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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 :-)

Thank you Sarah, there's a lot more to come.

CHAPTER 8 People Who Made Their Living on the Streets The world today compared with the world of my childhood has changed dramatically, and so has the meaning of many English words. When I was a boy you could use the word ?gay? without giving homosexuality a second thought; ?gay? in my day meant you were happy or it could even mean bright colours. The same could be said for the word ?muffin?. If you said to someone today you were a ?muffin man? they would immediately conjure up all sorts of sexual innuendos, thinking you were a pervert. In fact the muffin man was a regular visitor to my street on a Saturday afternoon and every street in the area. The muffin man sold bread muffins. He would carry the muffins on a huge tray which he balanced on top of his head. As he walked along the road he would be holding a large bell by the handle, a bit like an old-fashioned school bell. He would shake the bell rigorously and at the same time shout the words - ?Muffins, fresh muffins.? On hearing his call, normally at about 4pm, mum, providing dad wasn?t too pissed and in a good mood, would send me out of the house to buy six muffins. I was always intrigued by the muffin man. He was very old and his face was full of wrinkles with a white mustache hanging over his top lip. He had the type of face you would imagine had a thousand stories to tell. He always wore the same clothes, a black suit coat, grey trousers and waistcoat, a greyish white shirt buttoned at the collar, but no tie, and a thick long white apron. There was no colour in his clothes, just black, white and grey. He reminded me of Charlie Chaplin in the old black-and-white films. The muffins would be covered in a white cotton sheet. As he pulled the sheet from the muffins there was an unmistakable smell of fresh bread. I could never figure out how he balanced such a big tray on his head without toppling over somewhere on the way. I used to try to mimic him in my back yard by balancing a tray made from a plank of wood on my head but could never master the art. There were no hygiene precautions to speak of: he handled all the muffins and the money without once washing his hands and I would imagine he had a pee somewhere on his rounds. That said, I can?t remember anyone ever having a stomach problem after eating one of his muffins. Saturday afternoon and the muffin man, believe it or not, was an exciting time, mum would warm the muffins, cover them with butter and we would sit and munch, quietly enjoying our weekly treat. And what a treat that was. Almost every day I hear people rattling on about recycling; it?s on the news, in the tabloids, on the radio and rammed down your throat by the local council. Recycling is nothing new; we just forgot how to do it. The best recycler of all times and someone who has long since gone was the rag-and-bone man. Every day of the week, come rain or shine the rag and bone man would ride his horse and cart along every street shouting the words - ?Rag and bones, rag and bones, Any old lumber, any old iron.? He would buy anything: old clothes, iron, copper, lead, ?old bath tubs, old kettles, you name it and he would give you something for it, and then recycle it. I loved the sound of the rag-and-bone man?s call and the click-clock of his horse?s hooves walking along the road; I tried every day to have something for him to buy. The rag-and-bone man always had dirty finger nails and clothes that looked like they should have been binned long ago. Every finger on his hands had an old gold ring and he wore a silver pocket watch with a chain hanging from his waistcoat pocket. There?s a couple of things I distinctly remember about him: he always stunk of horse shit, most of his teeth were dark brown with the odd broken black one, and he had one gold tooth, just to the left-hand side of his top jaw, a sign of wealth in those days or so my dad said. The rag-and-bone man was always friendly, always had something to say about nothing and always had a big smile on his face. However, his old horse never seemed to have a smile; it always looked completely f###ed and in need of a good feed. I suppose the bottom line being, if, for years anyone, horse or human, walked the same old route, day in day out, with someone shouting ?rag and bones? in their ear every couple of minutes, they would probably look f###ed too. It must have driven the poor old sod completely mad. Like with most things as a child, I would look at people and situations and ask myself questions. The one big question I always asked myself about the rag-and-bone man was why he shouted ?bones? in his daily chorus. I never saw any bones on his cart and I never saw him buy any bones. After all, I would think, what can you do with a bone? Ask anyone today for a glass of milk and they will reach into the fridge and produce a carton. Ask anyone today for a slice of bread and they will reach into the cupboard and produce a nicely cut pre- wrapped loaf. Not when I was a boy. Milk and bread were delivered to your door by the milkman and the bakerman; both these commodities were transported by horse and cart door to door. The horse would walk along the streets and know just when and where to stop and when to start walking again. The bakerman?s bread would be piled high in baskets on his cart, sheltered only by a fabric roof and open to all the elements, and yet there was never a complaint from anyone about hygiene. The milkman was very much the same. His horse would know when to stop and when not to stop. The big difference between the milkman?s cart and the bakerman?s cart was the noise. The milkman?s cart made a loud noise as bottles banged against the metal crates; note I said metal, as the horse pulled the cart along the road. It was always a mystery to me how those bottles didn?t break, but they didn?t. Although we only had small back yards in the street where we lived, some people grew a few vegetables. Now, one thing that is good for vegetables is horse shit and Saturday mornings, when most men would be at home, was horse shit day. Just before the bakerman or the milkman came along the street, eager gardeners would be poised waiting at the front of their respective houses for them to arrive. Each would be praying that when the horse shit, and they did shit a lot, that it would shit outside their house so as they could lay claim to the pile. This was okay in theory, but the problem came when the horse shit halfway between two houses or in the middle of the road between two rows of houses. Then the fun began. When this happened you would see two grown-up men running with all their might, carrying a bucket and small shovel, towards the pile of horse shit. The first to arrive at the pile would claim it as his. Unfortunately, there were times when two men would reach the shit together, and that when the real fun began. I have witnessed adult men come to a physical fight over a pile of horse shit. By the time they had stopped jumping around and pushing at each other there was no horse shit to have; it was spread across the road where their feet had kicked it from place to place during the scuffle. Slowly the horses disappeared. I was about nine years old when the last of the horses, the milkman?s horse, was on his rounds in a thunder storm but for some unknown reason, at the sound of thunder, which he must have heard a thousand times before, he bolted. He came to an abrupt halt at the end of my street, near Crystal Palace Road, falling onto his belly shivering with fear. There was some panic and the police were called. Eventually a vet arrived and examined the horse. Shortly afterwards a screen was put around the poor old thing, there was a bang and the horse was dead, put down, shot, by the vet. This horse was a beautiful intelligent animal that had worked hard for years and who was loved by all the kids. I was only young and the whole event made me so very sad. I had known this horse all of my life. Every day I saw him, stroked him and fed him with bread, now he was gone. Although I was young, I can remember wondering if the horse had just had enough of life. Perhaps he felt too old to do any more, too old to pull that heavy cart, too old to get up every morning at the crack of dawn and just too old to work tirelessly in all weathers. Perhaps he decided to end it all by making that final bolt for freedom. The horse was replaced by an electric float, having milk delivered was never the same again. I don?t know who this man was or where he came from, but every now and then this tall man with an artificial leg would appear at our door. He was the knife sharpener. He would bang at the door and shout ??Knife ? scissors.? Mum would go to the kitchen draw and pull out a carving knife or an old pair of scissors, giving them to me saying - ?Go and get these sharpened.? The knife sharpener?s entire business was mounted on his push bike. One of the pedals on the bike was attached by various chains to a big grinding stone wheel which was supported by the handle bars. He would sit on the bike supporting his balance with his artificial leg firmly on the ground. His good leg would push the pedal which would turn the grinding wheel. As he did this he would run the knife edge across the stone until it was razor sharp. We all know someone in this modern world who can?t work because of a disability a bad back, bad leg or some other such problem but, when I was a boy there were few people who didn?t work because of a physical disability: one leg, one arm, in a wheelchair or no feet, somehow they all found a way to make a living, just like the knife sharpener. To me the peculiar thing with this man was his choice of making a living. Who in their right mind with one leg would choose to make their living by pedalling all day with their one good leg? Surely a better choice would have been a fiddle player or any job sitting down, anything rather than completely ####ing up the only one good leg you had left. I didn?t know an awful lot about the knife sharpener, but I did know he was a miserable bastard. He never talked and if you talked to him he would just grunt or shout ??Don?t talk, I?m sharpening.? With a sharp knife in his hand, I never pushed my luck. I did however wonder though, what would happen if his artificial leg broke as he pedalled away at the wheel. Sometimes he was so miserable I wished it would break. You see, in those days artificial legs were made of wood and the cheaper National Health-issued legs didn?t have any joints; a little too much pressure or a touch of woodworm and the whole thing could collapse in pieces. Needless to say, it never did. Now, of all the strange ways to make a living the next one must be it. There was a man who visited our street every week selling cotton reels and sewing needles. Now, I don?t know how much cotton one needs but I was always puzzled as to how he could make enough money to survive. He was deaf and dumb, but he could sort of grunt. He had all his cotton and needles in a big tray on the front of his bicycle. Every week he would have a small group of women surrounding the tray looking at different colours of cotton. I could never understand the weekly fascination of looking at reels of cotton; surely you can only have so much cotton. Maybe it was just a chance for the women to have a chat, not with him obviously, but with each other, and in the process he would make some money. I imagined these women to have huge cupboards indoors stacked high with every colour of cotton imaginable and every size of needle you could possibly want. After years of coming to our street, one week the cotton man didn?t turn up and he was never seen again. I don?t know what happened to him, perhaps he just got fed up with all those women talking and not being able to join in the conversation, or perhaps he just died. Whatever happened to him, no one seemed to care. I suppose everyone had enough cotton to last them a lifetime anyway, so he wasn?t missed. Sad when you think about it, spending your whole life not being able to talk and selling reels of cotton to women who did nothing else but talk and on top of that, nobody really cared when you were gone. Before I leave the people who earned their money on the street, I must tell you about Tom Cornwall. Tom had a small shop in Heber Road, next to the Heber Arms Pub, to the right. I say shop: it was a shop, but it never opened. Tom used the shop as a storage area for what he sold on the streets. Tom had a big old open-back van, which during the week was loaded with fruit and vegetables. Tom would go from street to street shouting, ?Fruit and veg, fruit and veg.? His voice could be heard for miles, but on a Sunday morning all changed. His van, instead of being loaded with fruit and vegetables, was loaded with fish, cockles, shrimps and all other kinds of seafood. Every Sunday morning mum would send me out to buy a pint of winkles and a pint of shrimps. The smell coming from his van reminded me of the seaside; it was fresh and salty. Now the thing was, we bought seafood on a Sunday but we never bought fruit or vegetables from Tom during the week, the reason, dad had a fiddle going on. Tom employed a young lad to help out in the shop on a Saturday. It was his job to stack the potatoes, open the boxes of tomatoes and generally make himself busy while Tom was out selling. As I said, Tom?s shop was right next door to the Heber Arms pub where dad often enjoyed his Saturday afternoon drink. At some point dad came into contact with Tom?s helper and struck a deal. Every Saturday, when Tom was out on his rounds, his helper loaded a box with all the veg you could possibly want. He would leave it just outside the shop for dad to pick up. In exchange dad gave him a couple of bob, probably more than a couple of bob if the truth was known. This went on for years and Tom, poor sod, was never any the wiser. Next Chapter Friday 12/02/21

