Wardy

Lorenica your words have brought tears to my eyes. It is so encouraging to hear that my memories are of interest to others. You will know from my chapter on Heber road that the education system to me was a challenge and most of my school days were spent battling against the system and teachers. I?m please to say that I never gave up and at the age of 51, which was a few years back, I finally obtained an MSc from Leicester University. I?m so pleased that you found the chapters easy to read, it was always my intention to do that. In the past I have read books and found some of the words so complicated that I have lost interest in what I was reading. I have so many stories of my childhood and your words have made me think that maybe I should continue to put words to paper and share those stories with others. It?s been a long journey since Heber Road School but perhaps finally I can say that I do have something to say which is worth listening to. Many thanks Wardy.

lorenika, thanks you for that comment. The book is based on me as a child from 5 - 10 years old. It tells of my family, the people in the street, the good times and the bad times, the drinking in the Heber Arms pub and my fatheres building business. However, its all based around Dulwich, Rodwell Road and how things realy were for the working class family. I think I will do somthing with it, theres lots in there to tell, I just need to know what to do with it and how. Thanks again Wardy

Pickle, thanks very much for your comments.

Thanks for that, any suggestions for a title?

Lorenika: The book is called 'Looking Back' It's my childhood memories which I have written for my children and grandchildren. However, I am being asked to publish the book; dont know if I should. Have you read the chapter I posted on another thred about Rodwell Road? Maybe I should start up a new thread and have weekly chapters; a bit like the Sunday papers. Its good to know that people enjoy my stories, I enjoyed writting them, thank you.

Chuff: I went to Heber Road from 1955 to 1961 and Thomas Calton in Peckham from 1961 to 1965. However if your dad is in his late 50's early 60's and live in Dulwich I may know him; whats his name?

Peckhamgatecrusher: The cheque is in the post.

Canji: I was born in the back room of N0 25. The garden was very small but I still managed to have a shed full of racing pigions, chickens and a dog. If you look from Rodwell Road towards Crystal Palce Road at the very end house on the corner on the left hand side, you will see my initials carved in to the cemented wall pier. It was put there in 1957, I got a good bash around the back of the head for doing it. When I was very young I would climb from the back of my house up on to the roof. I would look over the ridge of the roof and when the pigions were feeding in the road, as they always did, I would pop them off with my caterpult, my mum would go mad at me for doing this: arew the pigions still there?

Peckhamgatecrasher: Your grandad probably cleand our chimney, knowing how it was in those days we probably still owe him the money. I had some muffins the other day; nothing like they were in the 50's. I have lots more stories from my book, I will put them on this thred one day.

Candj: Moved away in 1968. My perents lived there all through the war. Rodwell Road is where I grew up and learned about live. There were many old charactors who lived in the road in those days, people you would never see today and some of them had memories going right back to the 1800'. I can remember one person, his name was Stan the Polish Man. He was a terrible driver and he owned a very old Standard Vanguard. He once came out of the Heber Arms Pub after a few pints, put the car in revers, instead of foreward gear, shot backwards and ran over a man called John Robinson, breaking both john's legs. No police were called and no charges where brought against Stsn the Polish Man.

Chuff: Im glad to know you enjoyed my story. I to can remember getting lost in the fog, or smog as it was known. Problem was I was only outside my house, but I couldnt find my way back home. Dont remember the French onion man.

Minder: I can still remember the smell of those vans. If I remenber coredctly they usually called on a Saturday

Minder 2: I remember that so well. I also remember that when parafin came in to fashion there were so many more house fires. I can also remember one of the parifine men selling " Esso Blue". Use must be around my age; did you live in Rodwell Road?

Its a pitty they dont bring them back today; the council could learn a lot.

No problem I have plenty more if anyone is interested.

I have been writting a few things about Heber Road School on another thred and with the responce shown I thought you may like to read another chapter from my book about Rodwell Road in the 1950's. Enjoy

CHAPTER 8

People Who Made Their Living on the Streets

The world today compared with the world of my childhood has changed drastically and so has the meaning of many English words. When I was a boy you could use the word ?gay? without giving homosexuality a second thought; ?gay? in my day meant you were happy or it could even mean bright colours. The same could be said for the word ?muffin?. If you said to someone today you were a ?muffin man? they would immediately conjure up all sorts of sexual innuendos, thinking you were a pervert. In fact the muffin man was a regular visitor to my street, and every street in the area where I lived, on a Saturday afternoon.

The muffin man sold bread muffins. He would carry the muffins on a huge tray which he balanced on his head. As he walked along the road he would be holding a large bell by the handle, a bit like an old-fashioned school bell. He would shake the bell rigorously and at the same time shout the words ?Muffins, fresh muffins.? On hearing this barrage of noise, normally at about 4pm, mum, providing dad wasn?t too pissed and in a good mood, would send me out of the house to buy six muffins.

I was always intrigued by the muffin man. He was very old and his face was full of wrinkles, the type of face you would imagine had a thousand stories to tell. He always wore the same clothes: a black suite coat, grey trousers, waistcoat with a pocket watch and chain, a greyish white shirt buttoned at the collar, but with no tie, and a thick long white apron. There was no colour in his clothes, just black, white and grey. He reminded me of Charlie Chaplin in the old black-and-white films.

The muffins would be covered in a white sheet, and as he pulled the sheet from the muffins there was an unmistakable smell of fresh bread. I could never figure out how he balanced such a big tray on his head without toppling over somewhere on the way. I used to try to mimic him by balancing a tray, made from a plank of wood, on my head in my back yard, but could never master the art.

