Cast No Stones Part 2

Living next door but one was Bill's aunty and uncle. I don't know if they were related to his father or his late mother. They were very nice people, but a little aloof. They were kind enough but kept their distance. I imagine that they wondered what the h.e.l.l was going on with this mish- mash of a family that their nephew had suddenly sprung on them.

I would spend the next ten years living here with my brothers and sisters, my mother and my Uncle Bill.

Initially, Ann and I still went to John Street School. She was in her last year and would soon be going to a new secondary school. Until then it was decided that we would both continue going to John Street School. Now that we lived further away, we would have to catch a double-decker bus to school every morning. I remember after getting off the bus we would have toast in a nearby cafe before going into school. After school, Ann would collect me from the infants department and bring me home again on another bus. Whenever possible we would sit upstairs on the front seat in order to get a better view of the journey. I particularly liked it when we went over the bridges above the river and the ca.n.a.l. The river Irwell always seemed to be very full and flowing fast, whereas the ca.n.a.l was very still with lots of men fis.h.i.+ng from the towpaths. Some of the fishermen had young boys with them. I remember thinking that I wish I had a dad who would take me fis.h.i.+ng.

Eventually, Ann left John Street School and it was arranged for me to become a pupil at a more local primary school. I started St Clements school in the top infants section, so I must have been about six or seven years old. My mother was amazed to see that my new cla.s.s teacher was one of her own teachers from her school days. Even more remarkably, the teacher remembered my mother.

I was made to drink school milk each day and immediately afterwards I always vomited it back. I had an allergy to pasteurized milk. It had never been discovered before because we never had milk in the house to drink that wasn't of the sterilized variety. We only used sterilized milk; it was better value because it would last for days before going sour. Another daily ritual at school was lining up to receive dietary additions of cod liver oil and malt. These were both horrible and were given to selected pupils from a communal spoon. I never figured out why only some of us children received it.

The following year, we had a new addition to the family. My youngest brother Graham was born in the front parlor. I recall a lot of comings and goings that day. The midwife riding her bicycle called at the house several times to examine my mother. Neighbors were coming and going constantly. I and the other children were ordered to play out in the street and keep out of the way. Uncle Bill remained in the living room reading his newspapers. I remember he had an insatiable appet.i.te for reading matter of any kind. He never once threw a newspaper away. He also read lots of books. He particularly enjoyed reading westerns. Sometimes he would take us to see a film. The film was often a western but sometimes a war film.

Uncle Bill was a h.o.a.rder. Just like a squirrel, he would save things for when they might be needed. In his bedroom there were piles of old newspapers from years back. The front bedroom smelled exactly like a newsagents shop. Even today, I am constantly reminded of the smell of that bedroom every time I enter a newsagent. In the air raid shelter there were a couple of gas masks, a stirrup pump, an old bicycle, two paraffin lamps, tins of screws, nuts and bolts and rusty old razor blades.

Uncle Bill was in regular work. Throughout my childhood he worked mostly on the night s.h.i.+ft. During the day he would sleep. We learned to tip-toe around the house in case we woke him and incurred his wrath. He could be very violent when angry.

From the beginning I shared one of the double beds in the back bedroom with my younger brother David and later, after he came along, Graham also slept with us. Ann and Carol slept in the other bed. David was a persistent bed wetter. Graham also would wet the bed occasionally. This problem seemed to go on for years. I can hardly ever remember getting into a lovely warm dry bed. Following these nocturnal accidents, mother would leave the bed open in order to dry the sheets and mattress. They never dried. In the summer months, the best we could hope for would be dampness when we got into bed. During the winter, the mattress was always wet. The smell of stale urine permanently pervaded the bedroom.

It was as a result of getting into a wet bed one night that I received my first smacking from Uncle Bill. There was a definite very wet area in the middle of the bed. It was also very cold. I, being the biggest and eldest, insisted that either David or Graham should lie in the wet patch. Of course they complained that I was being unfair to them. This squabbling must have gone on for some time despite shouts from Uncle Bill to be quiet. All of a sudden, the bedroom door opened and in came Uncle Bill. He dragged me out of bed and holding me under his arm, he smacked me very hard many times on my bottom. I thought he would never stop. He hurt me terribly. I screamed in pain. Afterwards my mother came in and told me to get to sleep and to behave myself. She never once asked if I was alright. As I lay there sobbing, I realized that all the others were also sobbing too. I daren't have asked them why they were crying in case I got smacked again.

My mother stopped sleeping with Uncle Bill a relatively short time after their marriage. She moved into the back bedroom and shared the girl's bed. There were now six of us sharing this bedroom. As Ann got older and needed some privacy, the downstairs parlor was made into a bedroom for her. Over the years, very occasionally, mother would sleep with Bill for a short while - but never for more than a week or so. She would always return our bedroom for another year or two!