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CHAPTER 7 Making Money From an early age I thought that money could make a big difference to my life. If you had money you could have a nice house, good clothes and all the things that weren?t possible if you were living from day to day. I spent a lot of my time thinking of ways to make money and one of my great ventures was hedge cutting. Most of the houses in my neighbourhood had hedges to the front of the house and most of the occupants of those houses hated cutting the hedge, hence one of my first money-making ideas. I longed for summer when the hedges started to grow and become long and straggly; this was my chance to make money. Every summer without fail I would be out knocking on doors asking people if they wanted to have their hedge cut. At least fifty per cent would say yes, that to me was money in the bank. Now you may think this is an exaggeration, but I started my hedge-cutting business when I was about seven years old. I don?t know if I got most of my business through my hedge-cutting skills or whether people just gave me the job because I was a cheeky little boy. Nevertheless, I made money, so I didn?t really care. People would ask me how much I charged; I can remember weighing them up before committing myself to a price. How much are they worth? How big is the hedge? I?m sure my prices were low, just pennies, but to me it was big money. So in my school holidays I would cut hedges from morning to night. I suppose I must have been a very young entrepreneur as far as I can remember there were no other kids who went out and worked to earn money at my age and I learned a lot from what I did. I learnt that when it came to money people were quite different. Some would negotiate the price whilst others would have no problem paying what was asked; some would even give a big tip, and some would argue on the quality of work and require a reduction. Early years, early lessons: it taught me a lot. I loved my hedge cutting business, but when I look back I always remember one particular customer with sadness. I knocked at the door of a house a couple of blocks down from where I lived; I think it was Silvester Road, at the posh end. A man answered the door, he was probably in his early twenties; I can remember him as being very tall and slim. I asked him if he wanted his hedge cut ?Well, I don?t know I will have to ask my wife.? He called to his wife. She came to the door holding a small baby - ?Do we need our hedge cut? ?I don?t know, Do we?? She replied. They were both very likable people who were playing a game with a little boy touting for work. ?How much do you charge?? ? Two and six,? I said That?s about thirteen pence in today?s money. ?Okay,? they said and left me to it. After a while they came outside with a glass of orange and some biscuits. Now this was a treat. ?I?m on a winner here,? I thought. They sat outside with the baby, talking to me as I cut the hedge. I can remember thinking how happy they were; they seemed to have everything I dreamed of, a nice house and a nice home, but most of all a look in their eyes that said they had each other, there were no rows in their house and they had a baby they loved. I finished the hedge and stayed until the early evening, just sitting on the bay window ledge asking them all sorts of questions about how long they had been married and how old the baby was. I think they had been married for about two years and the baby was just a couple of months old. It was a warm evening and one I enjoyed very much. They paid me a lot more then I had asked for and waved me goodbye as I walked along the street back to my house. I felt very happy. The next day I got up as usual, got dressed and went out to make some more money. It?s strange, but there was an almost silent feeling in the air. People seemed to be sad and not their usual selves. I wandered off with my hedge-cutting shears to where I had left off the day before. I can remember coming to the street, there was a lingering smell of redundant smoke. Looking along the street I saw some policemen standing by a house, the house of the young couple I had met the day before. For a kid, policemen and the smell of smoke spelt excitement, so I went to see what was going on. By the house there were a couple of groups of people all looking pale and solemn, talking quietly amongst themselves. It didn?t take me long to discover that, that night, the young couple?s house had caught fire and although they had been rescued, tragically, their little baby had died. I can remember feeling cold: my eyes filled with tears, but I wouldn?t let myself cry, crying wasn?t something I allowed myself to do. I walked away from that street feeling angry and alone; I couldn?t understand why such a horrible thing had happened and why such lovely people had lost their home, their dreams and their hopes, but most of all the love of their lives, their little baby. I never saw that couple again, but I have never forgotten them or that evening, sitting on the window ledge just talking. I often wondered, even to this day, how they managed, did the pain ever go away, and could they ever look in the mirror without asking ?Why?? They are probably both long dead by now. Who knows? Perhaps all three have been reunited in another world, and maybe, just maybe, they are smiling again, just like that night when we all sat talking. Fresh garden mint was like green gold to me. When the spring came so did the garden mint. In my yard we had mint growing all over the place. It grew in the cracks of the path, in the brickwork where the mortar had gone soft and, sometimes, where it should grow- in the earth. I could earn a small fortune by selling mint door-to-door. I would pick the mint, place a handful in an old sheet of newspaper, roll it up nice and neatly and there I was, ready to do business. The art of selling mint was to know the soft people, people who couldn?t resist a big smile from a small boy with big eyes and long black eye lashes, and I knew them all. Humpty-Back Johnny?s wife was a prime candidate. I would knock at her door very gently. When she answered I would look up at her, give a big smile and say very politely - ?Would you like to buy some fresh mint? It?s only just been picked.? Never did anyone say no, my pockets would be loaded with cash. I can remember, on one occasion, a lady saying to me, ?No thanks. We don?t eat lamb.? I replied ?It?s not lamb, Missus, its mint; it grows in the garden.? She laughed so much that she bought some anyway. Even today I can?t look at mint in the garden without thinking of those days. Unfortunately, there isn?t anything very exciting for me to tell you about mint. It would grow, I would get up early each morning, pick it and sell it, and that?s about it. When the mint finished, firewood came into play. There was always wood kicking around somewhere, an old box from the greengrocer, an old chair from the dump or something dad had brought home and left in the yard. I would chop the wood into small sticks, bundle them up and tie the middle with string. Yes your heard me correctly, I used a chopper and from a very early age. There were no protecting kids in those days from doing things unthinkable today. Using a chopper, playing with a knife or even lighting a fire in the garden, all were acceptable. Somehow you just learnt to do these things safely. Every winter I would pray for bad weather, the colder the better; cold weather and snow spelt money, snow meant big bucks. To wake in the morning and see the roads full of snow was a godsend. Where mint was green gold, snow was white diamonds, but unlike the famous song these diamonds wouldn?t be there forever. As soon as the snow settled, I would be out with my shovel, knocking on doors, snow clearing. No one wanted to come out into freezing conditions and clear snow from their paths. With snow clearing you needed to be fast, one day of sunshine and it was gone. The quicker you could clear the snow, the more money you could make. I would be out all day until my feet, hands and the end of my nose were ready to snap off. Snow clearing was hard work, but the rewards were big and that was all that mattered to me. Probably the biggest seasonal money-earner was ?Penny for the Guy?. If you had a good guy and a good spot on the streets you could make a fortune. It wasn?t unusual for me to make more money in a week doing this, then my dad could earn at work, and mine was tax-free. I suppose I?d better explain. November 5th in the 1950s was a big event, very big. This day everyone had a bonfire in their back yard and on top of the bonfire was what they called a ?Guy?, the guy represented Guy Fawkes who, sometime long ago, tried, and failed in his attempt to blow up the Houses of Parliament. Families would gather round the bonfire letting off fireworks, roasting chestnuts and toasting bread on the end of a toasting fork, it was a great night. The build-up to Fireworks Night came a couple of weeks before November 5th. Kids would make a guy, stuffing an old pair of trousers, a shirt and a pair of socks with newspaper. The head of the guy would be made from one of your mum?s stockings, no tights in those days; this was also stuffed with newspaper. You could buy a face mask for a couple of pennies from Dons sweet shop in Heber Road; this was placed on the head of the guy. Having made your guy, you found a good spot on the streets, placed your guy sitting up against a wall with a tin or hat beside him to hold the money to be collected. From here you would shout the words to passerby?s - ?Penny for the guy mister, penny for the guy misses, penny for the poor old guy? I suppose it was a form of begging on behalf of the Guy I would always choose a bus stop, probably in Barry Road. Here you could be guaranteed a good audience, particularly early morning and evening when people were going to and from work. Most of the money you made was spent on fireworks. Unlike today, there was no problem with kids buying fireworks, providing you could walk into the shop and had the money, you could buy the fireworks and a box of matches, age was no barrier. In fact, they made special coluoured matches for kids on firework night; they would burn bright green or red. Having earned his owner a lot of money, poor old guy?s only reward was to be placed on top of the bonfire and burnt on November 5th. We would all cheer as the flames engulfed his body and he sizzled away. I would imagine that if a child today begged on the streets for money and committed a human effigy to burn on a bonfire, they would without doubt be referred for psychiatric treatment, together with the parents who assisted in the sacrifice, and probably committed to a secure unit. Before I leave these memories, I am reminded of a story I was told about a couple of boys who decided that making a guy was too much trouble. Instead, one of them put on a face mask and pretended to be a guy. He sat outside a butcher?s shop, flopped up against the butcher?s wall, looking like the real thing, while his friend shouted, ?Penny for the Guy.? The butcher became annoyed at the boys? continuous shouts. He came out of the shop in a rage and carrying a very large butcher?s knife. The butcher, in temper, plunged the knife into the guy only to realise, sadly too late, that the guy was in fact a young boy. I don?t know if this story was true, but it always kept me away from the butcher during November. Next Chapter Wednesday 10/02/21 "The People Who Made Their Living On She Streets"

