so I thought, the result of
several crutch-sized scotches. Why? What had it been in my life that linked me to the bicycle
brotherhood? - It was, of course, the same common denominator that all three shared; a
deep-seated, subconscious insecurity. But I had had a loving family upbringing, I had not
been abused or half starved to death – or had I? It suddenly occurred to me that in a way I
had – and it was all here written down within these pages. Let me list instances by way of
explanation before the white coats arrive;
Age Three
Realising the rent man’s bosses could, on a whim, take away my Dad’s job and as a
consequence we would not have a home to live in - powerful, bad karma for a little one to be
carrying around.
Age Four
The railway policeman verbally reducing my father, my hero, to the status of a low-life thief
that day down at the rake.
Age Five
Being told to respect one’s elders and one’s betters -, which at that time sounded to me like
everyone else on the planet.
Age Seven
The nights of abject fear experienced over the communion wine-drinking episode with Totty
Thomas.
Age Nine
Similar nights of fear of those above, over Barry Foreman kicking the dirty old church
warden’s bum and sending him head-first into the drink.
Age Eleven
Failing the first half of the eleven-plus examination and being told I would be sent to the
backward school.
Age Eleven
Being told by Mam that the dung heap of life was where we lived.
Age Thirteen
Being told that the only mathematics I had understood were those relating to the football
field.
Age Fifteen
Hearing my Mam being told by the Careers Officer that the best she could ever hope for her
son was a job in the mill.
Just a selection of near daily instances which had contributed to the conditioning of a
failure mentality that had seriously undermined my basic security, and maybe that of many
others from a similar background. All of these factors had contributed to a complete growing
up without any vestiges of self-esteem, and an adult life thereafter, even in times of success,
that had been littered with fear and self-doubt, which constantly sent me reaching for the
bottle.
Now here I am, six weeks into abstention, finally believing that I stand on the
threshold of realisation regarding the fifty year-old problem that has been my life. It is on
this note that I must leave you for a while, but as I do so it is with the first key question of a
theory yet to be elaborated on;
Will you will the brain – or will the brain will you?
SIX MONTHS TO SUNDAY AND TWELVE MONTHS TO SUNDAY
The second and third books in this trilogy follow the writer on a drinking career and
see him, as an apprentice, taking a holiday fruit-picking in Cambridgeshire. He meets and
falls in love with a student from Ireland, who encourages an educational upgrade through
suggested reading matter.
From there to a leaving of the steelworks for Belfast and a stab at running an Irish
folk music club, which in turn leads to involvement with a civil rights movement and brush
with the IRA, not to mention a chance meeting with Eamon de Valera.
Then on to London and after a series of casual work assignments, a career as a
performer in a musical trio crossing paths with other accomplished drinkers of the day,
including The Dubliners, The Furies, Billy Connolly, Richard Harris and Peter O’Toole
amongst many more.
From the music scene to a job in management, leading to an appointment to the board
of directors at age twenty eight.
Back to Ireland again, but this time to open warehouse outlets for the glass fibre
industry and of course study the Irish approach to drinking, which in most areas is
considered an art form.
All of this interspersed with further developing of the addictive organ theory and the
beginning of a simple self brain-patterning programme that would enable the writer to
eventually lead a substance-free existence.
OTHER TITLES BY JOHN HARE:
The Prime Ministers Wife (Available now for Kindle)
A Work of political, tongue-in-cheek fiction, aimed at the mid-range and predominantly
female, book buying population.
Set in the mid 2020’s the main storyline centres around a faceless world committee, who by
using its incalculable wealth, spends several decades grooming an elite band of the likeminded, providing them with the necessary resource to take over a complete political system
- 'complete' means complete - in effect a political party without opposition.
The United Kingdom is chosen by the Committee to apply this experiment of one-party
governance - a governance that will change the rule of law, enabling the new order to sweep
aside the constrictions of an impotent system; this includes the dismantling of Whitehall and
the overhauling of a now unworkable judiciary.
Such radicalisation allows the new incumbents to re-introduce both capital and corporal
punishment. Public hanging and floggings become must-have ticket events, ASBOs and
ineffective community service programmes are abolished.
The reconstruction of a national health system sees the handing back of hospitals to matrons
and the sweeping away of bureaucratic management.
The 'hotel culture' is removed from all penal institutions resulting in no visiting, no
privileges, with prisoner reform and welfare groups being outlawed.
All previously banned drugs are legalised and are dispensed through pharmaceutical chains
providing standardised quality at knock-down prices; dealers, pimps and slave gang-masters
decamp for more lucrative climes.
All of this and more under the helmsmanship of one man, or as it is to turn out, the one who
stands firmly at his side; the Prime Minister's Wife.
*****
O’Hare’s Compendium of Contentious Social Rhyme – Parts 1 and 2 (Available now on
Kindle)
The Contentious Social Rhyme series came about by the author travelling around Great
Britain and listening to the comments and observations of everyday folk regarding the
current state of the nation.
Politics, religion, love, life, gambling and addiction are but a few of the topics covered in
books one and two, with the more radical viewpoints on such issues being recreated in verse.
Humour, pathos, hope and despair all feature within these pages and no doubt many readers
will concur with or violently oppose the sentiments expressed herein.
Whatever your viewpoint, the common denominator in this work is its undeniable thought
provoking capacity to engage all readers of poetry in the more contentious issues of daily
life.
I hope you enjoy.
*****
You Can’t Come In Here (A Play)
Heaven and hell are full with thousands of recently-deceased massing outside the gates of
both places in the hope of gaining entry. The situation is so bad that in heaven the dead
popes and bishops have gone on strike because of the lack of peace. Gabriel and the angels
are in revolt. God’s gone on a sabbatical and left his son, Jesus Christ, to deal with the everworsening crisis. Only the born-again are permitted entry with ordinary run-of-the-mill
Christians being rejected out of hand and given new status papers which, under normal
circumstances, would gain them access to Lucifer’s kingdom.
The situation is much the same in hell. The Prince of Darkness has gone walkabout, leaving
his daughter, Lucy, to contend with the mass over-crowding, a serious shortage of alcohol
and a closure of 90% of the debauchery parlours.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Unlike his illustrious co-author Jack Harris, John left school aged 15 and followed his
forbearers into the North Eastern steel industry.
Having served an apprenticeship he left the North East for Northern Ireland in pursuit of a
love interest he had met whilst on a fruit picking holiday in Wisbech, Cambridgeshire.
In Belfast he opened and ran two live music venues and played an active role in the civil
rights movement before a fall out with the I.R.A. had him decamping for the anonymity of
London.
Describing John’s life to date after that as colourful would be an understatement, as the
following career path attests.
On returning from Ireland, a series of factory labouring jobs in and around the London area,
followed by a stint as a grave digger were undertaken.
Graduated from busker to pro musician and singer with traditional folk band.
In need of supplementary finance, took a two week labouring assignment in a Brentford
factory which gradually became extended, culminating five years later in him leading the
organisation as Managing Director.
Participating in the sale of this company for the owners then embarked on a new career in
property development being principally responsible for the renovation and construction of
several landmark buildings.
John has held several main board positions and also chaired charities for brain injured
children and the homeless.
He has both written and featured in many major magazine articles, but declares that his
favourite pieces include having his photograph taken alongside one of Lord Lucan in the
Plymouth Evening Herald, an uncanny likeness – or is it?
Another was in Devon Life magazine where the writer described his likeness to that of a
raffish Alan Rickman in Sheriff of Nottingham pose from the movie ‘Robin Hood Prince of
Thieves’.
John has two children and now lives in Cornwall with his partner, the Lady Deborah
Merryweather Trewin.