We never had breakfast before going to school but my mother made sure this wasn't a problem. As was the practice with several other parents, she would come to the school gates at morning playtime with warm toast and a flask of hot beef tea made from Oxo stock cubes. This was particularly welcomed on cold and frosty mornings. Quite often I would have a friend with me when I met her at the gate and she always had extra toast to give them. It was amazing how many friends I suddenly used to have at morning playtimes! There was one friend called Andy Wilson. His mother had died during his birth. He lived around the corner from me with his father, older brother and great aunt. Because his father was at work and the aunt was fairly housebound, my mother invariably made sure she had toast and a hot drink for him. This was one of my mother's characteristics - she was always looking to help those less fortunate than herself. Thinking about it now, this was pretty amazing since there could not have been many that were worse off than her.

Chapter 7 My Dad's in America.

The transition from infancy to becoming a young schoolboy did not stop me from still being able to a.s.sociate with many of the sights and sounds from my early days. Although some of these sounds and images were beginning to fade and some were hidden deep in my subconscious, they would suddenly spring to mind at unpredictable moments. Whenever this happened, it always came as something of a surprise because I was never sure just what it was that I was remembering. I knew that I wasn't imagining it or making it up. I knew instinctively that what I had suddenly remembered was true. The problem was, often the memory got mixed up with something else and it lost some of its clarity. On occasions I would say something that would cause others to question me and it resulted in me sometimes losing my confidence.

To ill.u.s.trate this, I recall an incident at primary school when I was about eight years old. My cla.s.s teacher was going round the cla.s.sroom asking each child what their father did for a living. She went from child to child asking the same question. As each child answered she smiled and said complimentary things about their father's jobs or sympathetic things according to each child's particular circ.u.mstance. I was dreading my turn coming. I knew that I would become a laughing stock. How could I tell them that I didn't know what my father did? How could I tell them that I didn't even have a father? It wasn't that he had been killed in combat during the war. That of course would have been perfectly acceptable, and was already the case with one child. At the time I remember thinking why was she asking these questions? She was making me feel very uncomfortable. Eventually it was my turn to be asked what my father did. 'My father is an American soldier Miss.' I answered. Every child in the cla.s.s looked at me. The Teacher opened her mouth in astonishment. I could tell that n.o.body believed me. I wasn't telling lies because I most definitely knew what it was like to tell lies, but neither did I know why I said it. I just knew that it was not a lie although it didn't make any sense either.

These were early post-war years. Toy soldiers, guns, airplanes and military replicas were prized possessions of all schoolboys in those days. Weekly comic books featured war stories and heroic exploits. Playing soldiers was more popular than playing Cowboys and Indians. By making my statement, I had just stolen all my cla.s.smates' thunder and scored an epic victory that I would always cheris.h.!.+ I instantly became the boy to befriend. It was like being a celebrity. 'Is your dad really an American soldier?' I was constantly being asked. The boys were in absolute awe when I confirmed it to them. To this day, I honestly don't know where that information came from, because I hadn't invented it - it was just stuck in my head. I don't even know how long it had been there. It can only have been the result of something I had either heard in the street or at home during my younger years.

The following day I was taken by my teacher to the Headmaster's Office. Mr. Carlisle was the Headmaster. He was a nice man - although a little strict. When we got to his office, there were two women teachers in attendance. My cla.s.s teacher asked me to tell everyone about my father. I felt intimidated and afraid. I didn't speak. My teacher began asking questions of me that only needed a single yes or no answer. Questions like, 'Is your father an American soldier? Does your father live in America?' I was being made to feel uncomfortable by her interrogation. It would have been easier for me to deny it and just get a telling off for lying. But I was not lying. I don't know where it came from or why I said it but I firmly believed it to be true. I summoned up all of my courage and answered yes or no as appropriate, to each of the questions. During the questioning session, I definitely sensed a change in att.i.tude towards me. At first, in order to extract the information that they sought, the teachers were smiling and friendly. As the questions were answered, their tone and demeanor changed to what I now know to be contempt of me. Either they didn't believe me and thought I was a liar, or they did believe me and thought I was an undesirable child.

These were valuable lessons to me. I learned to always be certain of my facts and to not say things I didn't mean. And perhaps most importantly, I learned to never stand my ground if was not absolutely certain in my argument. I also learned that even though you may be innocent, society may brand you as guilty simply because of family connections. This was one of those occasions that caused me to be careful of what I said in the future. I now became quite secretive about anything to do with my father's possible origins.

However, not long after this incident and stupidly forgetting what I had learned, another situation arose that was to have a most debilitating effect on me for very many years to come. I don't ever recall being deliberately naughty as a child. I was frequently in trouble for things I hadn't done, but I was never deliberately a bad child. I was always too afraid of being shouted at. But on this occasion, Uncle Bill had told my mother that I had been cheeky to him. He told her that I had been answering him back in an impudent manner. I do not remember the incident he referred to - only the aftermath. She took me to one side and told me that I must never be cheeky to my dad again. I replied, 'He's not my dad! My dad's in America!' My mother became very irate. I thought she was going to kill me on the spot. She went white with rage. She grabbed me and pulled me towards her. Her face was now within a couple of inches of mine. 'Don't ever say that again, it's not true.' she said. I could tell she really meant it. There was no actual threat of violence but it was very strongly implied. 'Your dad is not in America,' she said. 'Don't you ever say such a thing again. Do you hear me?' This severe reprimand left me feeling very frightened.

