OPTIC1

Thanks everyone for your response, there is a lot to think about.

Thank you Angelina.

I'm looking for some guidance please. I moved from East Dulwich over 50 years ago and settled in Norfolk where our first child was born in 1971. She in turn had a son and settled in Yorkshire after finishing university. Now after all these years its turned full circle and her son, my grandson, who is 19, is moving to London in February after securing a job. He will be training for 5 years. There was a time when I was street wise and knew every corner of every street in Dulwich, in fact I wrote a book on the subject "Wardy The Kid From The Rough End Of The Street". I know my grandson will be fine, hes a good lad and very likable, my problem is, where will he live? I have no idea what the rents cost and no idea where the better/safer places are to live. Can anyone give me some guidance please that I can convey to him. Hes young and happy to just go for it and hope something turns up like magic, we have all been there, I on the other hand, am an old fart and like to have a plan particularly when it concerns my grandchildren. Any advice would be much appreciated. Thank you.

Watch this space ;->

CHAPTER 17 Finding the Rent Money Just as I thought that it couldn?t get worse, it did. It was a Saturday afternoon. Dad was in bed and mum was sitting in the kitchen, crying - ?What?s wrong, mum?? ?Nothing, it?s just me being silly,? She dried her eyes but still the tears came. I knew this was serious and continued to question her. Finally, having no one to talk to she broke down totally and talked to me like I was an adult. We lived in a rented house as did everyone in our street. She had managed to pay the court bills, but was behind with the rent and if she couldn?t find the money by Monday we were going to be evicted. Eviction was a lot easier in the 50?s. Dad had switched himself off to all this and spent most of his time in bed trying to avoid the troubles. I don?t know if I was frightened by what she said, but I did know that I wasn?t going to let my mum sit there and cry and I wasn?t going to let our house be taken away ??How much do we owe?? I asked. ?Lots,? she replied. ?How much is lots?? ?Twenty pounds.? She broke down again, holding her hands to her face. She was trembling. I walked up the passage trying to think of a way of making twenty pounds before Monday. Hedge cutting wouldn?t earn me that much, there was no snow to clear and there was no mint in the garden to sell to the neighbours. I don?t know where good ideas come from but on this occasion an idea just popped into my head from nowhere: I would sell my train set! Without telling mum I went to the cupboard under the stairs and gathered my train set together. Also in the cupboard was a baby?s pram left there by my sister Margaret when she left home for good. It was in good condition with hardly a mark on it. I put the train set, with all the bits and pieces, in the pram and headed towards the local second-hand shop. The shop was in North Cross Road near the pub on the corner of Crystal Palace Road; I think the pub is still there today. The owner of the shop was known for his meanness; it was going to be a hard job doing a deal with him. As I pushed the pram down the road I was rehearsing my sales pitch. This was going to be the most important sale of my life. I couldn?t let myself fail. I reached the shop and stood outside for a while to build up my confidence, I took a few deep breaths and pushed open the door sharply and went in. An old-fashioned bell rang over the top of the door. I stood silent,waiting for the owner to appear. As I stood there I looked around to see what he had for sale and the prices he was selling things for; I was trying to judge the price I might get for the train set - ?F### it,? I thought, ?I?m not leaving until I get that rent money.? After a couple of minutes the owner of the shop appeared from the back. He was a frightening-looking man with greasy black hair and staring eyes- ?What do you want?? He said. I think, momentarily, I was on the brink of shitting myself, but my mission was too important to fail? I want to sell my train set,? I said nervously ?Let?s have a look at it.? I pushed the pram forward for him to see He picked his way through the train set picking up the odd piece to examine its condition ?Who?s train set is it? Have you pinched it?? He said ?No, it?s mine and I want to sell it. ?What about your mum and dad? Do they know about this?? ?Yes, I can get a note from them if you want.? He looked me right in the eye almost like he was staring into my mind -?No, I believe ya. How much do you want for it?? I used the same answer I used as a young adult when being asked by a prospective employer how much I expected to earn: ?As much as possible,? I replied. ?I?ll give ya ten pound. Take it or leave it.? He turned away and walked towards the counter. ?Twenty pounds,? I said. He turned and again stared at me. There was a moment of silence - ?Twelve quid, and that?s it.? I had to think fast, but this time I turned the tables. Staring at him with a look of determination I said -?Twenty pounds and I throw in the pram.? ?F###,? I thought to myself, ?It?s Margaret?s pram. She won?t be pleased.? A smile came on his face and I heard the words -?You?ll got a deal Son.? He brushed my head with his hand, reached into his pocket and gave me twenty pounds. I had done it, I had got that f###ing rent money I ran out of the shop and home as fast as my feet would carry me. I literally crashed through the front door and ran down the passage to the kitchen. Mum looked up at me from the chair where she was still sitting. ?I?ve got the rent money Mum, there?s no need to worry now.? ?What do you mean you?ve got the rent money?? I pulled the twenty pounds from my pocket and placed it on her lap. The look on her face was one of disbelief as tears fell from her eyes ?Where did you get this from?? ?I sold my train set, Mum.? She reached out her arms and pulled me tight to he body. Her voice trembled. ?You?re a good boy, a good boy,? she said. The tears were still falling from her eyes, but these tears were now tears of happiness and not tears of despair. She held me close for a while and things were good, her pain had gone and I felt safe in my home once again. I thought it best not to tell her about Margret?s pram until another time. CHAPTER 18 The Final Chapter For a long time after the collapse of dad?s business things were pretty crap. No new clothes, basic food to eat and, on many occasion, holes in the soles of my shoes when going to school; but somehow we managed. How we managed I don?t know. I think when something terrible happens, life takes on a whole new meaning and you just dig in and ride the storm for as long as it takes. At the time I thought that life was shit and I hated what was happening to me and my mum and dad. Looking back it was just an experience I went through, but an experience that taught me a lot about life and people, but most importantly it taught me to be strong, the importance of family life and the values that go with it. I think the finish of the family business spelt the finish of my old dad. He was always a drinker and he was always a spender, but he always had some go inside him; there was always something there that said, ?Maybe tomorrow thing will get better.? With the end of the business that little something disappeared. He managed after a time to face up to reality and to once again look people in the eye, but his spirit was dead and his dreams had disappeared for ever. He continued to enjoy his pint and his fags and he continued to have terrible arguments with mum over the silliest of things and occasionally throwing his dinner at the wall. Meanwhile mum continued to pay the debts and keep us afloat and took very little for herself. Funny thing is, beneath all the shit and all the heart ache, they continued to love each other and stayed together for the rest of their days. They don?t make them like that anymore. It was now 1960, a new decade had arrived and somehow things felt different. I was starting a new school next year, ?Thomas Calton? in Peckham. I was going to make sure I did well; I was going to make sure I was top of my class, got a good education and eventually a good job to make mum and dad proud. After all no school could be worse than Heber Road - Could it? Acknowledgements In our younger years, things from the past seem so distant, but as you grow older distance seems to have no meaning and everything that you remember happening in past years, seems to have happened only yesterday. I have spent many an hour telling my children about my memories. They always seemed to enjoy my stories and never indicated that I was becoming a bore. A few years ago, two of my daughters, Kelly and Tina, asked me to put pen to paper and write all these stories down. Their reason, ?When I?m dead they won?t remember them?. I don?t know if the thoughts of being dead are a good reason for writing a book, but it gave me food for thought. I have, for a long time, tried to trace the origins of my mother?s father, who was killed in the First World War. I have no photos of him and no knowledge of the type of person he was. It was this that made me think that a book about my childhood would be interesting not only to my children but to my grandchildren and their children long after I have departed this world. So, in that context, Kelly and Tina were right. It?s strange, but before writing this book I had never really analysed my childhood; as far as I was concerned it was normal. However, putting pen to paper has made me realise that my childhood was probably very different from the norm. I didn?t know it at the time but it was a great adventure, full of happenings, disaster, laughter, sadness and excitement. There were many times when I wished for a different mum and dad, a nice house, good clothes and holidays by the seaside. Now, in my later years and having written this book, I realise that I had the best childhood and the best mum and dad in the world. They made my life colourful, taught me how to survive and gave me a reason for wanting a better life. Without them I would have never of known what life was like at the bottom of the pile and probably wouldn?t appreciate what I have today Thanks, Mum and Dad ? I will never forget you and all that you done for me xx Thankyou everyone for reading my stories and I hope it brought a little happiness into your lives during these troubled times. ?Wardy The Kid From The Rough End Of The Street? is an available published book written by Eric J Ward.