CHAPTER 6 My Dad the Hero It was a Sunday evening about 6.30 in the middle of summer. It was warm and the sky was clear. I was playing in the back yard while mum and dad were resting indoors when I heard a cat crying in distress. Being inquisitive I searched the yard, under the shed, in the toilet, everywhere, but I couldn?t find the cat. Still the cries could be heard. I walked from the back yard down the side of the house just past the kitchen bay window. One side of our house was separated from the next-door house, Number 27, by a gap between the two walls of about four inches. As a kid I would look down this gap to see all the bits that had fallen there over the years. Sometimes I would shine a torch along the gap to see if I could spot any spiders or other creepy crawly things. Curiously, one thing in this gap was a very large and very old round table top. Why someone took the trouble to push a table top down the gap I don?t know. I was always trying to pull it out, I thought it may be an antique and worth money, I wonder if it?s still there today. As I approached the gap the cry of the cat became louder and louder. I stood on an old box with my nose pressed against the wall, peering down the gap, I remember it was dark in there and there was a smell of mildew and dust. Suddenly I saw, looking back at me a pair, of shining green eyes; I forgot all about the cat and jumped off the box, nearly falling over. I was frightened but, still wanted to know what it was. I went indoors and fetched a torch. Returning to the yard I got back on the box and very gingerly shone the torch down the gap. There it was, a big black cat upside down and stuck half way along. I don?t know why, but I was really excited at the thought of this cat being stuck. In my little mind it was my big chance to be a hero and save the cat from certain death. I tried to reach the cat with my arm stretched out, I tried to reach the cat with a long stick and I tried to throw a rope and lasso the cat like cowboys did with cattle, all of which failed. Thinking about the situation for a few minutes, I went through the house and out to the front garden at the other end of the gap. I climbed on a small wall separating our garden from next doors. For some reason I can remember that wall so well, it had a half round top which was almost black. I shone my torch down the gap. I again tried to reach the cat with a stick and a rope, and again I failed. Whilst I was doing this a neighbour came past, I think it was Jim from Number 33, he asked what I was doing - I?m trying to rescue a cat. ?What colour is the cat?? He said. ?I think it?s black.? ?If it?s black it belongs to the Irish lady over the road, she lost her cat a couple of days ago. You need to go and tell her you have found it.? He walked off. I carried on for a while trying to get the cat out of the gap, but with no luck. I finally decided that maybe it would be a good idea to tell the Irish lady. I went across the road to where she and her husband lived in one of the airy?s. They were a young family who had only lived there for a couple of months. Going down the airy was always an experience for me. When you?re only a small child, walking down old concrete steps to below ground level is frightening, particularly if you have a vivid imagination. I can remember being fearful because they were Irish and this was a Sunday. I didn?t know too much about religion, but I did know Irish people went to their own special church every Sunday and not just for funerals and weddings like us. I was conscious that this was a Sunday and they might be praying or doing something religious. I suppose hearing bits and pieces from adult conversation; I had all sorts of strange things going on in my mind about religion and Irish Catholics. Somehow, I thought that on a Sunday Irish people didn?t make a noise, play music or talk because this would upset God and here I was, down a creepy airy, about to bang on their front door. I took a deep breath, pulled back the old black door knocker and let it go ? ?Bang? The noise of the knocker when it hit the door sounded like thunder -. ?Shit? I thought, ?What have I done?? wanted to run away, and I would have, but my legs were frozen and my heart was pounding; all I could do was stand and wait, terrified and wanting to be back at ground level. After what seemed like hours I heard footsteps coming up the passage. My mouth began to dry and I felt my knees trembling. The door slowly opened and there stood this tall woman with long black hair and green eyes. She looked down at me, stood silent for a while, then to my joy a gentle smile came across her face and she said -?Hello, and who are you? ?I?m Eric Ward. Have you lost a cat?? ?Yes, we lost our cat a couple of days ago.? ?I think he?s stuck down the gap in my wall.? ?In a gap in your wall?? She replied. ?Yes, do you want to have a look?? She called to her husband and together they came up from the airy and across to my house. Being very tall they didn?t have to stand on the wall to look down the gap. ?Yes,? they said, ?it looks like Tommy.? Well, with all three of us, me on the wall and them standing, with our noses pushed up against the wall looking down the gap there was bound to be someone passing who would ask what we were doing, and someone did and then someone else did and someone else; within no time there was a small group of people all taking turns to peer down the gap. I don?t know at what point this happened, but someone called the RSPCA. Now this couldn?t have been an easy task. In those day?s no-one had a phone in the house and to use a phone you needed to walk a couple of blocks to a public phone box. When the RSPCA arrived the group of people outside my house had grown into a small and very excited crowd. The RSPCA sent a stern-looking inspector who clambered out of his van, went up to the wall, looked down the gap and confidently said -?No problem. I?ll soon have him out of there.? He went to his van and produced a long pole with a large loop on the end. ?I?ve tried that, Mister,? I said. ?Don?t worry, Son. I know what I?m doing,? He pushed the pole down the gap and attempted to put the loop around the cat?s neck. But no matter how hard he tried he couldn?t get that loop around the cat. ?I told you, Mister, I tried that.? He didn?t look too pleased, especially now the crowd had grown considerably and they were all looking at him to rescue the cat. I don?t know if someone called them or whether they were just passing but a police car turned up with four policemen inside -?What?s the problem?? One of them said. ?There?s a cat stuck in the gap of my wall,? I said. The RSPCA inspector came across looking well pissed off. ?Okay, Son, let me deal with this.? He was a patronising old sod, I can remember that much. The RSPCA inspector explained the situation and said that he could get the cat out but it was very dark in the gap and he needed more light - ?We can get you more light, ?Said one of the policemen. He walked over to the police car and radioed the fire brigade. By now the crowd in the street was growing to numbers only seen at football stadiums. Some minutes later the fire brigade turned up and started to assemble huge lights on tripod stands. Now it really did look like a football stadium. At about this point the front door of my house opened and my mum came out. She had probably been startled by the bright lights. She must have been totally shocked to see her small front garden full of uniformed men, the street full of people, lights beaming down on the house and a man swinging a pole down the gap of the side wall. I can?t remember what her words were, but remembering my mum as I do, it would have been colourful. After a very confused conversation with the police, mum grasped what was going on and went inside to tell dad. Dad being dad, and suffering from a Sunday-lunchtime-session hangover, didn?t take a lot of notice and stayed indoors. It was now getting late and dark, but people were still arriving to see what was going on. Neighbours had made tea for the onlookers and some had brought out biscuits and cakes and some of the men had bottles of beer. People were sitting on the pavement, the walls and the steps of the houses opposite, laughing and talking. Everyone seemed to have an opinion on how to get the cat out of the gap, everyone seemed to be enjoying the evening, and the whole thing had turned into a street party. In the street there were police cars, fire engines, bright lights and dozens of men in uniforms. I looked around and thought -?What a great evening, and it?s all down to me. If I hadn?t have found that cat none of this would be happening.? I mingled with the crowd, like a celebrity, telling them my story of how I found the cat. I felt ten feet tall and had never felt so happy or so important in all my life. After hours of attempting to rescue the cat, and endless ideas of how to reach the cat an admission of defeat came from the lips of the RSPCA inspector - ?It?s impossible to reach him. He will have to be put down.? ?How will you do this?? asked a policeman. ?I will put a needle on the end of a pole and pass it down the gap and inject him. It shouldn?t be much of a problem.? ?No,? I thought, ?Getting the ####ing cat out in the first place wasn?t going to be much of a problem?. Word spread amongst the crowd that the cat was about to meet its end, there was a deadly silence. It?s strange, but most of these people had been through a world war and seen death almost on a daily basis but here they were silenced by the imminent death of a cat. Thinking back, it probably wasn?t the thought of the cat dying that silenced the crowed, but the thought of the party coming to an end. The RSPCA inspector went to his van to prepare the deadly injection. I felt hopeless. I didn?t want the cat to die; I wanted the cat to live and for me to be a hero. I rushed indoors, shouting for my dad. ?Dad, Dad, they are going to kill the cat.? ?Sod the cat, ?said dad. ?Dad, we can?t let it die.? Not knowing what was happening outside, dad sat up in his armchair and said quietly -?Where is the cat?? ?Down the gap in the wall, Dad,? ?So how are they going to get it out?? ?They?re not, Dad. They are going to kill the cat in the gap and leave it there.? ?Are they f### it will stink the place out?? He leapt to his feet and went outside to the front of the house; like mum, he must have been totally shocked by the crowd and all the commotion. He went over to the gap where the RSPCA inspector was standing with a policeman. ?Where?s the cat, governor?? Said dad. ?It?s stuck in the gap; it?s impossible to get it out,? Said the RSPCA Inspector. ?Well, you?re not killing it and leaving the bloody thing there to stink my place out.? Dad took a tape rule from his pocket and started to slowly feed the end of the tape down the gap. The crowd was watching and I can remember the RSPCA inspector saying -?You won?t do anything with a tape. I?ve been trying for hours with a pole.? ?What a prick,? I thought. Dad didn?t take any notice; he carried on passing the tape down the gap until it touched the cat. He looked at me and said - ?Sixteen feet, remember that, Son.? He reeled in the tape, looked at the RSPCA inspector and said- , ?Don?t touch that cat.? People from the street were listening to this conversation and the crowd?s mood started to change. There was a buzz in the air again, perhaps the party wasn?t over yet and perhaps the cat wouldn?t die. Dad went indoors followed by me, the RSPCA inspector, the policeman and as many of the crowd that could fit in the passage. He went into the front room, looked at me and said, ?What was that measurement again, Son?? ?Sixteen feet, Dad,? He started to measure along the front room wall, reaching the end of the wall; he left the room and went into the back room, again followed by the crowd. He continued to measure along the back room wall until he reached sixteen feet. He then added a couple of extra feet making eighteen feet in total. He looked at me and said. ?Son, go and get my hammer and bolster,? I rushed to his tool box in the cupboard under the stairs, and fetched the tools he had asked for. At the eighteen-foot mark, dad started to hammer away at the wall. Bit by bit the bricks came away until he finally broke through into the gap. Dad put his hand into the hole; with his arm disappearing into the gap. After a bit of a struggle he pulled his arm out quickly, producing the cat from the gap like a magician produces a rabbit from a hat. He handed the cat to the RSPCA inspector calmly saying, ?There?s your cat. Now piss off.? I looked up at the RSPCA inspector and the same words passed through my mind, but I didn?t say them. When the crowd found out the cat had been Rescued there was a huge cheer and people started to clap. I had never seen anything like this before. I was so proud of my dad. All those important people, policemen in uniforms, firemen with lights and a RSPCA inspector, yet none of them could rescue that cat. It was my dad, he was the hero, and all he had was a tape rule and a hammer. Next Chapter Monday 08/02/21

beejay, Thank you. I think you will enjoy tomorrows chapter.

Sarah No1 My old mum sold newspapers and magazines from a little kiosk on North Dulwich Station in the mid 60's. I think the company was "Smiths Papers". Glad your enjoying my words.