There were no hygiene precautions to speak of ? he personally handled all the muffins and the money without once washing his hands and I suspect he had a piss somewhere on his rounds too. That said, I can?t remember anyone ever having a stomach problem after eating one of his muffins.

Saturday afternoon and the muffin man, believe it or not, was an exciting time. Mum would warm the muffins, cover them with butter and we would sit and munch, quietly enjoying our weekly treat; and what a treat that was.

Almost every day I hear people rattling on about recycling; it?s on the news, in the tabloids, on the radio and rammed down your throat by the local council. Recycling is nothing new ? we just forgot how to do it.

The best recycler of all times and someone who has long since gone was the rag-and-bone man. Every day of the week, the rag-and-bone man would ride his horse and cart along every street shouting, ?Rag and bones, rag and bones, any old lumber.? The rag-and-bone man would buy anything: old clothes, iron, copper, lead, old bath tubs, old kettles ? you name it and he would give you something for it, and then recycle it. I loved the sound of the rag-and-bone man?s call and the click-clock of his horse?s hooves walking along the road; I tried every day to have something for him to buy.

The rag-and-bone man always had dirty finger nails and clothes that looked like they should have been binned long ago. Every finger on his hands would have an old gold ring and he wore a silver pocket watch with a chain hanging from his waistcoat pocket.

There?s a couple of things I distinctly remember about the rag-and-bone man: he always smelled of horse shit, most of his teeth were dark brown with the odd broken black tooth, and he had one gold tooth, just to the left-hand side of his top jaw, a sign of wealth in those days. The rag-and-bone man was always friendly, always had something to say about nothing and always had a big smile on his face.

On the opposite side of the coin, his horse never seemed to have a smile, his horse always looked completely fucked and in need of a good feed. I suppose the bottom line was that if anyone, horse or human, for years walked the same old route, day in, day out, with someone shouting ?rag and bones? in their ear every couple of minutes, they would probably look fucked too.

Like with most things as a child, I would look at people and situations and ask myself questions. The one big question I always asked myself about the rag-and-bone man was why he shouted ?bones? in his daily chorus. I never saw any bones on his cart and I never saw him buy any bones. After all, I would think, what can you do with a bone? I still don?t know the answer to this day.

Ask anyone today for a glass of milk and they will reach into the fridge and produce a carton. Ask anyone today for a slice of bread and they will reach into the cupboard and produce a nicely cut pre-wrapped loaf. Not when I was a boy. Milk and bread were delivered to your door by the milkman and the bakerman.

Both these commodities were transported by horse and cart door to door. The horse would walk along the streets and know just when and where to stop and when to start walking again.

The bakerman?s bread would be piled high in baskets on his cart, covered only by a sheltered fabric roof open to all the elements, and yet there was never a complaint from anyone about hygiene.

The milkman was very much the same. His horse would know when to stop and when not to stop. The big difference between the milkman?s cart and the bakerman?s cart was the noise. The milkman?s cart made a loud noise of bottles banging together as the horse pulled the cart along the road. It was always a mystery to me how those bottles didn?t break, but they didn?t.

Although we only had small back yards in the street where we lived, some people grew a few vegetables. Now, one thing that is good for vegetables is horse shit, and Saturday mornings, when most men would be at home, was horse shit day.

Just before the bakerman or the milkman came along the street eager gardeners would be poised waiting at the front of their houses for them to arrive. Each of them would be praying that when the horse did shit, and they do shit a lot, that it would shit outside their house so as they could lay claim to the pile. This was okay in theory, but the problem came when the horse shit halfway between two houses or in the middle of the road between two rows of houses; then the fun began. When this happened you would see two grown-up men running with all their might, carrying a bucket and small shovel, towards the pile of horse shit. The first to arrive at the pile would claim it as theirs. Unfortunately there were times when two men would reach the shit together, and that is when the real fun began. I have witnessed adult men come to a physical fight over a pile of horse shit. By the time they had stopped jumping around and throwing punches at each other there was no horse shit to have; it was spread across the road where their feet had kicked it from place to place during the scuffle.

Slowly the horses disappeared into retirement. I was about ten years old when the last of the horses, the milkman?s horse, was on his rounds in a thunder storm. For some unknown reason, at the sound of thunder, which he must have heard a thousand times before, he bolted and came to an abrupt halt at the end of my street, lying on his side shivering with fear.

There was some panic and the police were called. Eventually a vet arrived and examined the horse. Shortly afterwards a screen was put around the horse, there was a bang and the horse was dead, put down by the vet.

This horse was a beautiful intelligent animal that had worked hard for years and who was loved by all the kids. I was only young and the whole event made me very sad. I had known this horse all of my life. Every day I saw him, stroked him and fed him with bread ? now he was gone.

Although I was only young at the time, I can remember wondering if the horse had just had enough of life. Perhaps he felt too old to do any more, too old to pull that heavy cart, too old to get up every morning at the crack of dawn and just too old to work tirelessly in all weathers. Perhaps he decided to end it all by making that final bolt for freedom.

The horse was replaced by an electric milk float; having milk delivered was never to be the same again.

I don?t know who this man was or where he came from, but every now and then this tall man with an artificial leg would appear at our door; he was the knife sharpener.

He would bang at the door and shout ?Knife ? scissors.? Mum would go to the kitchen draw and pull out a carving knife or an old pair of scissors, giving them to me saying, ?Go and get these sharpened.?

The knife sharpener?s entire business was mounted on his push bike. The bike had one pedal which was attached by various chains to a big grinding stone wheel which was suspended from his handle bars. He would sit on the bike supporting his balance with his artificial leg firmly on the ground. His good leg would push the pedal and in turn this would turn the grinding wheel. As he did this he would run the knife blade across the stone until it was razor sharp.