CHAPTER 15 The Final Nail in the Coffin I suppose it could be said that Fred?s fight with dad was the final nail in the family business coffin, but it wasn?t. There was a couple more to come before the lid was well and truly nailed down. Dad continued with the business; he even managed to pass his driving test. It?s funny now, when I think about it, but he arranged for the test in the afternoon, this gave him time to have a couple of pints. He always said he was a better driver pissed then sober and he was. Typical of dad, he passed his test when pissed, and being pissed and in a generous mood he gave the driving examiner a five-pound tip. Unbelievable but true, only my old dad could do that. As the months went by, dad spent more and more time spending and drinking and less time working and earning. He was becoming depressed and felt the world was caving in on him. However, somewhere amongst his depression and all the shit that was coming his way; dad came to his senses and decided that enough was enough. He packed up drinking and made one last effort to put the business back on its feet. By now, and being no money to pay them, all of his employees had gone, and most of his big customers had deserted him. But there were still some small loyal customers who continued to give him work. It was with these customers that he was going to rebuild the business and make everyone proud of him. True to his word, dad kept off the beer and worked hard, bringing home a small but sufficient wage to keep us going. I was proud of him and would help out at weekends and school holidays. After a couple of months things were beginning to look up and work started to come in regularly once again. I hoped that this was going to be a new beginning, but like most hopes in life they rarely come true. Dad was working on a small job redecorating the house of a reasonably wealthy, although eccentric, lady in Peckham. The lady wanted her house decorated from top to bottom, but didn?t want any furniture moved, dad had to decorate around it. He was preparing the lounge for redecoration and needed to burn off some old paint around the bay window. Using a blow torch he carefully heated and scraped off the paint. Unluckily for dad the flame from the torch caught the curtains and they immediately burst into flames. He hurriedly tried to pull the curtains from the curtain track. In doing so, the curtains, now well alight, fell and wrapped around his arms. Dad tried to free himself but not before he was badly burnt. In her wisdom and obvious lack of first-aid knowledge, the owner of the house cracked a couple of eggs on the burns and rubbed them in. Apparently she thought this would cool the burns. Unfortunately for the dad the eggs had the opposite effect, increasing the burning whilst turning into instant omelettes. An ambulance was called and dad was rushed to hospital. He returned home days later with both arms bandaged from his shoulders to the tips of his fingers. Dad?s arms were in bandages for several weeks, he couldn?t even hold his dick for a pee. I would watch him sitting in the kitchen chair struggling to hold on to his cigarette and having to have mum feed him; it was heartbreaking. I somehow knew this was the end, that this time he was truly F###ed. What use is a builder without hands? Dad had been at home for several weeks, his burns taking a long time to heal. He was sitting in the kitchen one night talking to mum about their ever-increasing money problems when the phone rang. It was his brother Ron. Ron had heard through the grapevine that he was in trouble. He said the family had had a discussion and wanted to help. Ron asked dad to write down exactly what he owed, how much he owed the bank and how much he needed to see him through until he was fit to go back to work. He told dad that there was no need to worry and the family would get him back on his feet. At the end of the conversation dad looked full of the joys of spring. I can remember him saying that he knew his brothers and sisters wouldn?t let him down. Dad was very tearful. That night we all went to bed a lot happier. The next day mum and dad sat in the kitchen working out exactly what their financial situation was. They had it all written out on paper in neat little columns, right down to the last penny. When they finished dad got on the phone to Ron and gave him the figures. Ron said to leave it with him and he would get back soon. About three weeks went by and there was no word from Ron. Dad was getting frustrated and gave him a call. There was a discussion for a couple of minutes and dad put the phone down slowly. He looked choked; there were tears in his eyes. ?What?s wrong? said mum ?They are not going to help? He said in a trembling voice ?Ron said it was best we sorted our own problems out? Finally the last nail had been struck and the coffin lid was now down good and proper. Eventually, after being off work and at home for months, the bills couldn?t be paid. Dad?s so-called pub friends had gone, his family had let him down and he was broke. The bailiffs were called in. Dad, suddenly, almost overnight, became a smelly old man with no hope and no will to live. If he wasn?t in bed he was sitting in the armchair wearing a dirty vest with tea stains down the front. He was unshaven, unwashed, his fingers were yellow with nicotine stains, his eyes were dead and his face expressionless; he was knackered and all those hangers-on, his good old pub mates, were nowhere to be seen, not one of them! Despite everything, dad refused to go bankrupt and promised to pay all his debts no matter how long it took. He was taken to court by the tax man and by the bank. He owed thousands, but promised to pay a set amount each month. He was a proud man with proud words, but that was about it. From then on it was up to mum to earn enough to pay the monthly amount set by the courts. Mum got herself a job, working at County Hall in the city of London as a cleaner. She started work at 6am, catching a bus at 5am, working through until 11am, and then catching a bus home at 11.30am. At 12.30pm she started on her second job, working in a baker?s shop, at the corner of Fellbrigg and North Cross Road, finishing at 6pm. By 6.30 she was at home cooking the tea. She kept this up for years and years until all the debts were paid. As for dad, he eventually got himself a job and carried on doing what he had always done: spending most of his earnings in the pub. Now I ask you, was dads pride worth the pain my mum went through working all those hours to pay his debts? He must have thought so and I suppose she must have too. But why? Was it that mum?s love for dad was second to none, or was her pride even greater than his? No, I think the answer was her determination to hold together what family she had left. This was far greater than any pride or love for my dad. I will never know the true answer but she proved to have more guts and determination then most of us could ever dream of, certainly more than dad. During all of these bad times there were terrible episodes: endless arguments, depression, threats of suicide, and bailiffs at the door. My whole life and all that surrounded me was full of hopelessness and misery. Dad was a walking dead man, mum was almost dead on her feet from working, and my bother and sister had gone. I was now alone trying to work out in my little head why things were this way. I remember spending endless nights in my bedroom, hiding under the covers while mum and dad argued, and it was always the same argument, money and drink. It?s silly I know, but for some reason every night I would pray that mum would live until she was one hundred and eleven years old and my dad until he was one hundred and eight. Somewhere in my little mind I wanted mum to have a couple of years without dad, without the arguments and some happiness. Why I chose such an old age I don?t know. There was one time when I was so concerned about the arguments and the continuous tears falling from mum?s face that I asked her if she wanted me to kill dad. She looked shocked, put her arms round me and told me not to be silly. She said that dad loved us both very much, that he didn?t mean to be horrible and that things would soon get better. I don?t know to this day if I could have killed my dad. I like to think that I wouldn?t, but at the time I just may have. CHAPTER 16 Christmas Without The Turkey As a child Christmas was one of the greatest days of the year. I can remember days before Christmas all the kids in the street would go down to Lues the butchers, on the corner of Crystal Palace and Whateley Road, and look through the window at the turkeys hanging up on a rail. The turkeys would be labeled with the name of the customer who had ordered them. We would argue as to who had the biggest turkey On Christmas day there would be presents, lots of food and drink, and everyone, no matter how much they had to drink, was happy. Right from when I was able to walk I went to the pub with my dad and brother on Christmas morning. From about the age of seven, dad would buy me a pint of mild and give me a Tom Thumb cigar. I would sit in the corner of the pub like a little old man. Even better, I would be allowed to play a game of darts. At home, at the Christmas dinner table, I was given a glass of champagne and a bottle of pale ale. As a treat, dad always bought me a bottle of Greens ginger wine, which I would drink during the evening. Yes, along with all the others, I got pissed to or so I thought. Despite all the treats, the best treat of all was Christmas lunch around the table. Dad would sit at the top of the table and always had a turkey leg; my brother would have the other leg. Mum would have a wing, Margaret would have a wing and I had breast meat. Why was it that way? I don?t know, it just was, but that?s what Christmas was all about, silly traditions. We would tell jokes, pull crackers and eventually dad would start to sing. It would be the same old songs every year but I loved them. In contrast, on the first Christmas following the collapse of the business, there was no money for the usual turkey and Christmas treats, and the family had gone, there was just mum, dad and me, not even my big sister June or her husband John paid us a visit, nobody wanted to know. On our table we had sausages, mashed potatoes and a jug of water. It was the worst Christmas ever. We sat at the dinner table eating our so-called Christmas dinner in silence; it?s funny how you can hear silence. Mum and dad?s faces were solemn and dad didn?t even bother to wash or change on this special day. He sat there in a dirty pair of trousers with piss stains down the front of his leg and a tea-stained vest. His hair had now turned completely white from worry and his face had suddenly turned from that of a middle- aged man to an old man. As for mum, she had a look of sadness on her face, it was drawn, and she knew that this was it for a long time to come. I sat looking at them wishing once again that things could be different. Why couldn?t we be happy? Why couldn?t we just be like other people? Why did dad f### everything up by drinking and playing the big man? Why did he burn his hands? Why did my brother run away and why couldn?t dad?s family help? There were so many questions inside my head and so few answers. I have always tried to see the funny side of things in life, no matter how bad they are, but I can?t find anything funny about that day. Final Chapters this Sunday 21/02/21 at 3pm Have a lovely weekend

peckham, thank you. The goat is probably still travelling around London today :-) Those were the days when you could travel by steam train and there were no turnstiles or barriers. Regards Wardy