CHAPTER 5 The Streets and Places Where I lived Rodwell Road was one of many streets in Dulwich which formed blocks of houses. The roads were built on hills, so every local journey was referred to as ??Going up the hill?, ?Going down the hill? Or ?Going round the block?. All blocks had a corner and nearly all corners had a shop. consequently, if you said you where going to the shop you would refer to this as ??I?m going down the hill to the shop,? Or, ?I?m going up the hill to the shop.? This was our street language and the hills and the blocks and the shops were all a part of our lives; we each knew what block we belonged to and what shops to shop in. Streets also had ends; you had your own end of the street, your territory, the end where you lived and played and you had what was known as ?The other end?. The other end was where you didn?t live or play. Rodwell road ends were divided by Cyrena road running through the middle. As kids, if you ventured up the other end of the street and got into mischief, you would soon be shouted at by an adult - ?Piss off and get down your own end of the street.? Blocks, streets and ends of streets were sacred and you best kept to your own block and your own end. Streets and blocks were also divided by class. You could have a street that was fairly poor at one end, with tatty houses and peeling paint work, while at the other end the houses were very respectable with shiny windows and high-gloss-painted front doors. You always referred to these areas as ? ?The rough end? and ?The posh end?. My end was the rough end of the street! One thing all streets had in common was the characters that lived there. I can remember so many strange and wonderful people, the type of people that you don?t see today. I suppose they are still around but they aren?t part of the community any more in the way they were then. In my street we had a host of characters, some with mental health problems and others who were just different from the norm. Some were different because they wanted to be and others were different because life had made them that way. All in all, my memory of these people is one of laughter and happiness and I would like to share some of these memories with you. Let?s start with the victims of war. Because of the Second World War there were lots of men with limbs missing. It wasn?t unusual to see a man with one leg or one arm or even one leg and one arm. There were also blind men, men in wheelchairs and men with body or facial disfigurements, all caused through a terrible six-year war. I n my street there were two who carried noticeable scars of war: Mr Joelen and a man called Sid. Mr Joelen was a big man who lost a leg in battle. He carried his injuries well; not once did I hear him moan or see an expression of pain on his face. He always had a smile. He always had time to stop and talk to the kids and if you were lucky, on a good day, he would reach into his pocket and give you a three-penny piece, old money that is. Often as a small lad I would sit on the pavement or kerb outside my house, usually not having much to do, and Mr Joelen would appear at the top of the road. This was always a great opportunity to be pleasant to Mr Joelen, hopefully getting enough money from him for a sweet and a drink at Dons sweet shop ?Hello Mr Joelen,? I would say. ?Hello, Eric, how are you?? The conversation would continue as we walked along the road together. A good sign was when Mr Joelen fumbled in his pocket as we approached his house; this normally meant he was looking for a few coppers to give to me before he went indoors. You see in those days a man could talk to children in the street and he could give them a sweet or money without being afraid of being accused of something sinister. Sadly this is not the case today. Mr Joelen was a good and kindly man and he will always have a place in my heart. Its men like him that in their own small way taught kids like me respect and consideration for others. After time, Mr Joelen had his other leg amputated. However, this still didn?t get him down and he continued to fight all that life threw at him. He would push himself in an old black wheelchair up to the Heber Arms every Sunday morning and never allowed himself to lose that smile. Unfortunately he did eventually lose the fight and sadly died one night alone. The second of the war victims I can remember well is old Sid. He lived over the road in one of the airy houses. Sid lost his arm in the war and never again had a proper job. Sid, unlike Mr Joelen, wasn?t a particularly friendly bloke; he never had a smile and he never stopped for a talk. In fact he was a miserable old bastard. The thing that made Sid a little unusual was the fact he owned a three-legged dog. It was quite comical to see Sid, a one-armed man, walk along the road with a three-legged dog. But that wasn?t it. Sid could play the penny whistle and when he played his dog would dance. A man with one arm, playing a penny whistle, accompanied by a three-legged dancing dog was extraordinary and amused us kids for hours. To earn a living Sid and his dog would perform outside the pictures, that?s what we called the cinema, the Odeon at the bottom of Lordship Lane. People coming out from the pictures would stop and be entertained by their performance, putting a couple of coppers in Sid?s hat. You might think that old Sid was just a street beggar, but you would be wrong. He was once a man with a job and a future and then came the war. He went away and done his bit for king and country. He came back from the war with one arm, no job and no money; war heroes in those days, probably like today, weren?t financially rewarded to any degree they just had to get on with it., I don?t know when Sid?s dog lost a leg. For the dog it was a tragic day, but for Sid it spelt the beginning of a new career and a guaranteed income, as long as the dog was alive that is. A family whose peculiarity was not the result of war but more the result of birth was Charlie and his wife Sis. This couple lived in an airy on the corner of Rodwell and Cyrena Road opposite the corner shop. Charlie and Sis couldn?t read or write. Charlie worked for the railway; all railways in those days were owned by British Railways. Working for the railway was a good solid permanent job with free travel and a free uniform. I can remember Charlie?s uniform: it was black trousers, a waistcoat with a watch chain and whistle hanging from the pocket and a peaked cap; he wore that uniform every hour of every day. He was a porter, his job was to fetch and carry a few bags, do some cleaning and generally make himself useful. But the real Charlie wasn?t a man who loved trains, but a man who loved rabbits and canaries; he loved them so much he had hundreds of the bloody things, and I mean hundreds. When I was a lad, Charlie would talk to me, or anyone for that matter, outside of his airy. He would stand at the top of the steps, leading from the airy, waiting for someone to pass so he could have a chat. If he found someone to chat to, he would soon be accompanied by Sis. The two of them would keep their victim cornered for hours on end, talking about anything that didn?t make sense. On one occasion, I would have been about nine years old at the time, I was talking to Charlie and Sis and I expressed an interest in keeping rabbits. After gabbling on for some time about the different types of rabbits, Charlie did the unexpected and invited me in to see his collection of various breeds. I say unexpected because I don?t know of anyone who was ever invited into their house; and what a treat this was going to be for me. My house was not the best in the street by a long way, but Charlie and Sis lived in conditions I had never seen or could even imagine. Every room had cages containing live rabbits. There were cages hanging from the walls, sitting on the table and placed on the floor; there were hundreds of rabbits, of all breeds and all sizes. The house absolutely stunk of rabbit shit and piss, the ammonia was so strong it made my eyes water. No wonder they were always outside, I thought. But that wasn?t it. All three of us went into their bedroom and to my surprise there were no rabbits, not one. Instead there were dozens and dozens of caged budgies, and the noise of all these birds chirping was out of this world; it?s probably why I?m deaf today. The thing I remember the most about the bedroom was a large hand-made budgie cage nailed above the headboard. It was made from bits of old timber and packing cases. I looked at the cage and thought, ?How can they sleep at night with all this noise and budgies above them shitting on their heads?? But things weren?t to end there. We left the house and entered the back yard. I say ?yard?, it was more like a huge rabbit warren. Rabbit cages were stacked as high as a man could reach on every square inch of ground. Now there were hundreds in the house, but out here there were thousands. I didn?t think there were that many rabbits in the word let alone just across the road from where I lived. Before I finish with Charlie and Sis I would like to tell you about an amusing event. Charlie and Sis lived in the airy for many years, alone and without children. One day I was passing and Charlie popped his head up. Knowing I was trapped, I engaged in conversation. Soon afterwards, as expected, Sis appeared and joined in the conversation. Imagine my surprise when another head appeared from the airy. ?Who?s this lady?? I thought. All four of us stood talking for some time before Sis introduced the other person as their daughter Mary. This surprised me because they looked the same age. After a while I couldn?t hold back any longer and I asked Mary how old she was. ?I?m forty two,? she said, ?And my mum is forty.? Coming from anyone else this would have been a joke, but from these people it was a serious answer. Charlie, Sis and Mary were not your everyday people; they obviously had problems upstairs, but they kept themselves going with their interest in rabbits and birds, chatting at the top of the steps and generally keeping themselves amused. They never hurt or interfered with anyone, never had any involvement with social workers and earned their own money without relying on hand-outs; they were true characters and I will always remember them with fondness. Moving along the road was a man known to everyone as Humpty-Back Johnny. Johnny had a disease of the spine which made it curve. As the years went by his curve got curvier and curvier until he was almost bent in half, running his nose along the ground. It doesn?t sound very nice, me talking like this, but in those days disabled people were ?cripples?, kids with Down?s syndrome were ?Mongols?, and obese people were fat. That?s it, that?s how it was and we didn?t know any different. Thankfully we do now. Johnny was a decent bloke, he always had time for a chat, liked a pint and us kids never had any problems from him when playing and making a noise in the street. After a long illness Johnny sadly died at home with his wife by his side. It was traditional in those days that when someone died in your street you came out and watched the funeral procession and paid your last respects. I watched as Johnny?s coffin was brought out from his house. His wife followed behind dressed in black; she had tears falling from her eyes. People stood silent, some crying and some just looking sad. I was sad to see Johnny go, but the one big thing on my mind was - ?How did they get someone of his shape into that coffin?? Surely it needed to be taller and shorter, something more resembling a tea chest then a coffin. I turned to my dad and asked the question. Dad replied in a whisper -?The undertaker would have stood on him to straighten him out, poor old sod.? I pondered for a while, trying to imagine old Johnny lying on the floor and being jumped on by the local undertaker. It?s strange how a child?s mind works, but the one thought on my mind now was -?How tall would he have been when straightened out?? I thought it best not to ask dad that question. I already mentioned Linda. She lived with her mum Violet at number 27 on the ground floor. These two people were a strange couple. I could never make out if they were just a little barmy or playing a game. As I said previously, I cannot remember them ever working or even attempting to look for work. Violet would always be seen sweeping the pavement outside her house; she would sweep that pavement dozens of times every day of the week, always with a fag hanging from her mouth. Who knows, perhaps Violet thought sweeping the pavement was her true vocation; she certainly made every effort to do it well. Linda on the other hand would never be seen with a broom in her hand. The one great memory about these two was the rows, and could they row! At least once a week they would start to row indoors and slowly but surely the row would overspill into the street. Why? I don?t know, but it was fun for us kids to watch. You always knew when they had kicked off. Linda would open the front door, come outside, slam the door and shout to her mother the same old words she had shouted so many times before-?