We all know someone in this modern world who can?t work because of a disability, bad back, gammy leg or some other such ailment. When I was a boy there were few people who didn?t work because of a physical disability. One leg, one arm, in a wheelchair or no feet, somehow they all found a way to make a living.

The peculiar thing was this man?s choice of making a living. Who in their right mind with one leg would choose to make their living by pedalling all day with their one good leg? Surely a better choice would be a fiddle player or play to a mouth organ ? anything rather than completely fucking up the only one good leg you had left.

I didn?t know an awful lot about the knife sharpener, but I did know he was a miserable bastard. He never talked and if you talked to him he would just grunt or shout ?Don?t talk, I?m sharpening.? With those sharp knives in his hand, I never pushed the point. I did however wonder what would happen if his artificial leg broke as he pedalled away at the wheel. Sometimes he was so miserable I wished it would break. You see, in those days artificial legs were made of wood and the cheaper National Health-issued legs didn?t have any joints; a little too much pressure or a touch of woodworm and the whole thing could collapse in pieces. Needless to say, it never did.

Now, of all the strange ways to make a living this must be it. There was a man who visited our street every week selling cotton reels and needles. Now, I don?t know how much cotton one needs, but I was always puzzled as to how he could make enough money to survive.

He was deaf and dumb, but he could sort of grunt a few words. He had all his cotton and needles in a big tray on the front of his cycle. Every week he would have a small group of women surrounding the tray looking at different colours of cotton. I could never understand the weekly fascination of looking at reels of cotton; surely you can only have so much cotton. Maybe it was just a chance for the women to have a chat, not with him obviously, but each other, and in the process he would make some money. I imagined these women to have huge cupboards indoors stacked high with every colour of cotton imaginable and every size of needle you could possibly want.

After years of coming to our street, one week the cotton man didn?t turn up and he was never seen again. I don?t know what happened to him ? perhaps he just got fed up with all those women talking and not being able to join in the conversation, or perhaps he just died. Whatever happened to him, no one seemed to care. I suppose everyone had enough cotton to last them a lifetime anyway, so he wasn?t missed.

Sad when you think about it ? spending your whole life not being able to talk and selling reels of cotton to women who done nothing else but talk and on top of that nobody really cared when you were gone.

Before I leave the people who earned their money on the street, I must tell you about Tom Cornwall. Tom had a small shop in Heber Road. I say shop, it was a shop, but it never opened. Tom used the shop as a storage area for what he sold on the streets.

Tom had a big old open-back van which during the week was loaded with fruit and vegetables. Tom would go from street to street shouting ?Fruit and veg.? His voice could be heard for miles, but on a Sunday morning all changed.

His van, instead of being loaded with fruit and vegetables, was loaded with fish, cockles, shrimps and all other kinds of seafood. Every Sunday morning mum would send me out to buy a pint of winkles and a pint of shrimps. The smell coming from his van reminded me of the seaside; it had a salty smell and felt fresh.

Now the thing was, we bought seafood on a Sunday, but we never bought fruit or vegetables from Tom during the week. The reason: dad had a fiddle going on.

Tom employed a young lad to help out in the shop on a Saturday. It was his job to stack the potatoes, open the boxes of tomatoes and generally make himself busy while Tom was out selling. Tom?s shop was right next door to the Heber Arms pub where dad often enjoyed his Saturday afternoon drink. At some time dad came into contact with Tom?s helper and struck a deal.

Every Saturday, when Tom was out on his rounds, his helper loaded a box with all the veg you could possibly want. He would leave it just outside the shop for dad to pick up. In exchange dad gave him a couple of bob, probably more than a couple of bob if the truth was known. This went on for years and Tom, poor old sod, was never the wiser.

The E Dealer; Thanks for that. The problem is I no longer live in Dulwich, I live in Norfolk. I suppose I could write to Mr Block requesting a visit. It would be realy strang going in to that building again. Funny, but the thing I remember the most is the smell, I wonder if it still has that smell, maybe I will find out one day.

Sorry The E Dealer, thought you were talking about my comments. Good to see the old place has changed. By the way; how would I go about having a look round the old place. I am writting a second book about the 50's in Dulwich and I would like to have a look at the classrooms in the school, just to prompt my memory.

The E Dealer: Im talking about 1955,in those days things were different, read my first posting, a chapter from my book. Im sure things are much different today. In the 50's teachers at aHeber Road School used a slipper to thrash kids across the backside and rulers to hit them across the back of the hand. I had a fight with a boy in the playground when I was about 9 years old, we were both put in a boxing ring by a teacher and made to fight there. Today somthing like that would be reported on the national news. Regards Wardy.

In the 50's the porters house was occupied by the porter and his wife who was the school secratery. He was a mean man who would chase you if he could you on the school grounds after school hours. They had two sons who went to a very posh school somewhere; dont remember the name of the school but their uniform was like a vicars cassac. When the bike shed was there we would get onto the tin roof and throw balls at his door. Another think I remember about the school was the coal shuts that ran along the front of the building. Coal was put down there to feed the coal boiler; are they still there?

Its a shame about the porters house not being used. If I remember correctly it was a cottage type house with a very pointed slate roof; surely a house like that shouldnt lay empty.

Im glad to hear you had a better time then me at the school. When I attended Heber there was a hug bike shed, just to the righthand side as you walked through the main gate; is it still there. The school also had a jumble sale once a year; there would be a line of people streching the street waiting to get in and find a bargain. The school porter lived in a house in the playground, is that still there? I must have a look one day to see how things have changed.