CHAPTER 14 All Good Things Come To An End Dad?s business continued to grow steadily and so did his continual spending and continual problems to go with it. Dad seemed to think that as long as he had a cheque book he had money to spend and money to lend. The more money he earned the more he would spend. There were times when I thought that inside his head he was having some kind of competition to see who had the most money, him or the bank. He would dip his hand into his pocket at every opportunity, but his dipping was mainly restricted to pub mates. They would tell him a hard-luck story, knowing he would buy them a couple of pints and give them a couple pounds to see them over their so-called troubles. As I previously said, the one thing I will always remember about dad is the amazing bargains he came across. That?s to say, they wouldn?t be bargains to most people. Dad would be sitting in a pub and someone would come across and say something like-?Cyril, would you be interested in a wall clock?? ?How much?? he would say. ?Two quid, they cost three quid in the shops.? Dad would look at the clock and think to himself: ?That?s a bargain. I must have this.? Now there nothing wrong with that, we all like a bargain but, in dads case it was very different. He would give the bloke two quid and a further quid for his trouble and on top of that buy him a couple of pints. Now, I?m no mathematician, but it seemed to me, even as a child, that dad?s bargains always turned into items more expensive than they would cost in the shop, but he could never see that; he always went home thinking he had got a good deal. I lost count of the things he bought at a bargain price: boxes of chocolates, watches, bracelets, and on one occasion a Billy goat. Yes, a bloody Billy goat. I never actually saw the goat myself; neither did any of my family. He was in a pub, somewhere in the middle of London, where someone asked him if he wanted to buy a goat. Dad bought the goat, got pissed, got on a train with the goat to come home and somewhere between being on the train and arriving at our front door lost the ####ing goat. He always swore that the goat didn?t get off the train with him, which left us to believe that the goat stayed on the train travelling from place to place for evermore. Yes, that was another one of dad?s pub bargains. Reading all this you may be led to believe that my old dad was a fool. He was anything but a fool. He was in fact an intelligent man but also an extremely generous man, especially when he had a drink inside his belly and a pub friend to talk to. Having said that, I suppose that?s what a fool is, a man who only sees the bottom of a glass and only appreciates the company of others who look into their glass, rarely appreciating the ones at home who love them, until it?s all too late. Dad, with all his silly ways and endless spending, was also being shafted by members of his own family. Fred, my brother, was his eldest son and played an important part in the business. Unfortunately, according to dad, Fred wasn?t playing the game. There was a sub-contractor who dad employed named Charlie Scoble. Charlie was a street-wise guy who would skin a turd if he thought there was money to be made. Fred had a strange admiration for Charlie, who incidentally didn?t have a van. Charlie propositioned Fred to do some work on the side for him, with the van of course, Fred jumped at the chance. It goes without saying that there were times when dad was in the pub instead of working, Fred was working, but working for Charlie on the side and the business was steadily going down the drain. Eventually, dad found out about Fred?s alignment with Charlie and the arguing began and went on and on for what seemed to be a lifetime, until, one night, it all came to a head. It was a Saturday, mum and dad had gone to the Heber Arms for a drink, leaving me at home. They returned about 11.30pm with dad well pissed. I sat on a chair, keeping quiet as dad started to get himself into a mood. One of his eyes closed and I was just waiting for everything to kick off. Dad and mum started to argue. I had seen this so many times before and knew it was best to keep a low profile and hope it would be short and sweet. I can remember during these times having a horrible sick feeling deep inside my stomach and wanting everything to be okay. I didn?t want them to argue. Although he never hit mum, I was always so afraid that one day he would hurt her so badly that she would die. I suppose it was fear, a fear that a small child shouldn?t have to experience but I did many many times, perhaps too many times. Mum and dad had been arguing for about thirty minutes when Fred came home. I instinctively knew that the subject of Charlie Scoble would come up and it did. Dad started to have a go at Fred, and Fred, who had also been drinking, started to have a go back. Dad called him a ?shit house,? one of dad?s favourite names for Fred, for working for Charlie Scoble while the business was falling apart. Fred said the business was falling apart because dad was a ?piss hole?, everyone?s favourite name when referring to dad, and so the name calling went on. At some point dad got up from his chair and went towards Fred in a rage, his arm pulled back, clenching his hand into a fist. Fred jumped up onto an armchair, one foot on the cushion and the other on the arm. As dad came within striking distance, Fred grabbed a glass vase from the mantelpiece and smashed it down on dad?s head. Blood splattered across the wall and fragments of glass sped across the floor. Fred, on seeing the blood and in fear of the consequences, ran from the room and out of the house. Blood was pouring down dad?s face, covering his shirt and dripping everywhere. Mum was screaming, thinking that dad was going to die. I sat curled up in a tight ball, crying out for everyone to stop. In one second I had seen my dad battered by my best friend and my mum turned into a state of terror. If that wasn?t enough my big brother, my best friend, had now gone into the darkness and I felt so alone and so afraid. All sorts of things flashed through my mind: dad would die, Fred would be hung for murder and mum and me would be alone. Dad was taken to hospital accompanied by mum and I was left indoors, looked after by the next-door neighbour. Of all the neighbours to look after me, mum, in her panic, asked Violet from next door. Violet was probably one of the nuttiest people who lived in our street or so I thought as a child. I sat with her for hours waiting and waiting. She was no comfort. She was more interested in what we had in the house and the cupboards than the wellbeing of my dad. She asked me all sorts of stupid questions, like how long had we had the dining table and how much it had cost. I had no intention of answering the daft old bat?s questions. I just sat and stared, not wanting to speak ? ?F### the dining table,? I thought, ?I just want my dad and brother to come home.? Eventually, sometime in the early hours of the morning, mum and dad came home, dad wearing a head bandage and looking very pale. His clothes were still heavily stained in blood. I was so glad he was alive, but so unhappy that my brother had gone. The police were never involved, dad told the hospital that he fell and hit his head on a wall. When asked where the glass embedded in his head came from, dad said there was a glass on the wall. In my house, regardless of what happened, you never shit on your own family, not to the police, not to anyone.