#### off, you ####ing old cow.? She would be followed quickly by Violet, who never swore. Violet would shout -?Calm down dear, calm down? or something like that. This only made Linda more and more vulgar and so the colourful language continued, sometimes for hours. I don?t know what happened to Violet?s husband; I assume there was a one at some time, but he was never mentioned. In the flat above Violet?s lived her brother, Don, and his wife and two sons. Don was a really nice man and very intelligent. One of his sons, Peter, sailed through his eleven plus and went on to one of the best boys schools in London. His other son Tony was mentally disabled and could at times be a complete nightmare. I can remember one time playing cricket with Tony in the street. We had been playing for an hour or so when I said that I was going in to have my tea. The last thing I can remember, as I turned to walk towards my house, was Tony saying -?You ####ing bastard.? The next thing I knew I was on the floor, knocked out. Tony had hit me over the head with his cricket bat. Doing things like this wasn?t unusual for Tony; he could be as good as gold one minute and a complete ####er the next. However, Tony was one of the characters in the street and there was never any bad feeling towards him. Anyway, it was probably my fault for being daft enough to turn my back on him. Now, I had to question myself when labelling this next family as ?characters? but they were different. They weren?t made this way from the result of the war or birth defect, they chose to be different. They lived next door to me at number 23. Most people in my end of the street worked with their hands and had a pint on a Sunday lunch time. The people in No23 worked in an office and went to church on a Sunday. Their family name was Gussy or something like that, but they were known by everyone as ?The Gaspots?. There was Father Gaspot, Mother Gaspot and the two Gaspot daughters. One daughter was tall and thin and the other short and fat; you?ve guessed it, they were known as fatty and skinny Gaspot. I hate myself for it now, but I was part of a continuous campaign, largely brought on by my mum and dad, but accompanied by neighbours, to make the Gaspots? life a bloody misery. Without fail, if you saw a Gaspot in the street, you automatically shouted an obscenity, usually something like - ?Old Gaspot!? Looking back I think these people were extremely brave. They never seemed to retaliate or hide, and they always walked proud above the shouts of abuse. Fatty Gaspot, sorry for still calling her that, but I never knew her real name, was in the Salvation Army. Every so often, on a Sunday morning, the Salvation Army would march with all their regalia from one end of Rodwell Road to the other as they went from block to block. Fatty Gaspot would march alongside the band holding a Salvation Army flag up high in the air. As proud parents, her mum and dad would stand outside their house as the procession passed by. Now and again you would hear someone from the watching crowd shout - ?Old Gaspot! Or something equally as stupid. The Gaspots must have had a terrible life living in Rowell Road and I was part of making their lives that way. This long-running torment went on for years and was never resolved. I was told that years before I can remember, probably before I was born, the Gaspots lit a fire in their back yard on a Monday morning. Now Monday morning was wash day and every yard in the street had washing hanging on the line. Apparently, my dad told them to put the fire out, but they refused and a fight started. Dad jumped the fence and chucked a bucket of water, not over the fire, but over the Gaspots. All the neighbours, who were looking over their back yard fences, cheered. From then on the Gaspots were sent to Coventry, never spoken to again. If only they had left that fire until Tuesday, their lives would have been so much different. I have mentioned several times the ?corner shop?. It?s probably hard for you to imagine, but when I was a child there were no hypermarkets, supermarkets or even mini-markets. Everything was bought from the corner shop. Some streets had one corner shop and some streets had two or three corner shops. In my street there was a corner grocers shop, just down the hill in Cyrena Road was another grocers, owned by the Robinsons, up the hill was another grocer shop on the corner of Cyrena Road and Heber Road with a sweet shop next door called Dons. On the other corner was a cobbler?s shop, that?s a shoe-repair shop. The corner shop in my street was the hub of the community. It was here that families bought all the food for the week, listened to all the gossip and generally passed the time of day. One thing you never did in those days was pay for your goods at the time of purchase. People didn?t buy all the shopping at one go; they would buy food daily and the cost of that food was put on to what was called a ?bill?. At the end of the week, usually Friday afternoon or Saturday morning, you would go to the shop and settle your bill. Consequently, Friday afternoons and Saturday mornings all corner shops would be bustling with people paying their bills and buying shopping for the weekend. No one seemed to rush in those days; people would stand in the shop talking about all kinds of things. No-one got angry at the wait to be served; in fact paying your bill was like a social event, it was something to look forward to - Very often on a Friday, my mum would say to me, ?I?m going up the corner shop to pay the bill. Do you want to come?? Like a shot I would say, ?Yes?. I loved the corner shop and I loved looking at all those people in the line. The one thing I could never understand though was when mum settled her weekly bill she would then buy food for the weekend. Every time, Doll, the lady who owned the shop, would ask - ?Are you paying for this?? ?No,? mum would reply, ?Put it on my bill,? and so the cycle would start all over again. The corner shop of yesterday would give today?s modern shopper a heart attack. First, you didn?t help yourself: most goods were behind the counter and you asked for what you wanted. Cheese didn?t come in packets, it was cut to order with a cheese wire, and eggs weren?t packed in boxes of six, you bought them singly. As an example, you would by two ounces of cheese, which would be put into a small brown paper bag, and two eggs, these would probably accompany the cheese in the same brown bag. As for biscuits, they didn?t come in packets. Packets were about, but you mainly bought biscuits loose from a tin. The tin was about the size of a foot stool. The thing about these biscuits, which would drive today?s hygiene-conscious society to oblivion was the display area. They were displayed in their tins, with the lids off, on top of an old wooden box on the pavement outside the shop. They lay there exposed to nature?s elements, flies, spit from the coughs of passers-by, sneezes and the occasional cock of the leg from a roaming dog. I can still remember those biscuits; they never seemed to have a crunch or a snap but were always soft and slightly damp. Having said that, they were the best biscuits I have ever tasted. Tesco could never match the taste in a million years, at least not without the help of a couple of Labradors! Another corner shop I remember with great affection is Don?s. Dons sold sweets by the ounce and lemonade by the glass. Yes, you heard me, by the glass. Kids in those days didn?t have the money to buy a bottle of lemonade, so shops would sell a glass of lemonade for a penny. I can tell you now, buying a glass of lemonade in those days gave more enjoyment to a child then buying a computer today. I know that sounds like an old fart talking, but it is true. In those days we weren?t surrounded by the good things in life or bombarded with adverts on the TV, so when we got a treat, like a glass of lemonade, we made sure we enjoyed every moment. Dons was the hub of the neighborhood for us kids. In there you could buy sherbet lemons, little imps, black jacks, sweet cigarettes, sherbet dips, tiger nuts, Frys 5 Boy milk chocolate, swizzles and hundreds of other sweets long since gone. We would site on the floor in Dons sipping our penny drink and chewing our sweets, it was our little meeting place. I don?t suppose there is anywhere like Dons today and that?s a big big shame for kids. A corner shop I always found fascinating was the cobbler?s, on the corner of Heber and Cyrena Road, near to the school. The bottom half of the cobbler?s shop window was painted green, I think to stop people looking in, however, if you stood on the window ledge you could see the cobbler working at the far end of the shop. The cobbler was a small man who was totally deaf with a speech impediment and walked with a very bad limp; almost dragging his leg along and for some reason always seemed to have nails protruding from his mouth. I can remember the fear that would run through my body when mum handed me a pair of shoes and said - ?Take these up the cobbler?s and get them soled and heeled.? I absolutely dreaded going in that shop and attempting to explain what repairs were needed and trying to understand him. I would walk into the shop; I can still remember that wonderful smell of leather and polish, very fearful of the next few minutes to come. The shop was very bare, just racks with repaired shoes ready for collection and had a hollow sound as you walked across the wooden floorboards. I could just about see over the top of the counter. At the back of the shop was a bench with tools and cutting knives. Every time, without fail, when I went into that shop, the cobbler would be standing at the bench with his back to the counter. Here was my first challenge: getting him to turn around. I would bang very loudly with the shoes on the counter. If that failed I would whistle, my brother Fred taught me to whistle. Failing that, which was more often than not, I would just wait for him to turn and notice me. When he did eventually turn, my next and most frightening challenge began, having a conversation. As he walked from his bench to the counter he would be wearing a torn leather apron and carrying a cutting knife. He always seemed to have a cold look of death on his face or so I thought. He would drag his gammy leg behind him and stare straight at me. I remember he had a very pale complexion and straight thinning blonde-white hair. I couldn?t help but imagine he was going to cut my throat or drag me up off my feet by the scruff of my neck. He would reach the counter and the dreaded conversation would begin. Trying to talk, through his nose with a mouthful of nails, he would say something like - ?Whooot yooow wooont?? Replying, I would take a deep breath and nervously say - ?Mum wants these soled and heeled, please.? ?Swold and yeld,? he would reply. I would look up at him blankly as I nodded my head, not knowing what he had said, but hoping it was what I wanted him to say. I would then ask, ?When will they be ready, please?? He would reply, ?Woosday.? I can still remember those times looking up at him with a puzzled look on my face and thinking - ?What the #### did he say?? At the end of a difficult conversation, I would give him a smile, say ?thank you? and run out of that shop at full speed, down the hill and home. When I got home, mum would say to me - ?When will they be ready?? Not having a ####ing clue I would always reply ? ?Sometime next week Mum.? I know what I just said sounds terrible, but I was a small child and I didn?t understand his disability. To me he was different; he was frightening and I genuinely though he was the Sweeny Todd of the cobblers? fraternity, just waiting for his next victim. Across the road from the cobbler?s shop was the Heber Arms Pub. This was my dad?s local and at the weekends this pub was bustling with people, noise and music, and if you played your cards right it could be rich pickings for us kids. The Heber Arms was a large pub. To the left was the public bar, this was where the men went during the week and Saturday mornings. In the centre was a snug. The snug was a small room with just a couple of wooden benches either side and a counter in the middle. In the snug you would normally find a couple of really old widow ladies drinking a glass of stout. They never seemed to say much; they would just sit there with a distant look on their faces, a look of nearing the end and a look of ?maybe this is my last stout?. These old ladies were probably born around the 1870?s, I only wish I had spent more time with them, just imagine their memories. To the right of the pub was the saloon bar. This bar was where men drank on a Sunday lunch time. It was also the bar where men, like my dad, took their wives for a drink on a Saturday night. The saloon bar was the posh bar; you never went in to the saloon without being suited and booted, which means you had a wash, shave and wore your best clothes. I loved Saturday nights, because sometimes mum and dad would go to the Heber Arms and with a little persuasion and blackmail I could reap some benefits. From the age of about eight years old I would sometimes be left indoors alone while mum and dad were up the pub. But in order for mum and dad to get me to agree to stay at home I would negotiate the best deal possible. I would start by asking them to bring me home a bottle of sarsaparilla, a dark-coloured drink with an indescribable taste of some form of long-forgotten fruit. I would also ask for a packet of crisps. Unlike today there was no choice of crisp flavours. All crisps were made by Smith?s and all flavours were ?plain?. The crisps came with a small dark-blue sachet of salt, which you sprinkled over the crisps then gave the packet a good shake. If I was feeling very lucky, and having the knowledge that dad had had a good Thursday night at the dogs, I would also ask for some money to spend at Don?s sweet shop. On a good night I would have crisps and sweets coming out of my ears but, on a bad night I would have #### all, and just Charlie the cat for company. Mum and dad would leave for the pub at about 8.30pm, walking along the street and up the hill. Sometimes on a clear warm night I would sit outside the house on the wall. From here, although you couldn?t see the pub, you could hear the voices and laughter coming from within. Every Saturday night was the same. At about 9.30 someone would warm up the piano and about five minutes afterwards someone would pick up the microphone and throw out a song, and I mean throw. Some of the voices, no, all of the voices, were terrible and some of the voices were almost frightening for a small boy alone to hear in the distance. My dad would always be one of the first, singing his favourite song, ?Climb Upon My Knee, Sonny Boy.? I can still hear the words and his voice to this day. When he finished singing people would clap and shout, ?Good old Cyril?. They had listened to this song most Saturday nights for ####ing years but still they cried for more. Secretly, I have always admired my dad for having the balls to stand up in front of dozens of people and sing complete crap while at the same time thinking he was good singer. Following on from my dad would be a lady named Lil. If my dad was bad, then Lil was bloody terrible. She would make a sound like a howling dog caught in a gin-trap. She thought she sounded like a voice from a west-end musical. Lil would sing only one song over and over again, ?We'll meet again?. Her voice shrieked across the London streets where it could be heard for miles. Lil was well known for her song and her voice, but sadly for