OK here we go. But before I do let me remind you that these are my memories from he early fifties. Things were very different then and thankfully they have changed. I would like to warn you that there is reference to black people, there is swearing and there is mention of things that would be unacceptable in todays world, but this is how it was. If you think you may be ofended, please dont read this chapter from my book. If you enjoy the chapter let me know, I have lots more stories about the early fifties in Dulwich.

Chapter 3

One memory, which will stay with me for ever, was my first day at school. I think it must have been on this day that I decided that school wasn?t for me and that teachers were only interested in kids that came from the posh part of town, kids that had dads who wore suits to work and spoke proper English. My dad was a builder and we spoke a language called Cockney ? not very popular with teachers in those days, even though just a few years previously, builders, teachers and dads who wore suits were fighting side by side in a long and bloody world war. It seemed to me that the working class were not particularly well thought of by teachers and that teaching them was something they had to do, not what they wanted to do. Yes, even at the early age of five my thoughts on this subject were being formed. Maybe those thoughts were not particularly focused or mature, but those thoughts would stay with me for many years and mould me into a rebel throughout my school days and beyond.

It was 8am, some time in September 1955; I was up, dressed and ready for my first day at school. The school I was attending was Heber Road Infant School; it was situated in the next road to where I lived. A school uniform was mandatory at Heber Road and I had the complete kit ? grey shirt, school tie, black shoes and grey short trousers; I felt very proud of myself as I looked in the mirror. ?Come on,? said mum, ?it?s time to go.? I hurried towards the front door; I couldn?t wait. We walked along the road and up the hill, and after a couple of minutes we reached the school gates. I think there was some sort of registration process ? mum had to sign forms and was given some official paperwork. When all the paperwork was completed I was parted from my mum and escorted to my classroom.

It was here that I was to meet, for the first time, a most frightening creature known as a ?form teacher.? Her name was Miss Hussey, a name that will stay with me for evermore. All teachers in those days seem to be a ?Miss? and they all looked a hundred years old, but this woman, I am sure, was a hundred years old. I will never forget her; on meeting, she looked down on me and stared me straight in the face. I can remember thinking that she looked like my cat, Charlie. She had grey whiskers, just like him, and a round-shaped cat face with green penetrating eyes. I feel so ashamed for saying that; after all, there is no good reason for insulting my old and faithful cat ? he was a lovely.

I instinctively knew that this woman didn?t like me ? being in this class wasn?t going to be a picnic. ?Right Ward,? she said, ?sit in that chair and don?t move.? There was no introduction, no words of comfort and not a sign of a smile. I don?t know exactly what I thought at the time. What I do know is, my dreams of going to school, learning to read, doing sums and finding out about the world were completely shattered within the first few moments of meeting this horrible woman. Miss Hussey had a way of ensuring this and ensuring that any child who came from a working-class family would be reminded of their background on a daily basis. She wasn?t going let them forget that there were other children in the class that were better. Better because their parents were professional people, had their own business and lived in a better part of Dulwich. I hated this woman from day one and she still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth to this day.

I quickly got to know the rules of survival at school, the teachers not to talk too, the kids to steer clear of and the areas where not to play. Although I didn?t learn very much academically, I did learn a lot about people and their peculiar ways and opinions. As an example, every morning without fail Miss Hussey would walk around the class holding a perfume spray bottle. The bottle would be filled with a sweet-smelling substance; you couldn?t buy a can of air freshener in those days ? such things didn?t exist. She would point the spray at each individual child whom she considered not to be worthy of attending the school. She would spray that child with the substance and say the words ?Dirty child, smelly child.? Needless to say, I was one of those children who were sprayed regularly; actually I was sprayed every day. So what was the lesson I learned from this mindless act? Well, I was different ? I was different because I lived in a rough street, my parents didn?t have fancy clothes and we had very little money, I would go nowhere in life and have nothing. As for the opinion I gained from this experience ? people like Miss Hussey were sad, cruel and deserved a painful exit from this world for treating children in such a way. I probably didn?t think exactly like that at the time, but I certainly remember wishing that woman dead on many occasions.

I remember one occasion when Miss Hussey was talking to some of her favourite kids about illnesses ? I don?t know why she was having this conversation, she just was. Desperately wanting to prove myself in some way, I joined in the conversation, saying that I believed that there was a plant to cure every illness, such as eating a daffodil could cure a cold. Now I probably gave my opinion in more childish terms ? I was only five years old ? but the reaction of Miss Hussey was out of all proportion. She threw her hand to the back of my neck and, bending me forward, she slapped the back of my legs over and over again. I can remember each blow of her hand like it was yesterday. I had never been smacked before; it wasn?t a nice experience and it hurt. After pounding my legs several times she pushed me out the classroom where I remained for the rest of the day, in Miss Hussey?s words, ?for being stupid?. I stood outside that classroom trembling with a horrible burning pain in the back of my legs, but the real pain wasn?t in my legs, it was in my heart. All my expectations of what I was going to achieve and do at school had vanished. I hated school; I just wanted my mum.

I often think about that day and what I said. I think it showed an intelligent child, a child that had an opinion probably beyond their years. Needless to say, here we are years later trying to save our rain forests because, amongst other things, there are plants and trees in that forest that may cure all sorts of diseases, including the common cold; So, up yours Miss Hussey; I was right.

Not all teachers were like Miss Hussey; some were almost normal and some I believe may have actually liked me. I had one favourite teacher whose name I believe was Miss Allen. She stood out from the other teachers because she was very young and always had a smile and time to listen. I can remember having music lessons with her and enjoying every moment. We would sing songs like ?Bar Bar Black Sheep? and ?Simple Simon,? songs that if sung today would bring the race discrimination board and the disability discrimination people down on you like a ton of bricks.