CHAPTER 13 When the Wards Struck Gold Until 1957 we lived at the poor end of a reasonably ordinary life, Mum and dad went to work, I went to school, there wasn?t a lot of money to spend, the house was always clean although it looked a little tired, but we got by. However, our ordinary life was going to change. The Ward Family were about to strike a seam of gold, one of those rare things that happens to a minority of people who normally spend their lives at the bottom end of the pile. Dad had worked in the building trade all of his life. The building trade in those days was a hard unrewarding job with little prospects. Men worked in some terrible conditions, with bad weather and freezing cold and on many occasions, when the weather got too bad, you simply got sacked, laid off, no notice and no apologies, just given your cards and basically told to sod off. One day, for whatever reason, dad had had enough. He was going to work for himself, start his own business. Now, at this point you need to know that he didn?t own a car; very few people did. He had no money and absolutely no idea about running a business, but nevertheless he had made up his mind. When mum and dad told me I was so excited, was this going to be the start of the life I had dreamed of so many times? Big house, nice car and holidays every year? Yes, I was convinced my life, or should I say our lives, were about to change forever. Apparently someone in the pub had suggested to dad that he went self employed and offered him a small job, building a brick wall in their back garden. I can remember the first Monday morning of the start of the business. Mum had packed dad?s sandwiches in a brown paper bag, no plastic containers in those days, and made him a flask of tea. His tools were all neatly packed in an old worn-out holdall; one of the handles had broken and had been replaced with a piece of string. His overcoat hung over the banister at the bottom of the stairs, ready for him to go. I remember that overcoat so clearly; it was dark grey, well past its sell by date, with its worn sleeves and odd buttons. It had a distinct smell of old builder?s dust, the kind of smell you get from the dust when renovating your home, a mixture of cement, paint, plaster and general grime, but not an offensive smell. I suppose it?s what you could call a working smell. Dad put on his overcoat, picked up his lunch and holdall, gave mum a kiss on the cheek and gave me a wink and a pat on the head. He was on his way, my dad the businessman. He walked along the street towards the bus stop. Yes, as I said before, he didn?t have a car or a van not even a push bike. Dad was starting his new business on a bus, carrying his tools in a bag. I felt so proud. The days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months and the business was doing well. Dad had plenty of work, gained mainly by word of mouth; he was a good builder, never bodged and always did a good job for a reasonable price. However, I think his greatest asset in getting work was his ability to charm people. He always treated his customers with respect, calling them Sir or Madam, and would always be pleasant and have a big smile. Don?t get me wrong, he wasn?t some kind of ?yes sir, three bags full sir,? just the opposite. He had the ability to appear humble when talking to paying customers. Behind their backs he was a completely different character with strong opinions and a deep sense of pride. Every Saturday morning without fail I would go to work with dad. I would go along to where he was working and make the tea, mix cement and generally make myself useful. Dad would buy me a breakfast in a local cafe and we would sit and talk about the job we were doing. I can remember one Saturday morning working in Battersea, dad was a bit behind schedule. He knew I liked my Saturday morning breakfast, but he didn?t have time to take me to the cafe. He called me over and said that if I wanted breakfast I would have to go to the cafe on my own. Could you imagine sending a seven or eight year old to a cafe all alone in an unfamiliar area of London today? ?No problem, Dad,? I said. He reached into his pocket and gave my some money, probably a couple of shillings. This was it; I was now a fully fledged builder, on my own going to the cafe for a man-sized breakfast and a mug of tea. I walked into the cafe; it was full of burly builders, lorry drivers and the like. I felt six feet tall, with my dirty trousers and grimy hands still covered in cement dust; I was one of the boys. I walked up to the counter and looked at the menu board. There were eggs, eggs and bacon, toast, chips, fried bacon and all the usual working men?s greasy food. I looked at the menu for some time and one item stood out from the rest: ?Welsh Rabbit?. I had heard of Wales, dad used to talk about his time there training in the army during the war. He said they were a miserable load of bastards who did nothing else but sing hymns, but he never mentioned they had their own rabbits. ?Yes love,? Said the woman behind the counter. ?Welsh Rabbit and a mug of tea, please.? ?It will be about ten minutes. Where are you sitting?? I pointed to a lone table and chair in the corner. I crossed the room and sat patiently waiting for this new tasting experience of eating a rabbit, a Welsh rabbit at that, on a slice of toast. I had never had meat of any kind on toast. The meat we had at home was served with potatoes and greens, never on toast. What about this Welsh rabbit? How different could it be to an English rabbit? I couldn?t wait to find out and I couldn?t wait to get back to work and tell dad. I wondered if he had ever had Welsh rabbit or was I the first in my family to try it? That really would be an achievement. The moment of truth arrived as the lady behind the counter shouted above the drone of the busy caf?, ?Welsh rabbit!? I got up eagerly and made my way quickly to the counter. ?There you go love, enjoy your breakfast,? The lady said. I looked at the plate only to see cheese on toast. Now I was only a little chap and to make a complaint about being given the wrong breakfast would have been a brave thing to do, I wasn?t that brave. I quietly walked back to my table glancing down at my plate, silently hoping that maybe the rabbit was somewhere under the cheese. I sat down and poked it around a little bit with my fork, desperately trying to find that bloody rabbit, but with no luck. I can remember being completely pissed off and so disappointed as I chewed through something that I didn?t order. I kept saying over and over to myself that I needed to go back to the counter and complain, but by now I was no longer that six-foot-tall burly builder who had walked in, but just a little boy whose dad sent him to the cafe for something to eat. I had my breakfast and went back to work. After being back at work for a couple of hours and still mad about being ripped off in the cafe, I said ?Dad?? ?Yes, Son,? ?What?s Welsh rabbit?? ?It?s not Welsh rabbit; it?s Welsh rarebit and its cheese on toast. Why?? ?Nothing, just wondered,? I can remember to this day saying to myself, ?Thank f### I didn?t complain.? It?s a lesson I carry with me to this day; I never complain until I?m sure of all the facts. Dad would pay me a few shillings on a Saturday in return for the work I?d done. I loved being paid; I felt I was a real man doing a real man?s job. The most exciting thing about being paid was dad putting my money in a real pay packet, just like proper workers wages. You don?t see pay packets today; years ago almost everyone got paid weekly, in cash. The cash would be in a pay packet, a little square brown envelope, probably about the size of a cigarette packet. On the front of the packet were all the details of your pay for that week: hours worked tax paid and the total amount of cash in the packet. , Now it may seem ridiculous, but dad had built up a good business without the one thing people today would consider essential, a phone. It?s hard to understand how his customers contacted him and how he contacted them. Most communication was done by letter or by calling on the person in person; very few people had a phone at home. Some street corners had a phone box and if you needed to call someone, that?s if you actually knew anyone who had a phone, you used the phone box. The phone box accepted pennies in payment. If I remember correctly, you picked up the phone, put in your money, dialled the number and when someone answered you pressed button ?A?. If no one answered you `pressed button ?B? and got your money back. All in all it was a complete chore compared to today?s modern technology. The big day came when dad and mum decided that it was time to get our own phone. There was only one other family in the whole of our street that had a phone: the Robinsons, Joan and Charlie I think, who lived just across the road above an airy in number 24. Now this may also seem strange, but in those days most people who had a phone had what was called a party line. A party line was a phone line shared with another person?s phone line, usually someone who lived nearby. Having a party line meant that you couldn?t make a call if the other person sharing the line was on the phone at the same time. When our phone was installed it was shared with the Robinsons? phone line Going off the subject slightly, there was always dozens of pigeons on their roof. Pigeons would fly in from the roof of Heber Road School every morning where they had been roosting, and stay there until late afternoon. People would throw bread in the road to feed them. I wonder if that still happens. Sorry, back to the phone. The day our phone was installed was a big day for the Wards, probably one of the biggest in our lives. The phone was placed in the front room, the best room in the house. When I got home from school mum took me into the front room to look at the phone. She let me pick it up and listen to the dialling tone; it was great. Time and time again I picked it up to listen. When dad got home that night he went straight into the front room and just looked at the phone. So did Margaret and Fred. I remember dad saying to mum -?Has anyone called?? ?Not yet,? Said mum. We all sat for what seemed a lifetime waiting for the phone to ring, but no one called. When I look back now I can?t help but laugh. The phone was never going to ring because no one knew we had a ####ing phone. After a bit dad said to Fred ??Go up the phone box and give us a call.? Fred took note of the telephone number printed on the front dial; it was Forest Hill 7487. In those days you used letters as well as numbers when dialling. Fred rushed to the phone box in Silvester Road, put his pennies in the box and dialled the number. The phone rang, after a few seconds dad picked it up and in a very posh voice said ??Forest Hill 7487. Who?s calling?? ?It?s me, Dad,? ?Hello Fred and how are you?? ?I?m Ok Dad? It was like dad was talking to a complete stranger and in a very posh voice. ?Would you like to speak to your mother?? Fred had been out the house for less than five minutes and dad was talking to him like he had been away for years. Fred eventually came back home and then mum went up to the phone box so that we could hear her voice on the phone. Then dad went up to the phone box so that we could hear him, then Margaret accompanied by me. We went up and down to that bloody phone box all night. Mum and dad must have spent a small fortune just calling themselves, but it was a great night, almost as good as the night we got the toaster. After a couple of weeks the phone became a norm and once customers knew the number the calls came flooding in. However, when the phone rang it was always a race from the kitchen to the front room to be the first to pick it up and say the words -?Forest Hill 7487. Who?s speaking, please?? I never understood why but, after some time the phone company, who I think was the Post Office in those days, changed the name in the phone number from Forest Hill to Tulls Hill. After a couple of years of doing all sorts of building jobs dad was becoming known as a good reliable builder and work started to flood in. My brother Fred went to work for dad. The business was now known as ?C. Ward and Son Builders and Decorators?. I can remember dad having an advertising board made with this written on it. The board would be placed outside the house or building where he was working. I loved looking at that board; it made me feel warm inside and it made me feel so proud that we, my family, were going places. However, dad still had one big problem: he was still catching the bus. On a positive side, he now had my brother Fred to carry his tools. But this was all about to come to an end. One day without any warning dad bought an open-back pick-up van, an Austin A40. This was probably one of the most exciting days of my life. The day that van turned up outside our house was a day I will never forget. You see, there were only a couple of people in the whole street that had motor cars, Ernie across the road in the airy of number18 and a guy called Pat Green at number 36. These were old, no; they were very old cars, probably built in the early 1940s. My dad?s van was nearly new, just a couple of years old. It was maroon and cream. It absolutely shone, not a scratch to be seen. There was a small problem though, dad couldn?t drive, he never had a driving licence, but that didn?t seem to worry him. We all stood outside the house looking at the pick-up and sitting inside making out we could drive. Neighbours came out, gathering around the van in conversation. The Wards had made it in life, we not only had our own business, but a phone and we now owned a van. What more could anyone want? The Ward family was quickly becoming the talk of the street and it felt great. At last I felt like someone and not just a poor kid whose mum and dad didn?t have a pot to piss in. Somewhere in my young mind I was going to make all those shit teachers who looked down their noses at me eat their words. One day I was going to join this building firm and become part of the Ward Empire. I was going to wear a suit, drive a big car and have money in the bank. What a ####ing joke, a little building firm and a van on the knock (on credit). Little did I know that it takes more than that to become successful, and it takes a lot more than that to be truly happy. Fred learnt to drive, passed his driving test and drove dad from place to place during work hours in our proud little van. The difficulty was that Fred didn?t always want to work on Saturdays or dad may have been working at a different job location to Fred. Never fear, dad came up with the perfect answer. When Fred wasn?t driving the van, dad would stick ?L? plates on the front and back. He would then put a cushion on the passenger?s seat, get me to sit on the cushion, place an old man?s cap on my head and there you had it, hey presto ? I was a driving instructor! Nine years old, dressed as an adult, sitting next to my dad the learner driver: I loved it. He would even give me a cigarette to make it look more realistic. I would puff away like an old steam train. The one thing dad always said to me before setting off was -?If you see a copper keep your head down.? Sitting there dressed up, smoking a fag, was absolutely fantastic. I actually believed that I was an instructor teaching him to drive. As for putting my head down when seeing a copper, just the opposite: I would look at them, hat on head, fag in mouth, and give them a big wave. I can remember a policeman waving us around an obstacle in the road. Dad shit himself thinking he was going to get caught. Not me; as we passed I gave him a big wave of my hand. I had seen drivers do this before. Dad did his bollocks, calling me every name under the sun, in doing so he went red in the face and started coughing on his fag. I couldn?t stop laughing; it felt really good pretending to be an adult and giving dad the fright of his life. Sunday mornings were always a good time to play in the back of the van. There was always something left in the back, a