Traditional pastimes survived long after we had put away the pogo-sticks and spinning tops. During the week after tea and with homework finished, I would be out on the street to meet my friends, Jimmy Everett, Terry Gaunt and Michael Wales. Richard Road was a steep hill and in summer we would race down on roller skates or on bicycles or, even better, on ‘bogies’, those crude trolleys we built from old pram wheels and slats of wood with a rope to steer. Mr Fowler, who lived at the top of the hill, made me and my friends catapults and we played for hours firing at tins and bottles until the offensive weapons were confiscated by Mr Wales (no relation to Michael), a teacher who lived a few doors away from me. When we broke a window in his greenhouse we owned up (we really had no choice, because he was in the garden at the time), apologized and asked him not to tell our parents. He took the catapults from us with the injunction, ‘You could take somebody’s eye out with one of these,’ but never did tell our parents or ask us to pay for the damage. A week later he presented us with a large bag of marbles. We would then retire to the top of Ramsden Road to battle it out.
In autumn it was conker time. We would collect bags of conkers from Clifton Park, soak them in vinegar, bake them in the oven, leave them in the airing cupboard for a year, carefully skewer them and then spend hours competing in the street and in the playground. Children throughout the country tried to perfect the killer conker, and these hard shiny brown nuts were pickled, boiled, baked, varnished and pampered. The big round ones were not the best. They were soft and yielding and easy targets. We all looked for small, flat, sharp-edged specimens. I learnt about schadenfreude early on. It was such a pleasure to see a champion conker that had survived twenty or more battles smashed to smithereens by a newcomer, to be greeted by wild cheers from the onlookers.
In winter we would pray for snow so that we could position ourselves at the brow of the hill and sledge down at high speed. There were no trainers, denim jeans or bomber jackets in those days. We were kitted out in Wellington boots, hand-knitted jumpers, old school flannels, duffel coats and knitted woollen balaclava helmets (close-fitting hats covering the whole of the head and encircling the neck). The posh children had balaclavas made out of leather with a fur lining. My brother’s was made of simulated leather, an unyielding pale brown plastic with a felt lining, and when I sneaked it out of his cupboard one winter it made me feel like Biggles as I sped down Richard Road on my sledge, shrieking at the top of my voice. We became skilled at steering the sledge on to the pavement just as we reached the bottom, because ahead was the busy Broom Valley Road and the Cowrakes Lane buses.
Of course if there was snow there would be snowmen and snowball fights. One snowman carefully sculpted in the front garden by a father for his little boy was something of a masterpiece. It stood six foot high, with chips of coal for the eyes, a carrot for the nose and a crescent of apple for the mouth. One evening one of the boys on the street rearranged the creation and the next morning, on our way to school, we passed a leering, one-armed figure. The carrot had been repositioned lower down to form a very prominent orange penis, above which was a tuft of grass for the pubic hair. The child’s father, incensed by such vandalism, called on all the houses in the street to try to discover the culprit.
I abandoned cricket early on in my childhood. It was Uncle Alec, on one of his rare visits, who attempted to teach me the rudiments of the game when I was eight or nine years old, but his tuition didn’t last above three coaching sessions. I have to own that I couldn’t really take to the game. I failed to understand why anyone could enjoy hitting a really hard ball flying at great speed towards them with a stiff piece of wood so that someone else could run up and down. Uncle Alec, who loved cricket and played for the Royal Air Force, had had great success with my brother Michael (brother Alec just wasn’t bothered), who went on to become a very skilful player, but after lesson number three with me, Uncle Alec gave it up as a bad job. I was an unwilling pupil and useless to boot and, unlike my eldest brother, had no ambition to play for Yorkshire. After the last and memorable session Uncle Alec returned to our house with his very apologetic nephew in tow and the appearance of one who had just clambered out of the boxing ring. My batting technique, despite my uncle’s coaching, was to wield the bat like a deadly weapon as the ball approached, thrashing the air madly and leaping up and down. My bowling technique would have put the fear of God into a regiment of Gurkhas. In this, the last of my coaching sessions, I managed to crack the ball with such accuracy and speed that it hit my poor uncle smack in the face, dislodging a couple of teeth. In my poem, written some years later, I recorded the incident but do have to admit to a little poetic licence:
Unlucky Uncle Alec
When one day playing cricket,
Saw a four-leaf clover
And thought that he would pick it.