Miss Allen had her own child attending the school; I think his name was Paul. I can remember wishing that I was Paul and that his mum was my mum. There wasn?t anything wrong with the mum that I had ? I loved her very much ? but I was conscious that she was somewhat older than most other parents. You see, my mum gave birth to me at the age of forty. This may not seem unusual in today?s modern world with career-minded working mums giving birth in later years, but back in the early fifties most mums had finished giving birth in their early thirties, having started in their very early twenties or teens. My parents? ages would prove to be a big factor in my growing-up years, one that would give me many embarrassing moments. Perhaps I should explain. When I say ?embarrassment? I mean just that; I don?t mean I was ashamed of my parents ? just the opposite, I was proud of them both. I was embarrassed because in my immature mind I felt that my mum and dad were too old compared to my friends? parents who all seemed a lot younger. It was silly and selfish, I know, but that is how I felt as a child and for many years as a teenager. To say differently would be a lie.

Another teacher that I must mention is Miss Bromley. She was a spinster who lived with her mum in Dulwich Village. Miss Bromley never actually took me for any lessons, but she would always talk to me. She seemed like a lady who should have been married with children and not looking after an aged mother. I suppose she must have lost her way somewhere in life or got caught in a conscience trap where she felt she couldn?t leave mum.

Silly, I know, but I remember Miss Bromley almost every time I button my shirt. Let me explain: I could never button my shirt; I always got the wrong button in the wrong hole. Consequently one side of my shirt collar would always be two inches higher then the other, making me look like I had a shoulder deformity. In other words I always looked completely lop-sided. Miss Bromley was for ever re-doing the buttons on my shirt. One day she said ?Eric, come here.? She was probably the only teacher to call me ?Eric? ? all the others called me ?Ward.? She took me to one side and explained that if I started from the bottom of my shirt, putting the bottom button in the bottom hole, then all the others would fall in line. I remember her words to this day, hence, I remember Miss Bromley almost every morning.

One of the good things about going to school was the free school milk. Every child, every day, got milk that we drank straight from the bottle ? no fancy paper cups or plastic containers. However, I do seem to remember being given a paper straw. Could you imagine today giving five year olds glass bottles to drink from? Not only glass bottles but milk that was full fat and non-organic. Modern mums and dads would go completely barmy.

The lady that gave out the milk was Miss Wellington. She was a stout lady, about sixty years old (that?s very old when you?re only five). Miss Wellington had red rosy cheeks, grey hair and a very firm voice, but somehow you knew she was kindly. Looking back, I think she probably had a dry sense of humour and enjoyed the company of small children.

Miss Wellington was also responsible for dishing out cod liver oil. This horrible-tasting substance was given daily to children who were considered malnourished in some way. They were usually children who came from large families; I?m talking large, upwards of ten kids in one family.

One girl, Shirley Osborn, had sixteen brothers and sisters. Smelly Osborn was her nickname and she did smell. Kids from large families usually did smell and always had dirty necks, but the big giveaway when it came to being dirty was when we had physical education or PE as it was known then. PE required that you undress and come out of the dressing room wearing only a pair of shorts, no trainers, or plimsolls as they were called then. It was here that you got a glimpse of real dirty kids, long toe nails full of dirt, heals that were caked with grime and black between their toes. You must understand that it wasn?t the fault of the child or the parents, but with such a large family and probably no bath in the house, there was little chance of them ever seeing a bar of soap or clean water. Just imagine trying to wash all those children every night before going to bed. You would need to start at tea time and you probably wouldn?t be finished until midnight. No, it was a lot easier to let the grime stay were it was and take the rude comments once a week at PE. It?s horrible of me to say this, but I was glad there were kids like this ? it gave me a feeling of not being quite at the bottom of the pile. After all, I didn?t need the cod liver oil tablets and my feet were usually reasonably clean.

Talking of kids from large families reminds me of Douglas Elstone. Doug was one of my mates at school. It didn?t matter to me that his neck was dirty and some days he was a bit high. I don?t mean high on drugs, I mean high from various body odours, as every so often they would whiff up from some part of his body.

He came from a family of fourteen, not including his mum and dad. I will always remember the somewhat adventurous times when visiting his house. In addition to having all these kids in the house there were also dozens of cats, and I mean dozens. Everywhere you looked there were cats, under the chairs, in the cupboards even in the outside toilet. One of the things that brought me endless enjoyment was to rattle a spoon on a plate and to see all these cats come running from every direction imaginable; the room would be full to the brim with cats of all colours and sizes. Needless to say there was no such thing as cat litter in those days or cat trays; you can imagine the state of that house with all those cats crapping in every corner of every room ? it made Doug smell almost sweet.

On a brighter note, he was a good mate and his mum and dad always had time to talk. On reflection, I suppose his dad had time because he never ever went to work; he just sat in an old worn-out chair reading his paper day after day.

A friend that stayed with me for many years throughout my school days was Ronny Pace, ?Pasty? as he was known. He started school on the same day as me and we both had the pleasure of having Miss Hussey as our teacher. Pasty lived a couple of streets down from me. He lived in what we called an aerie. An aerie was a basement flat ? why they were called aeries I don?t know; they just were.

Pasty?s mum and dad were very strange. His mum was always poorly dressed but his dad was reasonably smart. Their house still had blackout blinds. These were blinds that were used during the war to block out the light when German aircraft were overhead; the war had been over for ten years. His dad propagated cacti ? he had hundreds.

The thing I remember most about Pasty and his family is that for many years they lived like church mice, then one day they suddenly packed up and moved to a house, which they bought for cash, in a very expensive part of Dulwich Village. I never did find out where the money came from.