piece of old timber, sand or a bag of cement. One morning I climbed in the back to play some sort of pretend game. As I did, I noticed in the corner an un-inflated balloon. ?Yes,? I thought, ?this is going to be a good day.? In those days we only had balloons at parties and at Christmas when we hung them on the wall of the front room. To find a balloon in the middle of summer was a real treat. I picked up the balloon; it was one of those long sausage types, not round like a normal balloon. I can remember thinking that it wasn?t a very good colour. Usually balloons were bright red, blue or yellow; this one was a pale white, almost see through and not very interesting to look at. Nevertheless I wasn?t going to be put off by that. I started to blow it up and to my amazement it grew and grew and grew. ?This must be the biggest balloon ever,? I thought. I continued to blow until the balloon was dragging on the floor. It was nearly as big as me. I couldn?t believe what was happening. Perhaps I had found the biggest balloon in the word. Suddenly there was an almighty shout. It came from the front of my house - ?Put that ####ing thing down!? It was dad screaming at me as he came rushing out on to the pavement. I had never heard dad shout so loud. I jumped and in doing so let the balloon go. It flew through the air like a jet airplane, making a high pitch screeching noise as it got higher and higher into the sky -?Look at it go, Dad, look at it go,? I said. ?For f###?s sake,? came the reply, ?don?t let it fly around the ####king street.? On hearing dad?s shouts of terror, my mum came running outside to see what the problem was - ?What?s wrong?? She said. ?What?s wrong? What?s ####ing wrong? He?s only blown up a ####ing Johnny and let it fly the length of the ####ing street,? ?What?s a Johnny, Dad?? I asked. The only Johnny I knew was my friend up the road, Johnny Anderson. ?Never mind what a ####ing Johnny is. Get indoors.?I went indoors upset and not knowing what the problem was. I had never heard dad shout so loud and use so many ?f###s? in one sentence. Mum and dad stood outside having a quiet conversation. Eventually, I got to speak to mum alone. I asked her what a ?Johnny? was. Mum tried to explain, in her own way, that it was something that men put on their willies and someone had taken that Johnny off their willy and put it in the back of dad?s van. I was puzzled, why would a man put a balloon on his willy when he could have so much fun blowing it up and letting it go? Needless to say, it was a long time before I knew the answer to that one. I have never liked blowing up balloons to this day. As the business grew, life got better and better. Dad employed a couple of people and work came in plenty and fast. One person dad employed was a black man, not a big thing today, but in the fifties it was. Black people were new to our community and our street. There were strange tales being told about them. Now, before you start to think I?m a racist, remember what I told you earlier; I?m telling you how it was, not how people would have liked it to have been. Most people believed that black people were unclean. Now this theory was brought about because black people would use oils and perfumes unfamiliar to white people and they all seemed to smell the same. It was said they used these to cover up their body odour. We also believed they were unhygienic and didn?t wash their hands after going to the toilet. The list goes on and on. The bottom line is, we thought, and by we, I mean most white people, that black people were different and we didn?t want them living near us. It wouldn?t be uncommon to see a sign up in the paper shop saying ?Flat to let no blacks.? And that?s putting it mildly. I can?t remember the black guy?s name who dad employed but he would turn up for work every morning at our house. Mum would always give him a cup of tea and a biscuit and he would stand in the kitchen with a subordinate look on his face. It must have been as strange for him standing in a white person?s house as it was for us to have a black person in the house. Having a black man in the house was one thing, but mum thought she needed to be cautious and was aware that these people could carry germs, or so she and others thought. Protective of her family she always gave him the same cup and marked the underneath so that no one else would use it. Putting these memories into words sounds absolutely terrible and it hurts me to think of how things were, but we didn?t know any better. To be honest black people had just as many strange thoughts about white people. It may help you to understand when I tell you that in those days if a black man appeared on the TV in a play or a show and he was involved with a white woman they were never allowed to kiss on the screen because this would offend viewers. Yes, if you think my mum was a racist marking a black man?s cup, then think on, what did that make our great British TV institution. I?m sorry if what I say offends you, but that?s how it was, can?t change that but, we can change the future by not repeating the past. . Despite all the black and white problems that festered during that time, dad employed this guy for a long time, which must tell you something about him. Another person dad employed, on a part-time basis, was my elder sister?s husband, John. John was a policeman and because of this dad thought he was brainy and knew everything. Being a policeman in those days was something very special and because you had to pass an entrance exam to get in the police force, mum and dad thought this meant you were intelligent. If there was ever a friendly disagreement in my house over politics, history and the like, dad would always say - ?Ask John. He?ll know.? Prior to dad starting his own business John would rarely be seen at my house. When dad?s business started to take off he couldn?t keep away, working all his spare hours for cash in hand. Undoubtedly dad was paying him well over the odds. If there was one thing dad knew how to do well it was spend money. When he had money in his pocket everyone around him would share his good fortune. He would buy drinks in the pub, give money to any poor old soul who told him a hard-luck story and buy on impulse endless presents for all the family. Looking back, dad must have been a soft touch for every con artist who visited the pub where he drank. I have lost count of the times that dad came home from the pub on a Saturday afternoon with some bargain that someone in the pub had managed to sell him: watches, bracelets, boxes of chocolate and on one occasion the biggest and heaviest vacuum cleaner you could possibly imagine. It was so heavy that my poor old mum couldn?t lift the handle without her knees bending with the strain. On another occasion he returned home with a large box and a big smile. ?There you go, Son, there?s a present for ya.?He gave me the box. ?What is it, Dad?? ?Open it and see.? I eagerly pulled the box apart. I couldn?t believe it. I never ever thought I would own one; it was an electric train set. It had all the parts, station, signals miles of track and two engines. This was the best present I had ever had. I threw my arms around him. He had a strong smell of beer on his breath, funny how you can remember these things. I played with that train set on every possible occasion, night or day, seven days a week. I say every possible occasion, because being electric it needed to be plugged into an electricity supply. Unfortunately, despite our continuing business success, having electric points put in the house was a low priority; we had one in the kitchen and one in the hallway passage. If mum was listening to the wireless in the kitchen, I was playing in the passage, and if mum was vacuuming the hallway, I was playing in the kitchen. After a few weeks I could dismantle and put that train set together faster than a greyhound out of the trap. Dad?s spending didn?t stop with the train set. I can recall one Saturday afternoon when he returned from the pub in a particularly good mood. He sat in the kitchen and without warning suddenly decided that we were all going to Rye Lane to do some shopping. Rye Lane was the main shopping street in Peckham. Here you could buy clothes, furniture, shoes, and toys, almost anything you could think of. Being just a young boy, I thought this was a great idea and was quick to run upstairs to my bedroom to get a change of clothes ready to hit the shops. If I remember correctly there was dad, mum, my sister Margaret, Beverly her daughter, and me, all dressed up and ready to spend money. What a great feeling! We all piled on the number 185 bus which ran regularly, I think, from Barry Road, just a couple of streets from where I lived, to Rye Lane. Funny when I think of it now, dad with his own business, a new van he couldn?t drive, a phone, money in the bank, and there we were, the last of the big spenders, off on a shopping trip on a ####ing bus. We must have visited every shop in Rye Lane looking at everything expensive. I remember dad bought mum a beaver lamb coat, from the then Jones and Higgins Department Store, Margaret a ball gown, why the f### a ball gown I don?t know, she never went to a ball, as for me, I got a Timex watch. You may think a Timex is cheap, but in those days it was the dog?s knackers in watches and I had one. But true to form, the biggest slice of the cake went to dad. We visited a jewellery shop, dad fancying a nice ring. Unbeknown to him at the time, the shop was owned by one of his old school mates. When they discovered they were both in the same class at school the competition to see who had done the best over the past forty years or more began. In the conversation the jeweller suddenly owned several shops instead of the one shop in Rye Lane, and dad?s business grew from a small building business employing a couple of people into a mega empire employing almost every tradesman in London. With all this bullshit going on dad had done the inevitable, he had backed himself into a corner. The only way out was to spend money and to prove his wealth to his old class mate. He bought the most expensive man?s diamond ring in the shop. It cost a ####ing fortune, but he was happy; the little shit who sat in his class at school now thought dad was a millionaire. At least that?s what dad thought. In fact, the little shit probably thought dad was a prick; after all, dad had spent his money and he had made money. I learnt a lesson that day: never pretend to be who you aren?t, it will only cost you dearly in the end. We came home late in the afternoon, about 6pm, full of the joys of spring. There is nothing like having a good spend-up. But little did I know that such foolish spending would one day spell the end of all the good times. It was the summer of 1959 and dad was taking me and mum on holiday to Margate. I can vaguely remember going on holiday once before, but I must have been very young, maybe only two or three years old. We were staying in a bed-and-breakfast and dad had arranged for evening meals. You cannot imagine the excitement that was inside me. I had never been on holiday, not that I could remember anyway. I had rarely been to the seaside, maybe a couple of times, and I had never stayed in a bed-and-breakfast. This was going to be the holiday of a lifetime. Dad arranged for a car and driver to take us to Margate. No vans this time for the Wards, we went in style. We arrived mid-Saturday afternoon at a three-storey house in a side road just off the sea front. I got out of the car, looked around and breathed in that fresh sea air. We were greeted by the owners of the bed-and-breakfast. They were very friendly and, if I remember correctly, very kind and hospitable people. We were shown our room; it was on the top floor, right at the front of the house. It had huge bay windows and two king-size beds, which reminds me of a very silly thing. When I saw the size of these huge beds I said- ?####ing Jesus! Look at the size of those beds.? Dad pointed his finger at me and said with a stern but quiet voice - ?Don?t say that ? we are on holiday.? This gave me the impression that it would be okay to say that when we got back from holiday. I obviously know different now. It was a great holiday, we had everything. It didn?t matter what I asked for, I got it. All day long we would sit on the beach soaking in the sun. I got very sun-burnt. In the evening we either went to a show or mum and dad would go to a pub next to an amusement arcade. They would drink and I would play in the arcade. The holiday was a big success, but it was expensive. I remember mum telling me that dad had spent over two-hundred pounds in a fortnight. Incredible isn?t it, you could spend more than that today on one evening out. In those days men probably only earned about ten pounds a week. The holiday eventually came to an end and everything went back to normal. The money came in and the business grew, and so did dad?s spending and generosity to pub friends. At the same time, my brother Fred started to have other interests outside of the family business. There was a knock at the door one Saturday afternoon. I opened the door to see a young girl standing there. She had long auburn hair, lots of makeup and gave me a big smile. ?Is Fred there?? she said.?Now I was just beginning to notice girls, particularly girls older than me. No, he?s gone out,? I said. ?Are you his girlfriend?? ?Yes,? she replied. I shouted at the top of my voice, ?Mum, Fred?s girlfriend is at the door. ?Mum came up the passage. ?I didn?t know he had a girlfriend. You better come in,? she said. Fred never had a girl come to our house before and I suppose mum probably thought that this one had come round because she was up the duff (pregnant). We went into the kitchen and as usual mum put on the kettle. ?What?s your name?? said mum. ?Bobby, short for Roberta,? she replied. ?How long have you known Fred?? And so the questions went on and on. I just sat there coming out with the odd childish comment. After a time I got bored and decided it was time to go outside into the street to tell my mates, who were sitting on the steps opposite, that my brother had a girlfriend. I can remember sitting there and bragging. Eventually Fred came walking down the street. ?Fred, your girlfriend is in the kitchen with mum.? I shouted from the steps His face turned white and solemn. ?What girlfriend?? He replied, like he had lots. ?Bobby.? I seem to remember that he said something like -?What the f### does she want?? Fred went into the house rather gingerly, followed by me with a big smile on my face. Seeing her, his face turned from white to red. I probably made some silly comment about this to make him feel even more embarrassed. I went back outside with my mates and sat on the steps again. Not long afterwards, Fred and Bobby came out of the house and walked past us boys sitting there looking. As we all stared, I shouted - ?See ya, darling.? She looked across and repeated my words - ?See ya, darling.? It was a good day for me; my big brother had a girlfriend. As a child and little experience of life, I thought that dad?s thriving business, money coming in and my big brother?s new girlfriend spelt the beginning of a new and wonderful future, a future of laughter, endless family fun and money to spend. How wrong I was, the only future lurking around the corner for us was one of misery, disaster and heartache. I don?t know when things started to go wrong, perhaps it was right at the beginning and we didn?t know it or perhaps it was just fate luring us all down a road that so many have travelled before. A road that leads nowhere has no beginning and has no end; it just goes on and on and all we can do is keep going and hoping that one day there will be a turn-off and all our troubles will be over. Unfortunately for my family there was no turn-off. Little did we know that fate was preparing to grab us all by the balls and drag us right back from where we came, back to the bottom of the pile and the beginning of the ####ing road. Next Chapter Wednesday 17/02/21