all the wrong reasons. Whilst on the subject of Lil, I?m reminded of one Saturday evening, when I think her voice finally tipped her husband, Cyril, over the edge. The pub had closed at 11pm and everyone was home by about 11.30pm. Mum and dad had been home for a few minutes and I was busy opening my crisps and swigging my drink. Suddenly we could hear loud voices and swearing coming from outside. Like most people in those days, and it?s probably the same today, we didn?t go outside to see what was going on but pulled the curtains slightly back to have a peek. It was a fight. Lil and her husband Cyril were in the street thumping each other like two heavy-weight boxers. Now, you would think that someone, a neighbour maybe, would have gone outside to try to stop the fight. Not a chance; this was great entertainment and it wasn?t to be missed. To get a better view, mum, dad and me clambered upstairs to the front bedroom. Here you could see everything that was going on. Dad lifted the two sash windows and we all leant on the windowsill, me eating my crisps, dad having a fag and mum drinking a cup of tea. Along the street all the upstairs windows were open, with people leaning out and shouting -?Go on Cyril,? ?Go on Lil.? Lil and Cyril knocked the shit out of each other. They went from one side of the road to the other, pulling hair, kicking and punching. The whole street was alive with activity, everyone enjoying the entertainment and everyone having a favourite to win but, there was no winner. Eventually the police came and Lil and Cyril were separated and taken in to their home, an airy opposite mine, for a dressing down. Next day, Sunday, Cyril was up the pub at lunchtime accompanied by Lil, both supporting black eyes. Not a word was said about the previous night?s escapades; it was like nothing had happened. I can remember seeing them that Sunday, both walking along the street to the pub. I can remember looking straight at them and seeing those black eyes. I know this sounds silly, but I wanted to thank them for a really good evening, but I thought better of it, I just said ?hello? and walked by. Getting back to the pub. Every year all the men who drank at the Heber Arms would go on what was called a ?Beano?. A Beano was a glorified piss-up. They would hire a coach; fill the boot of the coach with bottles of beer and go down to the seaside, normally Brighton or Southend. The Beano would always be on a Saturday, with everyone meeting outside the Heber Arms at about 9am. It was traditional for all wives and the kids to congregate with the men outside the pub half-an hour or so before departure to wish them well. Outside the pub there would be groups of people laughing, talking and generally mucking around. . It?s funny how things have changed; in today?s modern world a Beano would be outlawed; there is no way wives would wish their husbands a happy piss-up, but they did then. For me however, Beano?s were a means of making good money. It was another tradition for the men to put loads of copper coins, that?s an old term for small value coins, into a bucket. As the Beano coach pulled away on its journey, the men would throw handfuls of these coins out of the windows, the kids would scramble to pick the coins up, bit like an unruly rugby match. Kids would kick, punch and generally fight their way to the get their hands on the coins and I was no exception. From a very early age I made sure I came away with a pocket full of money. Beanos were happy times for me; dad would always return absolutely rat-arsed, but happy and full of funny stories from the day. One particular Sunday morning, following one of dads Beano trips, I was woken by loud noises coming from downstairs. I went to mum?s bedroom and woke her. We slowly crept along the passage, hearing noises coming from the front room. Mum went up to the front-room door and turned the handle very slowly and then pushed the door open with speed, running into the darkened room shouting, ?Who?s there?? ?It?s me,? came a reply ?Who the #### do you think it is? ?I?ve lost my door key.? We turned to face the front-room bay window from where the voice came, only to see dad half in and half out of a half-opened window and totally pissed. One leg was outside, the other inside, but the funniest thing was, in the darkened room he seemed to be struggling with a tree trunk. ?What?s that?? said mum. ?Turn the bloody light on before it gets broken,? He said. I switched on the light to see dad straddling the window ledge, smiling and holding the biggest sea-side rock I have ever seen or there since. It was six feet long and about twelve inches across. The look on my face must have said it all. Dad looked at me and said, ?Here you are, Son. It?s yours.? At that moment I thought all my birthdays had come at once; ?Wait till the other kids see this,? I thought. I couldn?t sleep that night just dreaming about that. rock, but what I didn?t know, a big problem was about to begin: how to get my teeth around it. The rock rested against the kitchen wall for what seemed like months, being too big to get up the stairs to my bedroom. Every now and then, dad or me would bring someone into the house to admire it. I suppose it became a talking point, you know, when you run out of conversation with someone you can suddenly turn to them and say, ?Have you seen my big rock?? And bring them inside the house to gaze at its enormous size. Eventually, this all came to an end when mum, finally having had enough of sweeping round the thing and continually having to shift it from side to side, went ballistic and told me and dad to get rid of it, or else. On the Saturday morning following mum?s outburst, dad told me to fetch all the kids playing in the street; there were probably about ten altogether. Dad moved the rock into the hallway and placed it horizontally on two chairs. He then fetched his tool bag and produced a four-pound hammer and a steel chisel. He shouted to the kids to line up from the pavement outside my house up to the front door. He sat down, placed the chisel up against the rock, about six inches from the end, picked up the hammer, raised this above his head and brought it down, striking the chisel with an almighty force. I jumped at the thud as a huge piece of the rock fell to the ground. This memory is vivid in my mind. At the time, in my little head, it was like witnessing the decapitation of an old friend, seeing someone you loved and admired being smashed to pieces by your own dad. One by one the kids were given a chunk of my rock, a piece of my friend?s body, and each time the hammer fell I couldn?t help but feel the pain of the blow. But like all little boys my memory was short and when I was finally handed my piece, and a big piece it was to, I quickly forgot our friendship and sat back and enjoyed the moment. One thing I do remember, on that day everyone in the street was my friend and I was known for a long time as the boy who had the biggest rock ever. Next Chapter Sunday 07/02/21

Next Chapter Friday 05/02/21 at 3pm

CHAPTER 4 My First School One memory embedded in my mind and will be forever, was my first day at school. I think it must have been on this day that I decided school wasn?t for me and that teachers were only interested in kids who came from the posh part of town, kids that had dads who wore suits to work and spoke proper English. My dad was a builder and we spoke a language called Cockney, not very popular with some teachers in those days, even though; just a few years previously; builders, teachers and dads who wore suits were fighting side by side in a long and bloody world war, World War 2. It seemed to me that the working classes were not particularly well thought of by some teachers and teaching them was something they had to do, not what they wanted to do. Yes, even at the early age of five my thoughts on this subject were being formed. Maybe those thoughts were not particularly focused or mature but those thoughts would stay with me for many years and mould me into a rebel throughout my school days, and beyond. It was 8am, sometime in September 1955; I was up, dressed and ready for my first day at school. The school I was attending was Heber Road Infants, situated in the next road to where I lived. A school uniform was mandatory at Heber Road and I had the complete kit, grey shirt, black shoes and grey short trousers. I felt very proud of myself as I looked in the mirror - ?Come on,? said mum, ?it?s time to go? I hurried towards the front door; I couldn?t wait. We walked along the road and up the hill, and after a couple of minutes we reached the school gates. I think there was some sort of registration process, mum had to sign forms and was given some official paperwork. When all the paperwork was completed I was parted from my mum and escorted to my classroom. It was here that I was to meet, for the first time, a most frightening creature known as a ?Form Teacher.? Her name was Miss Hussey, a name that will stay with me for evermore. All teachers in those days seem to be a ?Miss? and they all looked a hundred years old, but this woman, I am sure, was a hundred years old. I will never forget her. On meeting, she looked down at me and stared me straight in the face. I can remember thinking that she looked like my cat, Charlie. She had grey whiskers, just like him, and a round-shaped cat face with green penetrating eyes. I feel so ashamed for saying that; after all, there is no good reason for insulting my old and faithful cat Charlie, he was lovely. I instinctively knew that this woman didn?t like me and being in this class wasn?t going to be a picnic- ?Right, Ward?, she said, ?Sit in that chair and don?t move.? She had a very posh voice. There was no introduction, no words of comfort and not a sign of a smile. I don?t know exactly what I thought at the time. What I do know is, my dreams of going to school, learning to read, doing sums and finding out about the world were completely shattered within the first few moments of meeting this horrible woman. Miss Hussey had a way of ensuring this, and ensuring that any child who came from a working-class family would be reminded of their background on a daily basis. She wasn?t going to let them forget there were other children in the class who were better, better because their parents were professional people, had their own business and lived in a better part of Dulwich. I hated this woman from day one, and she leaves a bitter taste in my mouth to this day. Slightly off the subject. I can remember Miss Hussy had a chauffeur driven hired car bring her to school each morning, take her home for lunch, bring her back and take her home at night. When I say chauffer I mean just that. Grey suite, black shoes, black tie and peak cap. What that must of cost I don?t know. I quickly got to know the rules of survival at school, which teachers not to talk to, the kids to steer clear of and the areas where not to play. Although I didn?t learn very much academically, I did learn a lot about people and their peculiar ways and opinions. As an example, every morning without fail Miss Hussey would walk around the class holding a perfume spray bottle. The bottle would be filled with a flower-smelling substance; you couldn?t buy a can of air freshener in those days, such things didn?t exist. She would point the spray at each individual child whom she considered not to be worthy of attending the school. She would spray that child with the substance and say the words, ?Dirty child, smelly child? Needless to say, I was one of those children who were sprayed regularly; actually, I was sprayed every day. So what was the lesson I learned from this mindless act? Well, I was different. I was different because I lived in the rough end of my street, my parents didn?t have fancy clothes and we had very little money, I would go nowhere in life and have nothing. As for the opinion I gained from this experience, people like Miss Hussey were sad, cruel and deserved a painful exit from this world for treating children in such a way. I probably didn?t think exactly like that at the time, but I certainly remember wishing that woman dead on many occasions. I remember on one occasion when Miss Hussey was talking to some of her favourite kids about Illnesses, I don?t know why she was having this conversation, she just was. Desperately wanting to prove myself in some way I joined in the conversation, saying that I believed that there was a plant to cure every illness, such as eating a daffodil could cure a cold. Now I probably gave my opinion in more childish terms, I was only about seven years old at the time, having been in her class for a couple of years but, Miss Hussey reaction was out of all proportion. She threw her hand to the back of my neck and, bending me forward, she slapped the back of my legs over and over again. I can remember each blow of her hand like it was yesterday. I had never been smacked before; it wasn?t a nice experience and it hurt. After pounding my legs several times she pushed me out the classroom where I remained for the rest of the day, in Miss Hussey?s words ?for being stupid?. I stood outside that classroom trembling with a horrible burning pain in the back of my legs, but the real pain wasn?t in my legs, it was in my heart. All my expectations of what I was going to achieve and do at school had vanished. I hated school, I just wanted my mum. I often think about that day and what I said. I think it showed an intelligent child, a child that had an opinion probably beyond his years. Needless to say, here we are, years later, trying to save our rain forests because, amongst other things, there are plants and trees in that forest that may cure all sorts of diseases, including the common cold. So, ?Up yours, Miss Hussey, I was right.? Not all teachers were like Miss Hussey; some were almost normal and some I believe may have actually liked me. I had one favourite teacher whose name I believe was Miss Allen. She stood out from the other teachers because she was very young and always had a smile and time to listen. I can remember having music lessons with her and enjoying every moment. We would sing songs like ?Ba Ba Black Sheep? and ?Simple Simon?, songs that if sung today would bring the race discrimination board and the disability discrimination people down on you like a ton of bricks. Miss Allen had her own child attending