As he bent down
Towards the ground
To pluck the lucky leaf,
The cricket ball
Flew through the air
And knocked out all his teeth.
He shouted, ‘Drat!’
And dropped the bat
Which landed on his toes.
It bounced back up
And cracked his chin
Then smacked him on the nose.
Smeared in blood
And caked in mud,
He said, ‘I’m glad that’s over.’
Then with a sigh
He held up high
His lucky four-leaf-clover.
I was not allowed to play out on Sunday morning because there was church. In the evening, homework completed, the time would be spent before bedtime completing a huge jigsaw of Westminster Bridge or the Cutty Sark, or playing snakes and ladders, draughts or chess with my brothers, or carefully painting in the little shapes in the ‘Painting by Numbers’ set. Then there was the John Bull printing set with the little rubber letters and ink pad. And sometimes I would spend many a happy hour patiently gluing together the plastic components of model aircraft – Spitfires and Hurricanes, Messerschmitts and Fokkers – then laboriously painting them using little tins of enamel paint and finally sticking on the transfers. However hard I read the instructions there was always a part left over at the end. I reckoned that the makers of the models did it on purpose.
Like most children I loved collecting things: postcards, toy soldiers, Dinky cars, coins, stamps, cigarette cards. All my friends would save the cards out of Brooke Bond PG Tips and cigarette packets, and we would swap them at school and stick them in a book you could send away for from the manufacturer. There were Birds of the British Isles, Animals of the British Isles, Flags of all Nations, Great Sporting Heroes, Kings and Queens of Europe, Great British Regiments. We would spend breaktimes at school bartering, and we were always envious of the boy who managed to complete the set first. Then there were the free gifts in the cereal packets. At the bottom of the box would be plastic figures to collect, badges and little coloured plastic submarines which when filled with baking powder sank to the bottom of the glass and then surfaced. In the comics (Eagle, Beano and Dandy) there would be free gifts – a cardboard Snapper which made the sound of a bang, a special agent’s badge, 3-D glasses, cut-out models and posters. By collecting the labels on Robertson’s jam and marmalade jars you could send off for a little enamel golliwog badge and it was every boy’s ambition to get the full set.
In 1953 all the children in the country were given a Coronation mug and a crown, a shiny five-shilling piece in a small plastic box. I wasn’t bothered about the mug but I treasured the large silver coin showing the young Queen on horseback. This started my interest in coin collecting and over the years I built up quite a collection. Mrs Harrap at the post office put aside anything that might be of interest to me, such as foreign currency or coins which were out of circulation which she had inadvertently accepted, and friends of my parents and neighbours were also dragooned into looking for unusual coins for me.
Some Saturdays I would take the bus to Sheffield a
nd walk up Glossop Road to Ford’s Antiques. There was a small rack of trays in a side window displaying a selection of coins, each with a small circular tag on which was written in careful, spidery writing the monarch’s name, the denomination and the price. The elderly owner, who smelt of mothballs and wore a stiff white collar, was always pleased to see me and would take out the tray of coins and tell me about the various kings and queens depicted. Charles I was shown with long curls and in elaborate clothes, Oliver Cromwell plain and dour, the aged George III with a great bull neck. Victoria, who reigned for sixty or so years, was represented in different issues as a young, middle-aged and old woman. ‘You learn a great deal about the character of a particular king or queen from the coinage,’ I was told. Further up Glossop Road was Jameson’s Antiques, and I always called in on the offchance that the owner might have some coins. There were never any customers in the shop when I called, just Mr Jameson behind a large desk, poring over a book. He always smiled when I entered the shop and shook his head when I asked if he had any coins. One memorable Saturday he smiled and as I turned to go told me I was in luck. He produced a small canvas bag of coins.