During our early days at school, Pasty bonded with me and wherever you saw me you would see Pasty. We would walk to school together and walk home together, but you would never see us together outside of school time ? Pasty was never allowed to play in the street like other kids. It may seem normal nowadays to keep your kids in, but in those days it was very un-normal; kids always played in the street.

One of the great things about school was the girls. Yes, even at that very early age I was interested in girls. I?m sure it wasn?t anything sexual; I just knew they were different and sometimes I felt something inside me that said ?one day you will appreciate girls?.

My first love was Elsa Marion. Elsa was adopted and lived a few streets away from where I lived, in a very neat and tidy house. She was an only child. I can remember being fascinated by her curly hair, glasses and clear skin. I loved Elsa so much that I let her hold my pet dog Peter, a privilege only given to the few. I don?t remember much more about Elsa; I don?t think we kissed, in fact I?m sure we didn?t ? after all, at the age of five kissing was only for sissies. I had a lot to learn.

Thinking about Peter, he was my pet black and white mongrel dog. I only had him for a short time. I came home one day from school and he was gone. Mum told me he had gone to a big farm in the country. I obviously know now that he was taken to the pet shop and sold, but as a child I believed my mum and dreamed of Peter running across open fields and playing with the lambs. The truth is he was probably sold by the pet shop for medical research as many animals were in those days.

My early memories of school are somewhat bitty; I remember some things and other things I can?t. I suppose at such an early age one only remembers the things that are funny, frightening, hurtful or different, and, believe me, things were different in those days.

I hade been at school for about a year ? it must have been about 1956. Now, I want you to imagine that you are about six years old, you live in Dulwich, London and you attend a very large infant/junior school. Now this is the part where you really need to use your imagination; there are no black children. In fact you have never seen a black person in real life. The only black people you have ever seen were in a film at the pictures ? films about Africa or the Congo. Usually these black people wore very little clothing, had disfigured ear lobes or noses, painted their faces and jumped about waving spears. You may consider my comments as racist; sorry, but that?s how it was; black people had no part in my life or that of the people who lived in my community.

Now imagine my surprise and absolute astonishment when one day my form teacher brought into the classroom two black boys: John Series and Patrick Jackson. Both were to attend our school. Everyone in the classroom was amazed to see black people in real life; you could hear their reactions. I can say with all honesty that at this point in my life there was no question of racism or hatred for another race or colour; I was, as was every other child in the school, truly intrigued by their colour and features. However, there was a downside to all this. As children we were told that if you ever saw a black person you should rub their hair for good luck. Yes, everyone in the school, all five-hundred kids or more, believed this to be true. It was a complete nightmare for John and Patrick; every day they would be chased by dozens of kids wanting good luck. They spent most of their time running away or locked in the school bogs. Eventually kids got tired of chasing good luck and left John and Patrick alone. They were to become my very good friends for many years.

If you were to ask me what I learnt in my early days at school, it would be hard for me to give an answer. Thinking about it, and not wanting to be negative, my answer would probably be, ?the things I learnt and never forgot have been of no use to me throughout my adult life.? As an example, pissing up the wall, yes, this was a great pastime and if you could become champion you were someone to be reckoned with.

The school toilets were situated outside in the playground. They were typical of school toilets in those days: smelly, always wet and never warm. However, there was a good side to this; teachers rarely entered and the walls were painted matt black. ?Why is matt black good?? I can hear you say. Well, if you piss on matt black it shines so you can see where you have pissed. Let me explain: When I was a child at school there were competitions between boys to see who could piss up the toilet wall the highest. By having matt black paint you could see exactly where you had pissed without any argument from others. I?m somewhat ashamed to admit this, but I am still proud to this day of being one of the pissing-up-the-wall champions of the 1950s. So proud in fact that in later years my talent landed me in an Egyptian prison, but that?s another story.

Let?s get back to John and Patrick for a moment. They were cousins, born in Brazil, where apparently both their parents were killed in a car crash. As a result they were shipped off to England to live with their nan.

One of my earliest memories of meeting their nan was one Friday afternoon after school. They invited me to their house: a large semi-detached property in Lordship Lane, Dulwich, just a five-minute walk from the school. Now remember, I was a white kid who until recently had never seen or mixed with black people. My diet was stews, bangers, fish and chips and liver and bacon. I had never heard of or seen boiled rice. My rice came as a creamy desert; I never knew it could be eaten as a main meal. Curry was a word I had never heard of and a smell I had never experienced. As for chickens, they were bought from the local butcher, ?dead?. Note that I say local butcher ? supermarkets were non-existent, and they weren?t to come about for many years.

We arrived at John and Patrick?s house. As they opened the door I was hit by a smell which made me want to run for my life: it was terrific. I didn?t know it at the time, but it was the smell of curry, my favourite food today, but back then it was repulsive. I walked into the hallway trying not to breath and desperately wanting to gag. Here I was greeted by their nan.

Their nan was a very old lady, about five feet tall and very thin. Her smile intrigued me; the few teeth she had were so white against her black skin. She had a squeaky laugh, wore a pinny, head scarf and plimsolls (plimsolls are probably best described as the original trainers).

Going into that house, breathing in those smells and meeting their nan was an experience of a lifetime. It was like going into a different world; nothing could be stranger or so I thought until we reached the kitchen.