I was so traumatized that I didn't mentioned it to her again. Well, at least not for another 40 years. This was not only because I worried about getting hurt by any refusal by her to tell me the truth, but also, because I wanted to protect my mother from any embarra.s.sment or pain I may cause her by bringing up the subject.

I had repeated my a.s.sertion that my father was American twice now in a very short s.p.a.ce of time, yet I still had no idea where the notion had come from. It seemed to me that the reaction I provoked from saying these things was not consistent with them being untrue. If what I said was indeed untrue, my mother could have sat down and discussed my comments with me and dismissed them in a kind and gentle way. She could have removed any such notions from my mind forever. The very fact that my mother responded to my comments in the way that she did, in my mind, only gave them further credence. Of course, there is also the possibility that if my a.s.sertions were untrue, my mother would have been subject to questioning and criticism from other people. Whatever the scenario, I simply could not be allowed to go around saying such things.

Chapter 8 Pleasant Memories.

Between the age of six and eleven, time appeared to fly by; I was learning and growing up quickly. This was a period in my life when a lot of confusing things happened. I suppose it was at the time when I was beginning to become more observant and probably to my mother's chagrin - to better understand the things I saw and heard. Although at times it was still difficult to make sense of my observations. It was also a time of discovery and adventure. I was becoming established in the street with the other children. I was now "one of them," and as such I was included in all the games and adventures. Adventures that would sometimes take us away from our street and into different neighborhoods. It was a period when many happy memories were created and stored in my mind.

Despite living in a neighborhood comprising of tightly-packed rows of terraced streets, typical of many industrial cities of that era, there were still lots of occasions where the close proximity of houses and streets was beneficial to our play. Using chalk, we would draw hopscotch pitches on the pavements and cricket stumps on gable ends of houses. Sometimes, if the neighbors didn't object, we even drew goal posts on gable ends and played street football. It wasn't unusual for adults to join in with the children during the street games. Sometimes I even saw mothers playing hopscotch with their daughters often tucking their skirts into their knickers in order not to hinder their movements.

The absence of trees or gardens never figured in my thoughts during my childhood. There were some houses with gardens and even some with trees, but these were the preserve of the better off. In any case, they were located some distance away in more affluent areas of town.

The changing seasons throughout the year brought different aspects to our daily life. Christmas was, and still is, my favorite time of year. Christmas 1951 will stay in my memory for ever. At least the gift that I received will. I was seven years old and my hero was Hopalong Ca.s.sidy. He was the cowboy star of the silver screen at the time. I had told my mother many times that I would love a Hopalong Ca.s.sidy cowboy suit. Just before Christmas, a very large parcel arrived at our house. It had lots of postage stamps on it, all bearing the letters, USA. These stamps were very different from English stamps and would be very collectable to my friends. At first I only valued the parcel for its postage stamps! However, I was later to discover that inside the parcel was the most beautiful and flamboyant Hopalong Ca.s.sidy suit imaginable. It consisted of a s.h.i.+rt, tie, chaps, jacket, real leather boots, leather belt and leather gun belt with holsters. There were two pearl-effect handled silver guns complete with silver bullets. The gift was magnificent - the best Christmas present any boy could have received. One of my prized possessions is a photograph of me wearing this suit. The picture was taken in a proper studio in central Manchester. The present must have cost an absolute fortune. It made my friends even more envious because it was real and had come from actual cowboy land America. I didn't know at the time that it had come from my father. n.o.body told me.

In those childhood days the summers always seemed to be much longer and warmer. Most of my happier memories invariably involved playing in the park during the summer months. These were the only occasions when I could feel gra.s.s beneath my feet. I loved to remove my shoes and socks and feel the gra.s.s between my toes. To this day I still love to walk barefoot in the park. The delicious smell of freshly mown gra.s.s was nectar to my nostrils. Throughout my life I have never lost my love for the smell freshly cut gra.s.s. Ironically, running barefoot on the gra.s.s also introduced me to what was to become one of the biggest hates in my life dog excrement. No child should ever experience standing barefoot in dog dirt in a park, or anywhere else for that matter. Yuk!

We would spend many happy days in Peel Park. Ann and her friends used to take me there when I was younger, but after the age of about eight or nine I would be allowed to go with my own friends from the street. Going to the park was always an exciting time for me. We had to cross a footbridge over the River Irwell to get to the park. Standing on this bridge was one of the highlights of my trip. Watching the swirling waters of the filthy river flowing beneath fascinated me. The footbridge was a popular place and you could always guarantee meeting lots of other kids there. We would spend ages crossing the bridge; stopping often to peer down at the water. In reality, the river was little more than a stinking, fast flowing trash transporter! As it flowed through the city it was used by all factories lining its banks to dispose of their filthy and often toxic industrial waste. The water was black and the smell often sickeningly overpowering. Paradoxically, as the river flowed past Cusson's soap works at Agecroft, the river became polluted with both soap and perfume from the company's Imperial Leather brand. This gave rise to a nice smelling froth on this particular stretch!