Hi intexasatthe, Keep reading my chapters and your find out if we rented. I dreamed of living in a council flat, nice bath, heating and all decorated. I know the flats you are talking about, I think they were near the paddling pool. Ronny Corbet lived there somewhere. My first job was working in Sainsburys Forest Hill. I think living in a nice new council flat I would have considered you to be very lucky and probably posh :-). However, I did have a garden and could keep pets, like rabbits and pigeons. Thanks for your thoughts and enjoy the rest of my book. Regards Wardy

Try reading a post on here "Wardy The Kid From The Rough End Of The Street" Chapter 12, to find out what "Homophobic attack" meant in the 50's. Its an eye opener.

CHAPTER 11 The Night Dad?s Luck Run Out Just like today, in the Fifties there were trends in fashion and trends in what teenagers aspired to be. When I was a teenager in the Sixties, I was a mod. Since then, I have seen Punks, Hoodies, Goths and endless other cults come and go. In the Fifties there were Teddy Boys. Like in all other cults most of these teds were harmless, but there were a minority who were downright evil. Teddy Boys wore skin-tight trousers, suede shoes or boots, long jackets with velvet collars and grew sideburns. However, a minority carried flick knives or cut-throat razors. The flick knives were used to stab a victim when a fight broke out, but the cut-throat razor was used to slash people?s faces. It wasn?t unusual in those days to see a young lad walking along the street with several stitches running the length of his cheek where he had been slashed by Teddy Boys. It was also not unusual to here of gang fights were rival groups of Teds would fight and smash up a cinema or dance hall as they were then. It was a Thursday night; I was probably about six years old at the time. Dad hadn?t returned from work; it was pay day and he had probably gone straight to the dogs, as he did from work sometimes, or to the pub. As the evening went by and midnight approached mum started to get worried. Dad was always home by 11.30, mainly because he ran out of money but also because he knew that staying out all night would be pushing his luck a bit too far. It was about 1am in the morning, mum and me sat quietly, now and again asking ourselves what might have happened to him. Had he been run over? Had he been taken sick? And so, it went on until our thoughts were interrupted by a bang on the front door. We both jumped and mum said to me - ?Who?s that this time of night?? We went up the dimly lit passage to the front door ? Mum called ?Who?s that?? ?Police,? Came the reply Mum went pale. She slowly opened the door. She had a frightened look on her face, a look that said something was very wrong. I feel at this point I should tell you that I was frightened, but I wasn?t, I was excited, after all, I was only six years old, still up in the early hours of the morning and to add icing on the cake, the police were at the door. How much more exciting can it get for a six year old? But my excitement was soon to turn into fear, just like mums. The police were there to tell mum that dad had been badly beaten and he was in Dulwich hospital, seriously injured. Most of what happened after that moment has disappeared from my mind, probably nature?s way of protecting the mind of a small child. I sometimes think it?s a pity nature doesn?t intervene more often. Dad was in hospital for many weeks. His jaw had been broken in several places and he had cuts and bruises all over his body where he had been repeatedly kicked. The hospital said he was lucky to have come through it alive. Apparently, dad had gone to the pub straight from work. This was always a bad sign as it meant he would get pissed and spend his wages. He came out of the pub to see a young soldier being beaten by a gang of Teddy Boys. Dad being dad, there was no chance of him walking by. He quickly went to the aid of the young soldier and started to lay into the gang. He was doing quite well until one of the gang managed to trip him to the floor. Once down they piled in with their boots and he lost consciousness, waking up in hospital some hours later. During the commotion, the soldier ran off and left dad to take a beating. He didn?t even call the police. Dad came home from hospital some weeks later with his jaw wired up. For a long time he was only able to eat soup through a straw and his talking was restricted to a mumble, but he was home, safe and alive, and that was all that mattered. As for the soldier, the gang caught up with him some days later and stabbed him to death. I remember hearing this when listening to a conversation mum and dad had with the police when they came round to up-date them. It seems hard but I had no sympathy for that soldier. After all, he had left a man, my dad, who had come to his aid, to be virtually kicked to death. CHAPTER 12 The Big Bombshell Around about 1956/7, resident in my house were myself, my brother Fred, my sister Margaret, and mum and dad. There were lots of argument but there was some laughter at times. Margaret was about seventeen when she went out with a Scottish soldier named Mack. He was in the Queen?s Guard. Now, I thought he was marvellous. He was big and brave, he must have been, he was a soldier. That?s what I thought in my little mind. However, dad thought different and didn?t want Margaret to go out with him. There were endless rows and on one occasion Margaret went for dad with a carving knife. It was only my mum who stopped Margaret from doing something she would have regretted for the rest of her life. Needless to say, she kept seeing Mack and the arguing continued night after night. As it turned out, dad had nothing to worry about as Margaret?s affair came to an abrupt end when Mack killed a man. Mack was having a pee in a public toilet when a gay guy approached him. Now gay people are accepted in the community today and rightly so but, in the Fifties they were considered to be sexual misfits by most people and that?s putting it very mildly. In fact, it was against the law to have a gay relationship and to have a gay person approach you was an insult. Mack took it very personally and kicked the gay guy so badly he died on the toilet floor. Mack was sentenced to prison for many years. Mack was lucky he wasn?t sentenced to hang, in those days people were hung for murder. I would imagine, with the opinion of gays as it was in the Fifties, the jury probably thought the guy deserved a kicking simply for being gay if nothing else. In their eyes, Mack unfortunately just went a little too far. They had no choice but to send him to prison. Frightening to think isn?t it, that in my lifetime, it was almost okay to kill someone who was gay; no wonder they kept their sexuality secret. Margaret continued her crusade to upset mum and dad and found herself new man, Bob Sheldrake. This time he was more than twice her age, married and had two children. This was all too much for dad to cope with and after endless violent arguments, threw Margaret out of the house. Probably not a good thing to do but having an affair with a married man was not accepted in those days, not in the open that is, and she had she had crossed the line. It was a horrible time in my life seeing my sister leave the house calling my dad every name under the sun and wishing him dead. I suppose if I had been older I would have understood what was going on but I could only see fighting, swearing and people hating each other. To make things worse people would tell me everything was okay. How could it be okay when your sister was thrown out of the house and she wished your dad dead? Even a six year old could work that out. Bob left his wife and him and Margaret moved into a tiny flat in Peckham. I suppose things were rosy for Margaret for a while. She had moved out of the house she hated, moved away from the man she hated, and had found true love with Bob. Unfortunately, like most things in life, things aren?t always what they appear to be, as Margaret was soon to find out. Bob was a charmer and it was obvious to everyone, except Margaret, that she wasn?t his first affair. Being an older man with lots of experience he could tell her anything and she would believe him. To her he was the man she had dreamt of, the one man in this world, unlike her dad, who would never let her down. Well, that dream only lasted a couple of months before she was brought back to reality with the biggest bombshell ever to hit the Ward family, Margaret was pregnant. Today, becoming pregnant when you are single is no big deal. Becoming pregnant by a married man, although not ideal, is no big deal. But to become pregnant and by a married man in the Fifties was probably the greatest sin of all. In those days a man could beat his wife, that was a domestic, gays could be kicked to death, that was their fault but, becoming pregnant out of wedlock, now that was really unforgivable. Nine months on, Margaret?s daughter Beverly came into the world. When I heard the news I was so excited. I wanted to see this little baby and so did mum. However, dad had disowned Margaret and we weren?t allowed to see her or the baby. Now mum would generally do what dad said, but there was no way he was going to stop her from seeing her grandchild. Mum made arrangements to meet Margaret and the baby on a Saturday morning at The Plough in Dulwich when dad was at work and I was invited, provided I didn?t tell dad, no problem for me I thought. Margaret must have got the number 78 bus from Peckham to The Plough because, when we got there, she was waiting by the number 78 bus stop, what a strange thing for me to remember. She was very pale and weak-looking; she had the look of a lost little girl. She must have been wondering what mum?s reaction was going to be; she must have been so terribly frightened inside. Mum would have seen the same frightened little girl as I did. Mum