I could hardly believe my eyes. Under the sink, tied to a water pipe, was a live chicken. Being an inquisitive boy I said, ?Why have you got a chicken in the kitchen?? Their nan gave a squeaky laugh and said in a very strong Caribbean-type accent, ?Dis is me dinnor for Sunday.? ?How can you eat the chicken? It?s alive.? She laughed again. ?Not for long,? she replied. ?Come with me.? We all, including the chicken, went into the garden. Nan went half way up the garden path, stopped, waved the chicken around whilst chanting a few strange words and then calmly and without warning cut off the poor fucker?s head with a rusty razor blade. It may seem strange, but I wasn?t shocked at seeing the decapitation of the chicken, but I was mesmerised at seeing the chicken run round the garden minus a head. I remember looking at the chicken?s head lying on the floor with its eyes still open, looking at the chicken running around with no head, looking again at the head and then again at the chicken. I must have looked like one of those nodding dogs you see in the back of cars. I couldn?t believe what was happening.

Can you imagine what would happen today if a small child was subjected to such a thing? Social services and animal rights people would have a field day; the TV would probably broadcast it as a child caught up in a satanic ritual.

Sunday lunch for me was never to be the same after that day; I would always look at my dinner plate and remember that chicken running away from its head.

At the age of about seven I was becoming a bit of a sports fanatic; I liked boxing, wrestling, swimming and running. Being very tall I was always picked by teachers to run in school races on sports day and enjoyed racing against other kids in the street.

On one occasion, at the end of a school day, I was walking from the school across the playground to the school gate. A class mate, whose name I can?t remember, asked if I wanted a race. ?Where to?? I asked. ?To the corner shop at the bottom of the hill,? he replied. Running to the bottom of the hill involved running to the bottom of the playground, through the school gate, across the road and down the hill to the corner shop. ?Okay,? I said, and off we went. I remember in absolute detail the next few tragic seconds. I knew I could beat him, but in my little head I wanted to let him get in front and at the last moment, just as he thought he was going to win, I would push forward and beat him at the line. I had seen this done by professional runners like Roger Bannister and for this race, in my imagination, I was Roger Bannister.

Just before we came to the school gate I let him overtake me. He shot past, went through the gate and ran into the road. At that very moment there was a tremendous thud; he had been hit by a motorbike and sidecar. He was dragged yards along the road, his body bashing up and down on the tarmac as he was pulled along. People were screaming and running about in panic. I stood for while looking and wondering what to do. I can remember hearing my heart pounding against my chest.

An ambulance eventually arrived and he was rushed to hospital. Nobody asked me what had happened and I never volunteered any information; I probably thought I would get into trouble. The injuries to his legs were so bad that he never returned to school and I never saw him again.

Looking back you could say his unluckiest day was my luckiest. If I hadn?t decided to let him get in front I probably wouldn?t be writing this book today and you probably would never have been born ? it would have changed my life completely. I often wonder who I should thank for allowing me to be here today: him for suggesting the race, me for letting him get in front, or Roger Bannister for giving me the inspiration to think I was a professional runner.

I can?t go through the process of thinking about my early school days without mentioning Mr Easter or Easter Egg as he was know to all the kids. Mr Easter was, to me at the time, a very old man, grey hair, wrinkles and a very gruff voice, always smartly dressed with a pocket handkerchief in his jacket top pocket. He was the headmaster of Heber Road School and he ruled with a rod of iron.

Every morning there was a school assembly where we prayed and sang Christian songs. I suppose in today?s modern Britain, with our multi-cultural society, this would probably be considered improper. Anyway, Mr Easter would always stand right at the front of the assembly and sing as loud as possible while rigorously waving a musical conductor stick.

It?s not very pleasant and undoubtedly not complimentary to him, but my only real memory of Old Easter Egg was of one morning when he was in full song in front of the whole school. He was throwing his arms in the air, pacing up and down full of confidence. Suddenly a large lump of yellow phlegm popped out of his mouth faster then a lizard?s tongue. It slithered down his chin for a moment before he quickly sucked it back in his mouth. His face went red and we all giggled out loud. From that day on Mr Easter never seemed to sing quite so loudly or be so prominent in front of the morning assembly ? poor old sod.

I spoke earlier about being tall and always being chosen for running races. Another sport I was always chosen for, mainly because of my height, was the hop, skip and jump. What a fucking waste of time that sport was ? no purpose, no meaning and certainly no enjoyment. Despite my protests, year after year I would be selected for this nonsense activity and year after year penalised for not winning.

I could never understand why so-called educated teachers consistently chose a child to represent the school in an activity that the child clearly had no interest in or intention of winning.

One sport I loved and was extremely good at was swimming. I could swim at the age of four and was competent to swim in any depth of water and dive from diving boards at the age of just five, but I was never chosen to swim for the school. No, this activity was, in those days, considered a privilege and a privilege that was reserved for the chosen few, those children whose parents turned up for parents evenings and helped at school bazaars or ran school committees.

I know this may sound like I?m bitter, but it?s true ? that?s the way it was and I, like other kids, accepted this as part of life. There was us and there was them; they had the cream and we had the scraps. Thinking about it, I don?t suppose things have really changed that much today or ever will.

A very clear memory of my early school days was the build-up to the Christmas break. The school was putting on a fancy-dress party and all kids were instructed to turn up and to make sure they were in fancy dress.

There was a prize for the best entrant ? I can?t remember what the prize was, but I wanted to win. Unfortunately, mum and dad didn?t place a lot of importance to the school?s request and on the evening of the party I was without a costume. I was only a little chap, probably about six or seven and I wanted to go and I wanted to be dressed-up.

After lots of tears and moaning my mum gave in. ?Okay you can go.? ?But what as, mum? I haven?t got a costume.? She thought for a while: ?I know, come over here,? she said, beckoning me to the fireplace. I walked over to where she stood; she bent down to the fire grate, placed her hand in some soot and proceeded to spread this all over my face. ?What are you doing, mum?? ?Don?t worry,? she said, ?you will look fine.? After plastering my face with black soot she went into her bedroom and returned with an old frock and a head scarf. ?Put those on,? she said. ?Why? What am I going to be?? ?You are going to be a ?Cool Black Mamma?, that?s what you are going to be.? To avoid any mistakes, mum also hung a large cardboard sign around my neck with the words ?Cool Black Mamma?.