On one occasion while looking down at the river on the Peel Park footbridge, I saw an old armchair come floating by. It crashed into a stanchion supporting the bridge causing lots of rats to suddenly appear from within the chair. 'Hold your throats!' one girl shouted. 'Rats like to go for your throat, one got me gran once.' We quickly put our hands around our necks to stop any possible attack by the 'killer' rats! However, to our relief, the threat of imminent attack soon subsided as the armchair floated on down the river.

Occasionally a dead dog or cat would be spotted. Some children even claimed to have seen dead bodies float by. 'Some kid fell in and drowned here yesterday.' a local boy claimed. We called this particular boy, 'Specky Norton.' We didn't know his first name but everyone called him Specky because he wore large gla.s.ses with thick lenses. Specky continued his account, 'The police was everywhere, they was on the river in a boat dragging the bottom of the river for the body.' 'We seen it as well.' said another kid. 'It was horrible, all its eyes was bulging out with worms crawling out of 'em.' Within a few minutes practically every kid on the bridge was giving his or her version of events. During the kids' accounts, the body the police were searching for changed from being a young girl to an old man with grey hair, back to being a teenage boy. Clearly, something had happened but what the truth was I would never know. It didn't matter - it made a very exciting day for all of us!

The river bank was easily accessible and we would often make our way onto it and come to within inches of the fast flowing filthy water. It was very dangerous but at the same time very exhilarating for us kids. We heard that on one occasion a child fell in and drowned. Fortunately, none of our group ever came to any harm. But after hearing of this tragic event, I became a little scared and never went onto the river bank again.

There was another memorable occasion involving the river and the bridge. Following a vast and prolonged amount of rainfall, the police toured the streets using their loud speakers to warn residents of imminent flooding from the river which was about to overflow its banks. Most of the local kids rushed to the bridge to see how high the water level was. We were prevented from venturing onto to the bridge by a policeman. He ordered us all home immediately. We could see that the river was already not only up to the level of the footbridge, it was actually flowing across the middle of the walkway. Alarmed by this sight and afraid of the thought of flood water suddenly engulfing us, we hurried home as quickly as we could. Disappointingly for us children, the flood danger decreased as the waters subsided.

The summer evenings were generally spent playing in the street. Providing that we remained there, we younger kids were allowed to play out until it got quite late. After finis.h.i.+ng work for the day the residents would bring chairs out to their front doors or just sit on their doorsteps. Typically, they would smoke cigarettes, drink endless cups of tea and chat to their next door neighbors until late in the evening. On the warmer, balmy evenings, the glow of cigarettes could be seen in the darkness along the entire length of the street!

These were memorable evenings during those long warm summers. The older children like Ann and her friends would regularly teach the younger children how to play their favorite games. Games like rounder's, "rally heavo" and "ticky it." "Whip and top" was quite popular, and for the older children, so was roller skating. I recall my sister Ann never having her roller skates off. She would even eat her meals wearing them - I could swear that she even went to bed in them! Some of the more sedate games were "dobbers" and "kibs." And of course there was marbles which we called 'Ally's' for some unknown reason. I used to have a 'steelie' (a large ball bearing) that I eventually lost in a game on the croft. Sometimes we would find old lollypop sticks and sit popping the pitch (tar) bubbles between the cobbled set stones in the road. For some reason we always used "b.u.t.ter" (in reality, it was margarine) to help remove the pitch that often stuck to our fingers. To the children, "b.u.t.ter" was a magic potion. As well as its brilliant tar removing properties, it was also applied to the ubiquitous bruises and b.u.mps that most children seemed to have.

How well I remember the summer of 1953. It was the year of the Queen's Coronation and a traditional style street party had been planned. House to house collections had been taking place for months. Sufficient money had been collected to provide not only food for the tables, but also drinks for the grown-ups. Unfortunately, when the day arrived, the street resident appointed as the treasurer had spent the proceeds on personal needs. A hurried "make do fare" of any spare food that people had was arranged. Despite the last minute panic we still managed to have sandwiches followed by jelly and custard. However, there were no fancy cakes and certainly no free drinks for the adults. Another of the street residents had bought a television especially for the Coronation. n.o.body else in the street had a TV. In fact n.o.body else in the whole neighborhood had one. In those days the television antennas were shaped like a letter H. It became a status symbol to have an antenna on your chimney what was more, they could be seen for miles around! It was even suggested that some people who could not afford a television would have an aerial erected to make their neighbors believe that they had one!

The Coronation ceremony was televised live from London. The person who owned the TV opened her door and invited everyone in to view it. All of the children of our street saw live black and white television pictures for the first time in their lives.

Street functions were rare and reserved only for very important occasions. The exception however was 'Bonfire Night' on the 5th of November each year. (Bonfire Night is the commemoration of the thwarting of a plot by Guy Fawkes to blow up The House of Lords in 1605). It was always an exciting time for me as a youngster. The children of our street would start collecting bonfire wood two to three weeks before the big night. Once having collected your 'bonnie wood' it was essential to mount guard over it in case it was subject to a raid from kids from the neighboring streets.

It was common to have the bonfire in the middle of the street. At the height of the blaze it was also common to observe paint peeling from the doors and window frames of the houses closest to the fire. Occasionally a street fire would get out of control and the fire brigade had to be called. In this event, the fire was never brought back under control and allowed to continue - it was always completely extinguished.