held out her arms and said -?Come here.? They held each other tightly while Margaret cried on mum?s shoulder. I can?t remember the words mum said, but they would have been words of comfort for someone who was still her little girl. I looked up at them both; I was so pleased they were friends again. In the Fifties there were no coffee shops. There were cafes, but they were either for workmen or teenagers; if two women with a pram had gone into one of those places they would have been looked at. So, instead, we walked the streets for an hour or so and I was allowed to push the pram. I felt so proud; after all, this was my little niece. Eventually we came back to the bus stop where we said our goodbyes. As we walked back home I can remember mum holding a little flowery handkerchief and occasionally wiping a tear from her face, telling me she had something in her eye. When we got home mum said ? ?Now, remember. Don?t say anything to your father. He will go barmy if he finds out.? I always knew when she was being serious with me; she used the word ?Father?. Later that day dad came home after making his usual Saturday visit to the pub. I was sitting in the kitchen with mum when we heard him come through the front door. Mum jumped up and grabbed the kettle, something she always did when she was nervous. She turned and said in a quiet voice - ?Don?t forget what I said.? Dad came through the kitchen door, fag in one hand and his bag of tools in the other. This was always a time I dreaded. I could instinctively tell, by looking at his face, if he was pissed and in a good mood or pissed and in a bad mood, that?s when one of his eyes would be partly closed. I would always pray both eyes would be open. Unfortunately, on most occasions my prayers were unanswered. Now, I know that when couples have been married for many years, they can somehow read each other?s minds, but mum and dad could be uncanny at times when it came to this. Dad sat down at the table, looked at mum and said immediately - ?You been to see Margaret haven?t you?? On hearing this I coiled my legs up tightly on the chair and looked at mum. What was she going to say? This could turn into an almighty fight. Mum looked straight at him and said ??She?s your daughter and she?s in trouble.? ?F### me,? I thought, ?The shit will really hit the fan now and she was the one that told me to keep quiet.? I turned and looked at dad. He was staring mum straight in the face -?What sort of trouble?? ?They have no money and she looks like she hasn?t eaten for days,? Dad took a long dragged on his Woodbine and as he blew out the smoke he said with a choked up voice -?What do you mean she hasn?t eaten?? But before mum could answer, dad?s eyes filled with tears and he kept saying - ?No child of mine is going to go without food. Why has nobody told me?? It was one of those very rare occasions that I saw mum and dad embrace each other. At this moment, all the shit that Margaret had created, the rows, the fights and the evil names she had called dad had been forgotten; this was their child and she needed them. It was at times like this that I loved my dad. He could be such an arsehole at times, but deep down inside he was a lovely person and when it came to his family he would fight to the death; he just didn?t always show it. I got up and cuddled them both and asked dad if it would be all right. He patted me on the head, making sure he didn?t burn my hair with the fag he was holding, and said, with tears falling from his face- ?It will be all right, Son. I won?t let her down. She?s my daughter.? After drying his eyes, dad sat in his chair, eating a sandwich and drinking a cup of tea. I knew he was thinking because he was drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. Suddenly, without warning, he jumped up and went into ?I?m getting things sorted? mode. It was rare to see him go into this mode and mum knew from experience that there would be no stopping him from doing whatever was in his head. On probably the only occasion I can remember, dad went up to the corner shop. Dad never went to the corner shop; he always had someone do that for him, but I suppose this was different. He returned sometime later pushing a sack barrow. It was laden with groceries. There was cheese, bread, biscuits, bacon, ham, tea, fruit juice and every kind of food that the corner shop sold. I was puzzled as to where he got the money to buy all this food; there was no way he could have put that lot on mum?s bill. I suppose luck must have been on his side that day and he had had a big win on the horses. I don?t like to think of what his reaction would have been that day if he had lost. Anyway, he had not only bought half the corner shop?s stock, but also arranged for a friend of his, who had a car, to pick us up that night and drive us to Margaret?s flat. I don?t know what I was excited about the most, going to see my sister with my mum and dad and the prospect of them all being friends again, or going out in a motor car. I had probably only been in a car a couple of times in my life and that was only from one end of the street to the other. This was going to be a long journey, at least five miles. The car arrived to pick us up at about 7.30pm. I guess it must have been about late October. I say October because Beverly was born in June and, by now it was quite dark at 7.30 but the evenings were still mild. Mum put all the groceries into the car, we all piled in and we were off. I sat in the back seat looking out of the window hoping to see one of my mates so I could show off. I knew this was an important visit because dad was wearing his best blazer and grey trousers with a white shirt and tie, and mum was wearing her best coat and had put on makeup. I can still remember the smell of her makeup; things like that never leave your memory. We arrived at the flat; I think it was just off Rye Lane. We sat in the car for a few minutes until dad was ready to knock on the door. Margaret didn?t know we were coming; there was no way of telling her. She didn?t have a phone and neither did we. Mum and dad told me to wait in the car with dad?s friend. I suppose they didn?t want me to be there if things kicked off. I didn?t mind, I loved sitting in that car. After what seemed hours, dad, mum, Margaret and Bob came out of the flat to the car and unloaded the groceries. They all stood by the car for a while, talking. Margaret opened the car door, lent in and gave me a big kiss. She looked happy and that made me happy. There were a few more words said before eventually dad gave Margaret a kiss, shook Bob?s hand and said it was time to go. Mum and dad got into the car and we were off. Mum and dad spoke quietly to each other in the car coming home. I can remember dad saying that the baby was lovely and that they would be okay. I didn?t hear a lot more. I wasn?t bothered; all I knew was that they were all friends again and nothing else seemed to matter. Now, you may think that there is nothing particularly extraordinary about what I have said; after all, it?s just a girl who had a baby whose dad started to talk to her again following an argument. You?re wrong. In the Fifties, things were very different from today. It must have taken a lot of guts for my dad to do what he did. Most fathers would never have gone near their daughter again for having a baby out of wedlock. The very most they would have done is kept their daughter out of sight from the neighbours during pregnancy and made arrangements for the baby to be adopted at birth. Having said that, the biggest and, in my opinion, bravest decision dad and mum made was, to allow Margaret, Bob and baby Beverly to move into our house in Rodwell Road. I remember, just a few days after dad told Margaret they could all move in, a friend of dad?s talking to him about the situation, saying - ?What about the neighbours Cyril? What will they say?? Dad?s reply, very short and to the point: ?F### the neighbours I have never forgotten those words; in fact I have expressed the same opinion myself many times over the years whilst bringing up my own children. Margaret, Bob and Beverly stayed happily in our house for several months and we had some good times. I liked Bob. I thought he was a character and he always had a story to tell. On the other hand, dad and mum thought he was a con artist and only put up with him for the sake of Margaret and the baby. Bob was a tally man. Now, a tally man was like a door-to-door salesman. People bought goods from him and paid weekly until the debt was paid for. I can remember one evening when he came home with a tape recorder. We had never seen a tape recorder before. It was about the size of two biscuit tins and very heavy. Bob put the recorder down on the kitchen table and plugged it in. We all gathered round and he switched it on. I remember him saying to my mum - ?Go on, May. Say something.? She replied -?Sod off. I?m not saying anything.? Bob pushed a couple of buttons and there was mum?s voice -?Sod off. I?m not saying anything.? We couldn?t stop laughing. Even dad had to laugh. We sat all night playing and recording, saying the silliest of things. I can remember when it came to Fred?s turn to say something. He made out he was a zookeeper. One of the things he said was - ?Here we have the elephant, every time he shits, he shits a ton, watch out, lady he is shitting now, too late, dig her out!? And so, his zoo stories went on and on, dozens of them and all recorded. What we didn?t know at the time was that the tape recorder was being delivered by Bob to a customer the next day. What you need to know is, tape recorders in those days didn?t have an ?erase? button. So the poor old customer got a tape recorder full of mum saying ?sod off? and Fred?s crude zoo jokes. But we didn?t care, it was great fun. One day, without warning, Bob was gone. He left a note to say goodbye and we never saw him again. Next Chapter Monday 14/02/21