I walked into the school as proud as could be; I kept thinking how much I looked like John and Patrick?s nan. Everyone looked at me and the more they looked the more I smiled, smiled that is, until I looked at the judges.

I said earlier that black people were relatively rare when I was a child. Unfortunately on this particular evening rarity had been excused; yes, you?ve guessed it, one of the judges was as black as black could be. I don?t know what my thoughts were at that particular moment, but I would imagine they were something like ?Well fuck my luck. On all the days to meet a black man, I have to go and pick this one.? Fortunately I had no need to worry ? I won the contest; the black judge thought my fancy dress was great and very original.

You see in those days things were very different ? the black and white minstrels were well known and loved by huge audiences across the world, black people were always portrayed in cinema films as servants or piano players in bars, and Robinsons Jam had a picture of a ?Golly? on the jar, known by everyone as a ?Golliwog?. By the way, the black and white minstrels were white singers who painted their faces black, their lips brilliant white and wore black frizzy wigs and white gloves; Golliwogs were fictitious characters that were black with curly hair, big white eyes and wore stripped trousers. You?ll never see things like that today, and that?s probably not a bad thing.

One of my great passions for many years as a child and as a teenager was acting. Acting to me was so natural; when acting I could be anyone or anything. I had no fear of performing in front of the class or performing at home in front of visitors; I could stand up at any time, anywhere and act ? I loved it.

Whenever the class teacher asked for someone to come to the front and act out a character, I would be there, and all the kids in the class would call out ?Come on Wardy. Get up and act.?

Unfortunately for me, although I had an acting talent, and believe me I really did have talent, I was never asked to perform in any of the school plays. Parts in school plays were always reserved for the well-thought-of kids, regardless of their acting ability. I remember year after year watching the school plays and thinking how much better I could have played the part if given the chance. Year after year I saw the same old faces up on that stage; the school prefect, the deputy school prefect, teachers? children, kids from smart areas and kids whose parents were professional people. I never saw any kid from my street up on that stage or any kid that came from a large family, regardless of their acting ability.

After all these years I don?t want to believe that those teachers were selective or prejudiced in their choice of children for the school plays, but surely the ability to act doesn?t depend on one?s background. I can only sadly conclude that they were indeed selective and they were prejudiced.

School holidays were something that I longed for. In the holidays I could be free of those teachers and all their silly ways. Free that is except for one year when all children were called back to school because of a polio outbreak. Polio was a horrible disease that could leave children paralysed from the waist down or at the very least crippled and having to wear an iron leg brace.

The government of the time decided that there was to be a mass inoculation of all children which would be carried out at local schools. I was taken by a neighbour, a lady who owned the corner shop, to the school for my inoculation. I can see it to this day; there was a long line of children stretching all the way from the school playground and along the pavement outside the school. I had never had an inoculation or injection as we called them, but I had a good idea what it was all about.

It seemed an endless queue and the more I waited the more fearful I became. As I got closer to the table, set up in the playground where the injections were being given, I could see the odd child fainting as the needle was pushed into their arm. I remember thinking that I wanted to go home and take my chances with polio rather then have that done to me; even the thought of a leg iron seemed a better option then that injection. The needles of the fifties were unlike the needles of today ? they weren?t disposable, and they were a lot thicker and were used until blunt. My only hope was to be lucky enough to get a sharp one.

Finally it was my turn. I looked up at a rather fierce-looking lady; she made no eye contact as she concentrated on refilling the syringe. She grabbed my arm, plunged in the needle and the rest is just a blur ? I can only guess I got a blunt one. I woke up in the house of the lady that took me. I felt cold, sick and I promised myself I would never have another injection in my lifetime; it?s a promise I kept until I was in my mid-twenties.

I could gabble on for hours about my days at Heber Road School, after all I was there for six years. However, I?m going to leave the school with one last memory, to me the most exciting memory of my days there. I say the most exciting, exciting only from the eyes of a child. I was about eight years old at the time; I hated school, hated teachers and the system, so imagine my delight when one day the school burnt down.

It was the evening before the start of a new term; I was indoors playing with my toy soldiers when I heard the sound of a fire engine. Fire engines didn?t have sirens in those days; they had bells which were hand-operated by one of the fire crew pulling on a small rope. I ran outside to see people rushing towards Heber Road. ?The school?s alight,? they cried, ?the school?s alight.? I joined all the others and made my way quickly towards the school. Its not something I am proud of, but, I will remind you again, I was just eight years old, and fire engines and fire were exciting enough, but to see the fire engines outside my school and to see my school ablaze was almost a dream come true. Every window had flames bellowing out from the broken pains of glass and thick smoke pushed its way through the roof tiles ? what a sight. Surely this would mean the end of school for evermore; it could never be rebuilt. Unfortunately, or should I now say in my more mature years ?fortunately?, the school was up and running within a couple of weeks.

I first attended Heber Rd School in 1955. What I hoped to be the best day of my life turned out to be my worst dream. Heber rd school to me has no good momories. It was run by a headmaster called Mr Easter, Ester eggs as we called him. I was in the class of a lady called Miss Hussy,she was a horrible women who disliked children and every chance she had she would slap my legs until they were red raw. I have recently written a book of my childhood in Rodwell Road Dulwich and Heber Road School has a complete dedicated chapter. If anyone is interested let me know and I will post the chapter on this thred.