Somehow on bonfire night there always seemed to be various old armchairs and couches available to burn. This was kept until the end of the night so that the old ladies could have somewhere to sit and keep warm while enjoying the festivities. The kids resented this intrusion by the old ones. It was us kids who had collected the bonfire wood for weeks yet it was the grown-ups who took over the bonfire on the night.

There was always plenty of homemade treacle toffee and toffee apples to go round. Children were allowed even encouraged to have boxes of fireworks. Health and safety regulations concerning the safe handling of fireworks did not really exist at this time. It was common practice for parents to give lighted sparklers to young children and even babies to hold. They were encouraged to wave them around. Almost without exception, every street had stories of fireworks exploding in the hands of children. n.o.body learned any lessons from this. Every year these stupid actions continued. Eventually, the local authority prohibited bonfires in the streets and legislation was introduced with regard to the sale of fireworks to children.

One year, in preparation for Bonfire Night, Ann and I made a fantastic Guy Fawkes effigy. We used a proper workman's boiler suit. We tied string around the wrists and ankles then stuffed the guy with rolled up newspaper. This guy was going to be a proper man size example. We obtained rubber wellington boots for the feet and made a head for it out of a nylon stocking, again filled with paper. A mask for the face completed this work of art! In order to prevent it getting wet if it rained, we left it sitting in the outside lavatory. Early next morning all h.e.l.l broke loose. Uncle Bill arrived home from working the night s.h.i.+ft wheeling his bicycle. As he entered the back yard he saw what appeared to be some horrible man sitting on the lavatory. No amount of shouting at this person had any effect, so he picked up a large piece of wood and attacked the intruder. When he hit out at the shadowy figure, the head fell off and rolled towards him. Poor Uncle Bill shrieked with horror I'm sure he almost had a heart attack! I don't remember getting scolded for this, so I suppose Ann took the blame.

It was about this time that I made something of a discovery. To the right of the chimney breast in the parlor was a very tall built-in closet. It was built from floor to ceiling. We children could easily access the bottom shelves but to reach the top required the use of a step ladder which we didn't have. My mother used to be able to reach the top shelves by standing on a chair. On this particular day I was alone in the house and was searching for something I'd lost. I wondered whether it was on the top shelf of the closet. I figured that if I dragged the table to the closet then put a chair on top of the table I would be able to climb up and take a look.

On the top shelf I found an old cake box. Inside it was a bundle of old letters, photographs and doc.u.ments. The photographs were a little brown with age and of people I didn't know. There was also some foreign money. I had not seen foreign money before. There were three or four dollar bills. Printed clearly on the dollar bills was the words 'United States of America.' I didn't know what they were doing in our house. I carefully replaced the cake box and climbed down. After I put the table and chair back to their usually positions, I went outside to play and must have promptly forgot all about what I had seen. (I only remembered the incident again after I began writing this chapter).

Uncle Tommy was my mother's brother. He lived in Waterfoot, Rossendale. To me this was the heart of the countryside and I loved going there. The area was surrounded by large hills and cattle and sheep grazed in the fields. Uncle Tommy always took his family to the seaside resort of Blackpool for a two week break during the summer. On occasions we would go and spend a few days in his home while he was away. These were welcome breaks from the drudgery of slum life. I have very fond memories of the visits. His house was surrounded by gardens which were planted with fruit trees. They also kept chickens. The house was directly opposite a park where the local men played cricket in the evening.

The area was very rural. There were no terraced streets. There were no smelly back yards. Fresh milk was delivered daily by the local farmer. He had a horse and cart loaded with large milk churns - he measured the milk out using jugs and ladles. I had never seen anything like this in my life. Uncle Tommy even had a proper inside bathroom with hot water. I loved to lie in their bathtub with the bathroom door locked. I used to pretend that I was on a beach on a desert Island. It was the only time I can recall where I got any privacy or escape from reality. They had actual lavatory paper on a dispensing roller. Just like school, the lavatory paper was San Izel brand which had a quite distinctive smell and texture. I disliked this lavatory paper. It smelled ok but was scratchy and impractical to use.

I have always loved being in the countryside and often reflect on those visits to Waterfoot. I used to dream of having a nice house in the country when I grew up.

When I was 10 years old I went on my first real holiday (vacation). My mother had arranged for me to have a week's holiday in Prestatyn, North Wales. The City of Salford owned a small disused Royal Air Force training camp which they had converted into a holiday camp for the under privileged children of Salford. I had to be medically screened for head lice, boils and any other conditions before being accepted. On the date of departure, Ann took me to Bexley Square outside the Town Hall, to board a bus for the journey. I didn't know anybody and this was the first time I had been away from home. I was a little nervous. On arrival at the camp we drove beneath a large entrance arch. Written on the arch in very big letters was: SALFORD POOR CHILDRENS' HOLIDAY CAMP. I knew we were poor, but seeing this was almost like adding insult to injury. It was so embarra.s.sing.