exdulwicher. I have been back. My name is still carved in a brick wall and opposite where I lived there is, or was when I visited, a bucket of cement that a guy dropped on his bay window when decorating in about 1964. I know there are trees now. My old house looks poor, made me sad to see it. Enjoy the next chapters regards Wardy.

CHAPTER 9 The Simple Things in Life Looking back, my childhood was reasonably shitty, although I never think of it that way and I don?t think I really thought much about it at the time. I didn?t have a nice cosy bedroom, carpeted floors, matching plates to eat from or a dad that took me to football at the park on a Sunday, but in between the shit were some really good times and it didn?t take much to make it that way. It was the simple things in life that made the good times and put a smile on my face. Things like orange juice at parties, cakes at Sunday tea time and mum?s silly sayings. Let me tell you about some of them. In every house today you will almost certainly find a bottle of orange juice or some other type of fruit drink. When I was a child there was never fruit juice in the house unless it was a very special occasion. One such special occasion was a birthday party. When you knew it was close to some kid?s. birthday you made sure you got friendly with them. It didn?t matter if you liked them or not; you just needed to worm your way into an invite. Birthday parties were one of the greatest pleasures of my childhood. It was at these parties that I could eat and drink all the things I didn?t have at home: jelly, orange squash, posh little cucumber sandwiches and tinned oranges. I loved those tined oranges. I suppose there were lots of reasons for not having these treats in the house all year round. To start with, people didn?t have the money to buy these all the year round, they were expensive. Remember, there were no supermarkets; you bought all your food from the corner shop. Thinking about it, there wasn?t the cupboard space, most houses only had a small larder under the stairs and a cabinet in the kitchen with a pull-down worktop, if you were lucky. There were no fitted cupboards, not in our street anyway, and definitely no fridges. These came many years later. Other than parties, or special occasions, the only time you had fruit juice was when you bought it from the milkman. The milkman sold small bottles of ready diluted orange juice for thruppence; that?s old money. Occasionally, when Mum was feeling flush, she would buy me a bottle and occasionally, when the milkman wasn?t looking, I would pinch a bottle from the back of his cart. On a really good day I would get the money from my mum for a bottle of orange but manage to pinch it instead of paying. Sundays were always boring, I think it was the routine, but there were a few moments of delight. On Sundays I was always made to put on my best clothes and wear a shirt and tie. Sunday morning was the only morning we would have breakfast, eggs, bacon and tomatoes, 9am sharp and without fail. Just before midday dad would leave for the pub. He would be wearing his suit, white shirt and tie and highly polished shoes. In his pocket would be a clean handkerchief and a packet of twenty John Player cigarettes. John Players were more expensive then his usual brand of Woodbines but Sunday was a special day and demanded a special cigarette. Dad would leave for the pub and mum would start to prepare the Sunday lunch. This is where my Sunday became a complete bore. I would go off into the street looking for something to do. There never seemed to be the people about on a Sunday and those who were about always looked smart and tidy. As you walked along the streets you could smell roast dinners coming from every window of every house. Sometimes I would find someone to play with, but most Sundays mornings I would just walk, along the roads. I can distinctly remember one Sunday morning, being bored and carving my initials, EW, into some wet cement on a brick pier on the corner of Rodwell and Crystal Palace Road. I paid a visit in 2003 and the initials were still there. The guy who lived there at the time was furious and promised to murder the little bugger that done it, I kept quiet. Dinner was on the table at 3pm on a Sunday and there was no way you could be late. Most people had their dinner at 2pm, but because dad went to the pub and stayed there until closing time at 2.30pm, we didn?t have our dinner until later. I remember one Sunday dad didn?t come home on time; he stayed in the pub after closing hours. Mum took his diner up the pub, slammed it on the counter and said ? ?You live here why not have your ####ing dinner here? Sitting round the dinner table was a bit like a lottery. If dad was in a good mood, then it was a good lunch with lots of laughter; if he was in a bad mood it was hell and very often the dinner on the table finished up being a dinner splattered on the kitchen wall. Regardless of the outcome of the Sunday-lunch gathering, when it was finished dad went to bed. From here on the house was silent, dad was sleeping and noise was forbidden, no playing, no laughing out loud and no slamming doors. It was as silent as a grave. Dad would sleep, snoring like a pig, until about 6pm when he would wake up, have a cough, light up a fag and have a piss in his bucket. Mum would hear his sounds and take him a cup of tea. Now, throughout the day this was the part I would most look forward to, Sunday tea. Amongst all the food that I hated, paste sandwiches, tinned pink salmon and cold meat, were ?Mary Bakers Ice Topping Cakes.? This was a packet cake mix that mum prepared during the afternoon. I would watch mum mixing the ingredients and wait for her to let me lick the bowl. We didn?t have to sit down at the table for tea like we did for Sunday lunch, so I would grab as many cakes as I could get away with and a pink salmon sandwich, just to keep mum happy. It would take me just a couple of minutes to eat those cakes, but it was, for me, a couple of minutes of pure heaven. After tea things generally went downhill. The day was coming to a finish, dad normally had the hump and I only had school to look forward to the next day. I hated Sundays and that hate remained with me for many years throughout my childhood and well into my adulthood. Food, drink and sweets played a big part in making me momentarily happy as a child. It wasn?t greed; it was that these things were such a treat to have and when you got them you made the most of the taste, the smell and the excitement. There were lots of small things in my childhood that made me happy or put a smile on my face, but the ones I remember most fondly are my mum?s daft sayings. I know they are completely crude and would most certainly be unacceptable today, but I still laugh when I think of some of them. As an example, I would sometimes come in from the street after playing and say - ?What?s for dinner, Mum? ?She would reply, ?Hot cock and stewed hairy onions,? or ?Hot cock and bullock roll.? Where she got those sayings from, I don?t know, but I loved them and between you and me I still do. Mum was also a great one for whistling as she worked, you don?t hear people whistling these days, and for singing the daftest songs. One song she sang on a regular basis made no sense to me then or to this day. The words to the song went like this - ?I love a lassie, a bonny little lassie and I put her in the oven for my tea. I went down the cellar to fetch my umbrella and my lassie came after me.? I loved that song, but I could never understand why you would put someone you loved in the oven and how did the lassie go down to the cellar when she was in the oven? I don?t know if mum made up the song or if it was a song she remembered from years ago when she was a child. As silly as I thought the song was then, strangely enough, I sometimes find myself singing the same song to myself today. Chapter 10 Playing on the Streets Unlike today in the fifties the streets were full of kids playing. We played all the usual things football, cricket, rounders and we usually played with our own gender, there weren?t a lot of games that boys and girls played together but there were a few. The other thing with street games, they came in crazes. You could be playing a game happily for weeks and suddenly it would be replaced with another game or craze. .Most of these games cost nothing other than a piece of chalk or a stick or ball. During the winter you would see football goals chalked on walls and in the summer cricket stumps. A favourite wall for chalking in Rodwell Road was between numbers 27 and 31. There was no number 29 just a gap and a wall. This gap was the back garden of a house, No28, in the next street, Heber Road. Their garden ran straight down to Rodwell Road where there was this six foot brick wall, ideal for chalking. Marbles is a game that comes to mind that you never see played today and it cost little. When the marble craze was in fashion, Rodwell Road would be full of boys rolling there marbles. I think I could have worded that a bit better. Marbles was a game where you rolled a marble along the gutter of the road until it stopped. The next boy would roll his marble in an attempt to hit yours; if he did, he kept your marble. There were all sorts of funny names for different marble shots, little fingers comes to mind where you could only use your little finger to move the marble. Looking back it seems crazy that parents allowed their kids to play in the road on their hands and knees rolling marbles along a germ ridden gutter full of fag ends, spit and dogs shit, but they did, no one died and we had great fun. One game played by boys and girls was Hop-Scotch. Now I don?t know where this game came from but it only required a piece of chalk. With the chalk you would draw on the pavement 5 pairs of square boxes, 10 boxes in total with one half round box at the top, it looked a bit like a drawing of a panelled front door. Each box would have a number from 1 to 10 and the top box, for whatever reason, had the word ?OXO? written in it. You then took a stone and tried to toss this on to the number 1 square. If you managed to do this, you had to hop and skip to that square. The game continued until you done this exercise with all ten squares finally reaching ?OXO? which was home. Sounds complicated I know but it was a simple game played for hours and cost nothing. There were times when the pavement of my road was covered in chalk boxes and numbers. They would stay there until the rain washed them away. While I think of it, earlier I mentioned dog shit in the gutter. In the fifties there was no requirement to pick up dog shit. A dog would shit and there it would stay until it was picked up by the council road sweeper. It was a common event to step in dogs? shit and find yourself dragging your foot along the pavement trying to pull it off. To own a dog in the fifties you needed a dog license. The license was seven shillings and sixpence, the same price as a marriage licence, and was purchased from the post office. Now most people who had a dog had a licence but few people who had a dog bothered if the dog got out alone. You would always see stray dogs wondering the streets, lots of them. In our street we had a boxer dog called Mitzi or something like that. Old Mitzi was as thin as a rake and always had dribble hanging from her mouth. She was owned by a family called Green. When Mitzi was in season the street would be full of male dogs all eager to get to know Mitzi a little better. As a small boy I was fascinated by these dogs. Obviously I didn?t know better at that age but I found it hilarious seeing these dogs running around trying to mount Mitzi. I never new Mitzi not to be having pups. School summer holidays in the street were full of adventure. They normally started off with cricket but quickly turned to pea shooters. Pea- shooters were a long hollow metal tube. We would buy pigeon corn from Ascombes pet shop at 192 Crystal Palace Road, Whateley Road end. Now Ascombes was a strange old place, in the window they had little kittens and puppies for sale and inside it was dark and full of sacks of pet food, goldfish in tanks, pet mice and rabbits in cages. There was always a strange smell, a mixture of mice, hay and something from time gone by. Anyway, we would fill our mouths with this corn and blow it through the pea-shooter, normally aiming at someone, preferably the face or some other bare part of the body. If you got hit by a flying pea it was painful but, not as painful as some things we played with. Bow and arrow fights normally took place in the last couple of weeks of the school summer holidays. We would make our own bows from bamboo canes and string and use sharpened pea sticks as arrows. All the boys in the street would challenge all the boys from another street to a bow and arrow fight. Rodwell Road normally challenged Heber Road. On the day of the fight we would sharpen our arrows to a fine point in preparation. We would then walk towards Heber Road. The boys in Heber Road would be doing the same; we would normally face each other in Cyrena Road, it was here that the battle would commence. Each boy would fire at the enemy with the intention of hitting them; usually aiming at the head, sounds terrible doesn?t it? But it?s true; we were in it to win it at all costs. I?m probably talking about 15 or 20 boys all firing sharpened arrows at each other from a reasonably short range but, the funny thing is, there was never a bad injury. Yes, some boys got hurt, cuts and things but nothing serious. No adults came out to stop us; in fact, some stood and watch. Imagine what would happen today. Undoubtedly the police would be called, probably armed; the area would be cordoned off, TV news cameras would be there and without doubt social services would be involved. Not back then, it was normal behaviour, a good outdoor activity that every boy should enjoy. How things have changed. There were no trees in our street or any other streets nearby so climbing, as all kids like to do, was restricted to walls fences and the odd scaffolding if the builders weren?t around. We would very often play a game called ?follow the leader? which involved a lot of climbing. This game was fun but sometimes extremely dangerous. The leader, normally an older boy, I say boy because girls didn?t play this game, would do something like climb a lamp post and everyone following had to copy his actions. Now this was ok when climbing a lamppost but, when it came to jumping from the pavement down into one of the aeries it could be really dangerous, I would very often brick it, in fear of my life. I loved playing in the street. It was hear I learnt so much about life, how to look after myself and how to survive in awkward situations. I can remember once going on an errant for my mum; I was about 8 years old at the time. It was dark and I was going down the hill to a shop on the corner of Cyrena and Pellatt Road. As I walked down the hill a boy, probably aged about 14, came up and grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, pushed me against a wall and said - ?Give me ya money or I will beat you up? Shit I thought what now? Having two shillings and sixpence, half-crown as we called it, in my hand, belonging to my mum, I had to think quickly. ?I tell you what mate?, I said, ?I only have a half crown, let me go home to my money box and I will bring you back ten bob?. Ten bob was worth 4 half crowns. I can remember his face to this day. He tipped his head to one side looked at me puzzled and said ?Do you promise?? I couldn?t believe it; he had taken the bait -?I promise? He let me go and I ran back home. What an idiot I thought, I?m not going to go back with my money. Looking back, I suppose it was an early form of mugging, mugging not being a word in those days, and I was fortunate enough to have been mugged by a mug. Next Chapter Sunday 14/02/21

Tomorrow Friday 11th "Wardy The Kid From The Rough End Of The Street" Chapter 9 "The Simple Things In Life" and Chapter 10 "Playing In The Streets" Be there or be square :-)