the school; I think his name was Paul. I can remember wishing that I was Paul and that his mum was my mum. There wasn?t anything wrong with the mum I had, I loved her very much, but I was conscious that she was somewhat older than most other parents. You see, my mum gave birth to me at the age of forty. This may not seem unusual in today?s modern world with career-minded working mums giving birth in later years but, back in the early fifties most mums had finished giving birth in their early thirties, having started in their teens or very early twenties. My parents? ages would prove to be a big factor in my growing-up years, one that would give me many embarrassing moments. Perhaps I should explain. When I say ?embarrassment? I mean just that; I don?t mean I was ashamed, just the opposite, I was proud of them both. I was embarrassed because in my immature mind I felt that my mum and dad were old compared to my friends? parents, who all seemed a lot younger. You see, in the fifties people really did look their age; there weren?t the clothes or makeup to make them look any different. Another teacher I must mention is Miss Bromley. She was a spinster who lived with her mum in Dulwich Village. Miss Bromley never actually took me for any lessons, but she would always talk to me. I have often thought that she seemed like a lady who should have been married with children of her own and not looking after an aged mother. I suppose she must have lost her way somewhere in life or got caught in a conscience trap where she felt she couldn?t leave mum. Silly, I know, but I remember Miss Bromley almost every time I button my shirt. I could never button my shirt; I always got the wrong button in the wrong hole. Consequently, one side of my shirt collar would always be two inches higher then the other, making me look like I had a deformity of the spine. In other words I always looked completely lop-sided. Miss Bromley was forever re-doing the buttons on my shirt. One day she said - ?Eric, come here.? She was probably the only teacher to call me Eric, all the others called me Ward. She took me to one side and explained that if I started from the bottom of my shirt, putting the bottom button in the bottom hole, then all the others would fall in line. I remember her words to this day; hence, I?m reminded of Miss Bromley almost every morning. One of the good things about going to school was the free school milk. Every child, every day, got free milk that we drank straight from the bottle, no fancy paper cups or plastic containers. However, I do seem to remember being given a paper straw. Could you imagine, today, giving five-year-olds glass bottles to drink from? Not only glass bottles but milk that was full fat and non-organic. Modern mums and dads would go completely barmy. The lady who gave out the milk was Miss Wellington. She was a stout lady, about sixty years old or more, that?s very old when you?re little. Miss Wellington had red rosy cheeks, grey hair and a very firm voice, but somehow you knew she was kindly Looking back, I think she probably had a dry sense of. humour and enjoyed the company of small children. Miss Wellington was also responsible for dishing out cod liver oil. This horrible-tasting substance was given each morning to children who were considered malnourished in some way. They were usually children who came from large families; I?m talking large, upwards of ten kids in one family. One girl, let?s call her Susan, who lived in Barry Road, had sixteen brothers and sisters. Smelly Susan was her nickname, cruel I know, but she did smell. Kids from large families usually did smell in those days and always had dirty necks, but the big giveaway when it came to being dirty was when we had physical education or PE as it was called then. PE required you to change clothes and come out of the dressing room wearing only a pair of shorts and a vest, no trainers, or plimsolls as they were called then. It was here that you got a glimpse of real dirty kids, long toe nails full of dirt, heels that were caked with grime and black between their toes, all of them had a strange musty dry smell. You need to understand that it wasn?t the fault of the children or the parents but, with such large families and no bath in the house, there was little chance of them ever seeing a bar of soap or clean water. Just imagine trying to wash all those children every night before going to bed. You would need to start at tea time and you probably wouldn?t be finished until midnight. No, it was a lot easier to let the grime stay where it was and let the kids take the rude comments once a week at PE. It?s horrible of me to say this, but I was glad there were kids like that; it gave me a feeling of not being quite at the bottom of the pile. After all, I didn?t need the cod liver oil and my feet were usually reasonably clean. Talking of kids from large families reminds me of my old school friend Doug. It didn?t matter to me that his neck was dirty and some days he was a bit high. I don?t mean high on drugs, I mean high from various body odours that every so often, would whiff up from some part of his body. He came from a family of fourteen, not including his mum and dad. I will always remember the somewhat adventurous times when visiting Doug?s house in Landells Road. In addition to having all these kids in the house there were also dozens of cats, and I mean dozens. Everywhere you looked there were cats, under the chairs, in the cupboards even in the outside toilet. One of the things that brought me endless enjoyment was to rattle a spoon on a plate and to see all these cats come running from every direction imaginable looking for food, the room would be full to the brim with cats of all colours and sizes. Needless to say there was no such thing as cat litter in those days or cat trays; you can imagine the state of that house with all those cats crapping in every corner of every room, it made Doug smell almost sweet. On a brighter note, he was a good mate and his mum and dad always had time to talk. On reflection, I suppose his dad had time because he never ever went to work; he just sat in an old worn-out chair reading his news paper moaning about the word. A friend who stayed with me throughout my school days was Ronny, ?Pacey? as he was known. He started school on the same day as me and we both had the pleasure of having Miss Hussey as our teacher. Pacey lived a couple of streets down from me in Bawdale Road, he lived in an airy. Pacey?s mum and dad were very strange. His mum was always poorly dressed but his dad was reasonably smart. Their house still had blackout blinds. These were blinds that were used during the war to block out the light when German aircraft were overhead but, the war had been over for ten years or more. His dad propagated cacti, he had hundreds. The thing I remember most about Pacey and his family is that for many years they lived like church mice. Then, one day, they suddenly packed up and moved to a house, which they bought for cash, in a very expensive part of Dulwich SE21. I never did find out where the money came from. During our early days at school Pacey bonded with me, and wherever you saw me in school you would see Pacey. We would walk to school together and walk home together, but you would never see us together outside of school time. Pacey was never allowed to play in the street like other kids. It may seem normal nowadays to keep your kids in, but in those days it wasn?t normal; kids always played in the street. One of the great things about school was the girls. Yes, even at that very early age I was interested in girls. I?m sure it wasn?t anything sexual; I just knew they were different and sometimes I felt something inside me that said, ?One day you will appreciate girls.? My first love was Elsa Marion. Elsa was adopted and lived in a very neat and tidy house in the bottom end of Crystal Palace Road. She was an only child. I can remember being fascinated by her curly hair, glasses and clear skin. I loved Elsa so much that I let her hold my pet dog, Peter, a privilege only given to the few. I don?t remember much more about Elsa; I don?t think we kissed; in fact I?m sure we didn?t, after all, at the age of five kissing was only for sissies. I had a lot to learn. Thinking about Peter, he was my pet black and white mongrel dog. I only had him for a short time. I came home one day from school and he was gone. Mum told me he had gone to a big farm in the country. I obviously know now that he was taken to the pet shop, ?Ascombes? in Crystal Palace Road, near to Whately Road, and sold. As a child I believed my mum and dreamed of Peter running across open fields and playing with the lambs. The truth is he was probably sold by the pet shop for medical research as many animals were in those days. My early memories of school are somewhat bitty. I remember some things and other things I can?t. I suppose this is because at such an early age one only remembers the things that are funny, frightening, hurtful or different and believe me; things were different in those days. As an example, physical punishment was a daily event. There was a teacher, Mr Ibbitson who would regularly punish boys by hitting them, very hard, several times across the back side with a plimsoll. We called it ?getting the slipper.? On occasions, if two boys were caught fighting, Mr Ibbitson would take them into the bottom hall, give them a pair of boxing gloves and make them box each other. Imagine doing that today, it would make the 10 o/clock evening news headlines. I had been at school for about a year; it must have been about 1956. Now, I want you to imagine that you are about six years old, you live in Dulwich, London, and you attend a very large Infant/Junior school in Heber Road. Now this is the part where you really need to use your imagination, there are no black children in the school. In fact you have never seen a black person in real life. The only black people you saw were in films; normally films about African tribes presented by a couple called ?Armand & Michaela Denis, you can still see these films today on YouTube.? You may consider my comments as racist; sorry, but that?s how it was. Black people had no part in my life or that of the people who lived in my community. Remember it was a bigger world then and integration wasn?t invented. Now imagine my surprise and absolute astonishment when one day my Form Teacher brought into the classroom two black boys, John and Patrick. Both were to attend our school. Everyone in the classroom was amazed to see black people in real life; you could hear a pin drop. I can say with all honesty that there was no question of racism, just pure fascination. I was, as was every other child in the class, truly intrigued by their colour. However, there was a downside to all this. As children we were told that if you ever saw a black person you should rub their hair for good luck. Consequently, John and Patrick spent most of their time running away or locked in the school bogs. Eventually kids got tired of chasing good luck and left them alone. They were to become my very good friends for many years. If I remember correctly, John and Patrick were cousins, born in Brazil, where, apparently, both their parents were killed in a car crash. As a result they were sent off to England to live with their Nan. My earliest memory of meeting her was one Friday afternoon after school. They invited me to their house, a large semi-detached property in Lordship Lane, just a five-minute walk from the school. Now remember, I was a white kid who until recently had never seen or mixed with black people. My diet was stews, bangers, fish and chips and liver and bacon. I had never heard of or seen boiled rice. My rice came as a creamy desert; I never knew it could be eaten as a main meal. Curry was a word I had never heard of and a smell I had never experienced. As for chickens, they were bought from the local butcher, ?dead?. Note that I say local butcher, supermarkets were non-existent, and they weren?t to come about for many years. I arrived at John and Patrick?s house, as they opened the door I was hit by a smell which made me want to run for my life: it was terrific. I didn?t know it at the time, but it was the smell of curry, my favourite food today, but back then it was a horrible smell. I walked into the hallway trying not to breath and desperately wanting to gag. Here I was greeted by their Nan, a very old lady, about five feet tall and very thin. Her smile intrigued me; the few teeth she had were so white against her black skin. She had a squeaky laugh, wore a pinny, head scarf and plimsolls. Going into that house, breathing in those smells and meeting their Nan was an experience of a lifetime. It was like going into a different world; nothing could be stranger or so I thought until we reached the kitchen. I could hardly believe my eyes. Under the sink, tied to a water pipe, was a live chicken. Being an inquisitive boy I said - ?Why have you got a chicken in the kitchen?? Their Nan gave a squeaky laugh and said in a very strong Caribbean-type accent - ?Dis is me dinnor for Sunday.? Or something like that. ?How can you eat the chicken? It?s alive.? I said She laughed again. ?Not for long,? she replied. ?Come with me.? We all, including the chicken, went into the garden. Nan went half way up the garden path, stopped, waved the chicken around whilst chanting a few strange words and then calmly and without warning cut off the poor ####er?s head with a rusty razor blade. It may seem strange, but I wasn?t shocked at seeing the decapitation of the chicken, but I was mesmerised at seeing the chicken run round the garden minus a head. I remember looking at the chicken?s head lying on the floor with its eyes still open, looking at the chicken running around with no head, looking again at the head and then again at the chicken. I must have looked like one of those nodding dogs you see in the back of cars. I couldn?t believe what was happening. Can you imagine what would happen today if a small child was subjected to such a thing? Social services and animal rights people would have a field day; the media would undoubtedly broadcast it as a child caught up in a satanic ritual. Sunday lunch for me was never to be the same after that day; I would always look at my dinner plate and remember that poor old chicken running away