The camp consisted of four dormitories which held about ten boys in each. An older boy was appointed "Dormitory Captain" and everything was run on military lines. Beds had to be stripped daily and blankets folded to regulation size. There was dormitory inspection every morning before breakfast. We had to salute the camp supervisor whenever we saw him. We seemed to live mainly on bread and jam. A great deal of bullying went on as the pecking order was established. Some of the older boys made younger boys fold their blankets and make their beds. G.o.d help a younger boy if the bed in question failed to pa.s.s inspection. It seemed that violence followed me wherever I went. A lot of emphasis was placed on physical training, football, cross country runs and such like. I wasn't particularly good at this kind of activity. However, I did enjoy being at the seaside. I loved searching for crabs in the rock pools. It was the first time I had seen the sea. It was both amazing and frightening at the same time. The vastness and the power of the ocean was truly awesome. The smell and sound of the sea remains one of my favorite things to this day.

Chapter 9 Forgettable Times.

It is often said that the mind tends to block out bad or sad memories during childhood in favor of the good ones. This is why most memories of childhood summers are of the long and sunny variety, and not the wet and miserable ones. In writing this book and recalling as many childhood memories as I could, I was surprised to find that those memories that I would prefer to forget, actually outnumber the cherished ones. Sometimes, good and bad memories are interlinked and difficult to separate. I often remember occasions that were happy at first but then turned bad or to total embarra.s.sment - or worse.

As well as being an accepted 'cure all' b.u.t.ter was also the cause of one of the most embarra.s.sing moments of my school days at St. Clements. I was nine years old. We were given a general knowledge test by the cla.s.s teacher. She asked us questions and we wrote down the answers. At the end of the test we swapped papers and marked them for each other. One of the questions asked was, 'What does your mother sometimes use as a subst.i.tute for b.u.t.ter?' I was the only child in the cla.s.s that wrote 'Drippin' (beef fat). Of course the correct answer was margarine, but how I was I supposed to know that b.u.t.ter wasn't margarine and that I was the only one who had 'Drippin' sandwiches!

Christmas time has always been magical to me. It was the only time of the year that we seemed to have food in plenty. Somehow we managed to have enough money put by for a fresh turkey or sometimes even a goose. There was always an abundance of sticky dates, nuts and fresh fruit. I particularly enjoyed the taste of fresh apples and oranges at Christmas, and this was for a very good reason. On occasions throughout the year I would be given a couple of pennies to go to the local greengrocer's shop to buy a penny apple or a penny orange. Oranges would normally cost about three pennies each. Those that were rotten on one side were cut in half and the good half sold for a penny. They were dry and pretty tasteless; any juice had long since dried up. It seemed to me that all the other kids always had fresh juicy oranges. As they slurped into the oranges and covered their faces with the fresh fruit and juice, I tried to imagine that it was me enjoying the fruit. I always had to make do with second best. I used to wish that one day I could buy a proper orange - one of those large juicy Outspans or Jaffa's that were displayed in a pyramid shape in the shop window - and not just a penny orange.

There were so many new and exciting things to learn. Unfortunately, not everything I learned was nice. A very cruel incident that I can never forget involved the drowning of new born kittens. One morning I was warned by my mother not to go into the back yard that day. When I asked why, I was told to mind my own business and just do as I was told. I didn't deliberately defy her orders but I had forgotten about her warning and I remember going to the lavatory in the yard and hearing a strange sound. It was like a soft m.u.f.fled baby cry. It seemed to be coming from a lidded bucket standing by the wall. I lifted the lid to see that it was full of water. There were young kittens in the water crying. Some were very still and just floating, while others were trying to climb on top of the still ones to get out of the water. I immediately ran screaming to my mother who went mad with me and smacked me on the head. She walked over to the bucket, replaced the lid, closed the door and told me to shut up crying and to get out. I still see those kittens from time to time in my mind.

In recalling this next story, my children were in fits of laughter. It was though, one of the most emotionally painful times of my life. I have had to work extremely hard to overcome it. Even today, I still suffer some discomfort on occasions.

On bath nights mother would drag the tin bathtub into the house from the back yard. It was always placed in front of the fire to keep us warm. It was filled with dozens of kettles of water heated by putting them on the fire. This used to take forever because the water already in the bathtub would cool down while waiting for the next kettle to boil. Eventually there was enough water for a reasonable bath. There was a definite pecking order for having a bath. I think it was probably the same in all households. Mothers would bathe first, followed by fathers, then the youngest child and eventually the oldest child. As a rule, parents didn't bathe in front of the children. Not in our house anyway.

Because Ann was older that the rest of us, she was not included in the bath night regime. Come to think of it, I don't know when or where Ann took her baths. Maybe she went to her dad or grandmother's house. I however, had to wait until Graham then Carol then David had their baths before it was my turn. Needless to say, the water was never changed at any point. Before long the water would cool down. By the time I got into the water it was cold, it smelled and it had invariably turned slightly yellow!

I dreaded bath nights. Luckily for me they were very infrequent - perhaps once every few weeks. As far back as I can remember, having water poured over my head used to terrify me. I would jump up out of the bathtub and scream in fright. I have no idea how this came about. I don't recall any bad experience that I could blame it on. It wasn't just fear - I truly was totally petrified. I believed I was drowning and I really could not breathe. Of course my mother had to wash my hair and she also knew just how I would respond. She never tried to deal with the obvious problem in any other way. Despite my pleading with her, every bath night she would arrange some form of distraction then just pour a large jug of water over my head. To everyone's delight, in a split second I would jump up and out of the bath. Everyone thought it was absolutely hilarious - including my mother. On one particularly terrifying occasion I leapt out of the bath, ran out of the room and all the way up the street before I stopped running. Many of the neighbors and their children, including some who I played with, were joining in the laughter. I was ridiculed - everyone thought it was immensely funny. This problem persisted until I was well in my teens; it continued to be a source of pain, both physical and emotional, during my early years at the secondary school.

From the age of about eleven, which was the time I started going to the secondary school, bath nights were no longer a frequent occurrence. They were subst.i.tuted by showers at school. At the secondary school we had to attend gym cla.s.ses twice a week as part of the compulsory physical education (PE) lessons. You were only excused PE on medical grounds and even then a parental letter of excuse was needed. Following the lesson, showers were also compulsory. The shower area consisted of about ten communal showers in a large wet room. Many times I made the excuse that I didn't have a towel and was. .h.i.t with a slipper on the backside as a punishment. To me it was a fair exchange. Eventually, the gym teacher learned to antic.i.p.ate me and produced clean towels from somewhere. In these situations I tried very hard to keep resisting or at least stalling until the nearest shower to the exit became available. At least in this way I could pretend to wet my head without actually doing so.

It would be many years before we had a bathroom with a proper bath.

From the time of Uncle Bill smacking me during the wet bed incident, I can only recall one other occasion when he hit me. This was because he hit me so hard across my face and head that I literally saw stars and felt very sick. Before she went to work one morning, my mother had instructed me to bring the pee bucket down the stairs and to empty it into the outside lavatory. The bucket was full to the brim. It would have been heavy for an adult to carry, and I was only about 11 years of age. I struggled on the stairs with the weight of it and then lost my balance and fell down the stairs, spilling the bucket's contents everywhere. I was shaken up but unhurt. Uncle Bill came running to see what had happened. He called me a Stupid Get! Then he hit me.

The spilled urine quickly leaked away through the gaps in the floorboards. The smell from our urine reeking bedroom had just extended to the stairs! I told my mother what had happened and asked her whether or not she felt remorse for not having done the job herself. I don't remember what her response to me was, but there followed a terrible row. My mother told Uncle Bill never to lay a finger on any of her kids. If he needed to chastise anyone then he should chastise his own. The reference was to Graham of course. Uncle Bill in turn told her never to lay her hands on his son. This act of differentiation between his and her children became a constant source of arguments over the years. This practice of dividing responsibilities also manifested itself in other ways.

Uncle Bill had his own separate supply of tea and sugar. If he wanted a cup of tea he had to make his own. This was because he allegedly made too many pots of tea and used excessive amounts of sugar. According to my mother, the weekly food budget he gave her would not cover his extravagances! Sometimes he would buy little treats for himself, like sweets and cakes which he would have with his pot of tea. It was really very contradictory because it was my mother who initially insisted upon Uncle Bill's separate tea budget, but then it made her angry when he went ahead and did it.

If Uncle Bill gave Graham a sweet or cake without giving any of us one, it would cause an argument. To spite each other they would occasionally buy treats and give them only to their respective children. I remember enjoying the treats but hating the ensuing tension. I knew that sooner or later it would result in a huge argument.

This practice of having separate facilities for making cups of tea was also echoed in other ways. Uncle Bill had his own stock of soap, towels, shoe polish, and other everyday items. It was argued that he was too greedy in his use of these things and my mother could not afford his excesses out of her housekeeping budget. He not only had his own towels but he personally saw to laundering them. My mother never washed any of Uncle Bill's clothes. He took everything to the local Chinese laundry.

One of my weekly duties was to take a pillow case full of dirty was.h.i.+ng to the launderette. I learned to operate the was.h.i.+ng machine and then the drier. The launderette was very busy on Sat.u.r.day mornings and the whole ch.o.r.e used to take two or three hours. I was given a s.h.i.+lling reward for this duty. By today's value it would be the equivalent of about 2, but then it bought a large bottle of fizzy pop and quite a few packets of sweets. I remember that Uncle Bill also used to give me a s.h.i.+lling pocket money every Friday. He rarely asked me to do anything for it - maybe a quick trip to the corner shop for something he had forgotten.

The term, 'Him' began to replace any other name that we had for Uncle Bill. It was so derogatory. And when we said it, we used facial expressions to signify our contempt. This behavior was learned from my mother who first started doing it in front of us when she was referring to Bill. She must have hated him at the time. We were encouraged to be contemptuous of him. It didn't take long for us to adopt the term. From now on and for as long as I can remember as a child and even a young man, n.o.body, not even my mother called Uncle Bill anything other than 'Him.' My younger sister Carol still referred to him in this way long after we had stopped. I often wondered if she had a particular reason of her own for despising him. I feel so ashamed about it now.