from its head. At the age of about seven I was becoming a bit of a sports fanatic. I liked boxing, wrestling, swimming and running. Being very tall I was always picked by teachers to run in school races on sports day. On one occasion, at the end of a school day, I was walking from the school across the playground to the school gate. A class mate, whose name I can?t remember, asked if I wanted a race - ?Where to? I asked. ?To the corner shop at the bottom of the hill,? He replied. Running to the bottom of the hill involved running to the bottom of the playground, through the school gate, across Heber Road down Cyrena Road to the corner of Pellatt Road. ?Okay,? I said, and off we went. I remember in absolute detail the next few tragic seconds. I knew I could beat him but, in my little head I wanted to let him get in front and at the last moment, just as he thought he was going to win, I would push forward and beat him at the line. I had seen this done by professional runners like Roger Bannister and for this race, in my imagination, I was Roger Bannister. Just before we came to the school gate I let him overtake me. He shot past, went through the gate and ran straight into the road. At that very moment there was a tremendous ? thud ? and a scream, he had been hit by a motorbike and sidecar. He was dragged yards along the road, his body bashing up and down on the tarmac as he was pulled along People were shouting and running about in panic. I stood for while looking and wondering what to do. I can remember hearing my heart pounding against my chest. An ambulance eventually arrived and he was rushed to hospital. Nobody asked me what had happened and I never volunteered any information; I probably thought I would get into trouble. The injuries to his legs were so bad that he never returned to school and I never saw him again. Looking back you could say his unluckiest day was my luckiest. If I hadn?t of decided to let him get in front I wouldn?t be writing this book today and you wouldn?t be reading it today, in a strange way it would have changed all of our lives completely. I often wonder who I should thank for allowing me to be here today: him for suggesting the race, me for letting him get in front, or Roger Bannister for giving me the inspiration to let him get in front. I can?t go through the process of thinking about my early school days without mentioning Mr. Heaster or ?Easter Egg? as he was known to all the kids. This was a man who used a cane on your backside or across the palm of your hand if he thought such a punishment was necessary. Mr. Heaster was, in my eyes, a very old man with grey hair, wrinkles and a very gruff voice. He was always smartly dressed with a handkerchief in his jacket top pocket and had very shiny shoes. He was the headmaster of Heber Road School and he ruled with a rod of iron. Every morning there was a school assembly where we prayed and sang Christian songs. I suppose in today?s modern Britain, with our multi-cultural society, this would probably be considered improper. Anyway, Mr Heaster would always stand right at the front of the assembly and sing as loud as possible while rigorously waving a musical conductor?s stick. It?s not very pleasant and undoubtedly not complimentary to him but, my only real memory of old Easter Egg was of one morning when he was in full song in front of the whole school. He was throwing his arms in the air, pacing up and down full of confidence. Suddenly a large lump of yellow phlegm popped out of his mouth faster than a lizard?s tongue. It slithered down his chin for a moment before he quickly sucked it back into his mouth. His face went red and we all giggled out loud. From that day on old Easter Egg never seemed to sing quite so loudly or be so prominent in front of the morning assembly ? poor old sod. I spoke earlier about being tall and always being chosen for running races. Another sport I was always chosen for, mainly because of my height, was the hop, skip and jump. What a ####ing waste of time that sport was, no purpose, no meaning and certainly no enjoyment. Despite my protests, year after year I would be selected for this nonsense activity and year after year, by a teacher called Mr Regan, penalised for not winning. I could never understand why so-called educated teachers consistently chose a child to represent the school in an activity that the child clearly had no interest in or intention of winning. One sport I loved and was extremely good at was swimming. I could swim at the age of four and was competent to swim in any depth of water and dive from diving boards at the age of just five, but I was never chosen to swim for the school. No, this activity was, in those days, considered a privilege and a privilege that was reserved for the chosen few, those children whose parents turned up for parents? evenings and helped at school bazaars or ran school committees. I know this may sound like I?m bitter, but it?s true, that?s the way it was and I, like other kids, accepted this as part of life. There was us and there was them; they had the cream and we had the scraps. Thinking about it, I don?t suppose things have really changed that much today, or have they? A very clear memory of my early school days was the build-up to a Christmas break. The school was putting on an evening fancy-dress party and all kids were instructed to turn up and to make sure they were in fancy dress. There was a prize for the best entrant, can?t remember what the prize was, but I wanted to win. Unfortunately, mum and dad didn?t place a lot of importance on the school?s request and on the evening of the party I was without a costume. I was only a little chap, probably about seven or eight, and I wanted to go and I wanted to be dressed-up. After lots of tears and moaning my mum gave in - ?Okay you can go.? ?But what as, Mum I haven?t got a costume.? She thought for a while; ?I know, come over here,? She said, Beckoning me to the fireplace. I walked over to where she stood; she bent down to the fire grate, placed a damp cloth in some soot and proceeded to spread this soot all over my face. ?What are you doing, Mum?? ?Don?t worry,? she said, ?You will look fine.? After plastering my face with black soot she went into her bedroom and returned with an old frock and a head scarf. ?Put those on,? she said. ?Why? What am I going to be?? ?You are going to be a ?Cool Black Mamma?, that?s what you are going to be.? To avoid any mistakes, mum hung a large Cardboard sign around my neck with the words ?Cool Black Mamma?. I walked into the school as proud as could be; I kept thinking how much I looked like John and Patrick?s nan. Everyone looked at me and the more they looked the more I smiled, smiled that is, until I looked at the judges. I said earlier that in my part of London black people were relatively rare when I was a child. Unfortunately on this particular evening rarity had been excused; yes, you?ve guessed it, one of the judges was as black as black could be. I don?t know what my thoughts were at that particular moment, but I would imagine they were something like, ?Well #### my luck, on all the days to meet a black man, I have to go and pick this one.? Fortunately I had no need to worry, I won the contest. The black judge told me my fancy dress was great and very original. I don?t think judges, black or white, would have the same opinion today but in the fifties things were very much different. The Black and White Minstrels were well known and loved by huge audiences across the world, black people were always portrayed in cinema films as servants or piano players in bars, and Robinsons Jam had a picture of a ?Golly? on the jar. Kids would collect 10 Golly labels and trade them in for a metal Golly badge. Some kids at my school had rows of Golly badges on their blazers, worn like medals. The badges were never considered as racist, they were simply fictional characters. I?m sure the manufactures never had racism in mind; they were just collectables for kids, which no one gave any thought to until some years later. You never see things like that today, which is probably a good thing. One of my great passions for many years as a child and as a teenager was Acting. Acting to me was so natural. When acting I could be anyone or anything. I had no fear of performing in front of the class or performing at home in front of visitors; I could stand up at anytime, anywhere and act, I loved it. Whenever the class teacher asked for someone to come to the front and act out a character, I would be there, and all the kids in the class would call out- ?Come on Wardy. Get up and act.? Unfortunately for me, although I had an acting talent, and believe me I really did have talent, I was never asked to perform in any of the school plays, parts in school plays were always reserved for the well-thought-of kids, regardless of their acting ability. I remember, year after year, watching the school plays and thinking how much better I could have played the part if given the chance. Year after year I saw the same old faces up on that stage; the school prefect, the deputy school prefect, teachers? children, kids from smart areas and kids whose parents were professional people. I never saw any kid from my street up on that stage or any kid that came from a large family, regardless of their acting ability. After all these years I don?t want to believe that those teachers were selective or prejudiced in their choice of children for the school plays, but surely the ability to act doesn?t depend on one?s background. Sadly, I can only conclude that they were indeed selective and they were indeed prejudiced. School holidays were something that I longed for. In the holidays I could be free of those teachers and all their silly ways. Free that is, until one year when all children were called back to school because of a polio outbreak. Polio was a horrible disease that could leave children paralysed from the waist down or at the very least crippled and having to wear an iron leg brace. The government of the time decided that there was to be a mass inoculation of all children, which would be carried out at local schools during the holidays. I was taken by a neighbour, Dolly, the lady who owned the corner shop, to the school for my inoculation. I can see it to this day; there was a long line of children stretching all the way from the school playground and along the pavement outside. I had never had an inoculation or injection as we called them, but I had a good idea what it was all about. It seemed an endless queue and the more I waited the more fearful I became. As I got closer to the table, set up in the playground where the injections were being given, I could see the occasional child fainting as the needle was pushed into their arm. I remember thinking that I wanted to go home and take my chances with polio rather than have that done to me; even the thought of a leg iron seemed a better option than that injection. The needles of the fifties were unlike the needles of today, they weren?t disposable and they were a lot thicker and were used over again until blunt. My only hope was to be lucky enough to get a really sharp one. Finally it was my turn. I looked up at a rather fierce-looking lady; she made no eye contact as she concentrated on refilling the syringe. She grabbed my arm, plunged the needle in, there was a sudden buzzing noise in my head and the rest is just a blur. I can only guess I got a blunt one. I woke up in the house of the lady who took me. I felt cold, sick and I promised myself I would never have another injection in my lifetime ; it?s a promise I kept until I was in my twenties. If you were to ask me what I learnt in my early days at school, it would be hard for me to give an answer. It could be said that the things I learnt and never forgot have been of no use to me throughout my adult life. As an example, pissing up the toilet wall, yes, this was a great pastime and if you could become champion you were someone to be reckoned with. The school toilets were situated outside in the playground. They were typical of school toilets in those days: smelly, always wet and never warm. However, there was a good side to this; teachers rarely entered, and the walls were painted matt black. ?Why is matt black good?? I can hear you say. Well, if you piss on matt black it shines so you can see where you have pissed. Let me explain. When I was a child at school there were competitions between boys to see who could piss up the school toilet wall the highest. By having matt black paint you could see exactly where you had pissed without any argument from others. I?m somewhat ashamed to admit this but, I am still proud to this day of being one of the pissing up-the-wall champions of the 1950s. So proud in fact that, in later years my talent landed me in an Egyptian cell, but that?s another story. I could gabble on for hours about my days at Heber Road School, after all, I was there for six years. However, I?m going to leave the school with one last memory, to me the most exciting memory of my days there. I say the most exciting, exciting only from the eyes of a child. I was about eight years old at the time; I hated school, hated teachers and hated the system, so imagine my delight when one day the school caught fire. It was the evening before the start of a new summer term; I was indoors playing with my toy lead soldiers, yes I did say lead, when I heard the sound of a fire engine. Fire engines didn?t have sirens in those days; they had bells which were hand-operated by one of the fire crew pulling on a small rope. I ran outside to see people rushing towards Heber Road. ?The schools alight,? They cried, ? The schools alight.? I joined all the others and made my way quickly towards the school. It?s not something I am proud of but, I will remind you again, I was just a kid, and fire engines and fire were exciting enough, but to see the fire engines outside my school and to see my school ablaze was almost a dream come true. Every window had flames billowing out from the broken panes of glass and thick black smoke pushed its way through the roof tiles. What a sight! Surely this would mean the end of school for evermore; it could never be rebuilt. Unfortunately, or should I say in my more mature years, fortunately? The school was up and running within a couple of weeks. They never found the cause of the fire.