Death was a fairly abstract thing to me and really didn't have any meaning. After all, it was something that happened to some old people. I never knew that it would eventually happen to each of us. However, there were to be three deaths in our street that brought it home very clearly. The deaths also affected me emotionally. One was the death of a friend's mother. They owned the local corner grocery shop. Eric Dignam was my age about nine or ten at the time. I felt really sorry for him. My mother was the main person in my life and I couldn't imagine how a person could cope with losing their mother. I didn't give a thought to him also having a father who loved and cared for him. A short time after his mother's death he was playing out with us. He was very subdued. We were also subdued. We didn't know what to say. None of us even mentioned his mother to him. Another local boy who was not a friend as such, came up to him and said, 'Hey Dignam, is it right that your mam is dead?' Eric just said 'yeh.' He said it in a very matter of fact way, as though his mother's death was just normal procedure. This was my introduction to man's mortality.

One of the other deaths was that of a very young child. He was only about three years old. I remember that he was a very pretty blonde child. He was a pleasant and happy little boy who wasn't even ill. By that I mean didn't suffer from a long term illness. He had quickly developed a brain tumor and died very suddenly. I'd never known any child to die before - so this death was strange to me.

The third death that affected me was that of our next door neighbor, Hilda Ellis. My Aunty Hilda. Not a real aunty but one whom I loved as a child. She was a dear friend of our family. She was a very warm loving woman and was very kind to me. She had been poorly for quite a while and died a slow and painful death from cancer that seemed to go on forever. While her death was expected, for some reason, I felt very sad. It was almost as though she was much closer to me than just being a next door neighbor.

For each of the funerals the neighbors had a house to house collection and bought floral wreaths. On the morning of the funerals the flowers would be placed on a couple of chairs outside the bereaved person's house for viewing by everyone. As a mark of respect the curtains in every house would be closed on the day of the funeral. Everyone remained indoors when the hea.r.s.e arrived in the street. The curtains would twitch as households tried to secretively view proceedings. The casket would be loaded and the deceased's family would climb into the accompanying limousine for the journey to the cemetery. It was considered disrespectful to stand in the street and watch. This practice no longer seems to take place. Since the demise of the terraced streets, the community spirit has all but disappeared along with this particular way of showing respect.

Chapter 10 Violence is Abhorrent.

Violence of any kind upsets me greatly. Even threats of violence cause me discomfort. I don't necessarily mean threats or acts of violence towards me as an individual, but violence in general. Gratuitous violence in films and similar media has the same effect upon me. As a child and a young person, I have witnessed sickening violence to the extent that it totally abhors me. Flying in the face of modern research findings, being subjected to a great deal of domestic violence has not made me a violent person. In fact, it has made me just the opposite.

I've witnessed domestic violence ever since my mother got married to Uncle Bill. This violence was an integral part of my life from the age of six to sixteen. I firmly believe that a great deal of emotional damage was done to me during those years. As well as having to witness violence between my mother and Uncle Bill, I have also witnessed a lot of other violence and threats of violence from a female neighbor towards my mother.

During one sunny and peaceful afternoon, I was playing a game of marbles on my own in the hallway. Somebody knocked on the front door. My mother answered it and all h.e.l.l broke loose. One of the women from a few doors away was threatening to kill my mother! I felt extremely vulnerable and very frightened. They hurled abuse at each other. The woman was trying her very best to get her hands on my mother. My mother would not go out into the street to deal with the woman face to face; instead she argued from behind a practically closed front door. She had put her weight behind the door and used it as a protective barrier. The quarrel seemed to go on for ages. Eventually the women left but was still screaming threateningly at my mother as she walked away. That same evening, I was playing in the street when there was a big fight. It involved this particular woman, her husband, her father and various other people. Everyone seemed to be fighting everyone else. The whole street came out of their homes to watch it. I ran to our house to tell my mother about it, but she kept quiet and remained indoors. I didn't understand why, because everyone else was out in the street observing the spectacle. I learned in later years that the fight was about an allegation that my mother had been having an affair with the woman's husband. I don't know if this allegation was true, but the incident has helped me to put some things into perspective and to explain a past mystery.

My mother's marriage to Uncle Bill was very stormy and frequently violent. He would often beat her. Sometimes she would have black eyes. I remember one particular incident when he picked up his plate full of dinner and smashed it over her head. He then picked up a box of tools and smashed that over her head as well. I cannot count the number of times I have witnessed my mother being badly beaten. He knocked her unconscious on many occasions. These beatings always ensued from an argument between them. I often wondered why my mother argued with him when she knew how it would end.

As the years pa.s.sed and I grew into adolescence, I also grew to accept the violence. By accepting it, I mean that these violent quarrels were as much a part of my life as anything else. As children grow older they learn to reason and understand more. I understood that I could do absolutely nothing about the situation. As a child, I used to come downstairs if I was in bed when they started fighting. I would try to intervene by crying and screaming and coming in between them, but sadly, it didn't change anything. It was the only thing I could think of doing. Just standing and watching was not an option to me. I cannot stress enough just how much these experiences hurt and how they damaged me for the rest of my life.