‘Five bob?’ he asked.
I held the bag, heavy with coins, but didn’t look inside until I was home. I rushed upstairs and emptied the contents on the bed. It was a treasure trove.
There were several Roman coins, a well worn George III shilling, some small silver sixpences, assorted pennies and four huge dull metal coins with the profile of George III on the obverse (I learnt later that these were called ‘Cartwheel’ two-penny pieces weighing exactly two ounces and were the largest British coins ever minted). There were also four or five tokens, a small silver medal, several American cents and dimes, a silver dollar and a thin brass coin with a shield like a spade on the reverse. The following week I visited Rotherham public library and scoured the coin catalogues. My heart was in my mouth when I discovered what I imagined one of the coins might be. On my way home I called in at Mason’s jewellers. It took me a time to summon up the courage to enter the shop. I stood beneath the large clock at the entrance rehearsing what I would say. The interior was elegant and cool, with cabinet after cabinet full of rings and watches, bracelets and necklaces.
‘May I help you, young man?’ asked a young woman.
‘I have a coin,’ I said nervously. She arched an eyebrow and waited. ‘I … I think it might be gold.’
She smiled and disappeared into the back. A tall man in a dark jacket emerged, took the coin from my hand and examined it with a small magnifying glass.
‘It’s what is known as a spade ace guinea,’ he said. ‘George III mintage, in fine condition, dated 1797. They were very common in their day and often forged in the form of gaming tokens. The brass copies often had “In memory of the good old days” on the reverse. But this is genuine.’
‘It’s gold?’ I asked.
‘It is,’ he replied. ‘Are you considering selling it?’
‘No, thank you,’ I said, taking it from him. On the way home, I walked on clouds.
Later that week I saw an advertisement in Exchange & Mart. My brother Michael, who was always building things, took this magazine and I was idly skimming through the pages when I came upon a small boxed item: ‘Old U. S. Currency Urgently Required. Good prices paid.’ I wrote to Major Monte B. Lambkin, who was based at an American air force base in North Yorkshire, sold the cents, dimes and the silver dollar for three pounds, eleven shillings and sixpence, and made a new pen-friend. Years later the golden guinea was made into a pendant for my wife Christine. It has been her favourite piece of jewellery, and whenever she wears it I recall the time I discovered it.
30
My parents were great day-trippers and most weekends found us – Mum and Dad, my two brothers and sister and myself – in a green Morris Oxford heading for the coast. It was always the seaside. Mum would pack the box of sandwiches and fruitcake and fill the flasks, Dad would check the car – tyres, oil, water – and we children would be waiting excitedly, crammed into the back seat of the car, keen to be on our way. We left the smoke and grime of Rotherham behind us and headed for Thorne, Driffield and Market Weighton. It was usually my brother Alec who would ask first, ‘Are we nearly there yet?’
One Saturday morning we were late starting. Mum just could not find her false teeth. Each night before bed, she would leave them soaking in a glass of water on the small shelf in the bathroom. The next morning the glass was empty of water and teeth. We searched everywhere. Then Michael remembered that in the night the amorous meowing of our neighbour’s tomcat had woken him up. He had leaned out of the bathroom window and thrown a glass of water at the noisy feline. The glass had contained our mother’s false teeth. So a search was started and the garden combed for the missing dentures. It was Christine who spotted the teeth in the guttering.
‘Bit early for cleaning windows,’ observed Mr Evans, our next-door neighbour, when he spotted Dad up the ladder.
‘No,’ replied my father casually, ‘just retrieving my wife’s false teeth.’
As we sped along on our trip to the seaside Dad would be full of fanciful tales. On the way we always passed under a low bridge, and Dad would tell us about the driver of a double-decker bus who, misjudging the height, sheered off the top of the vehicle. ‘And every single passenger on the bus was decapitated,’ he told us. On the way home in the shadowy darkness we would pass over a small hump-backed bridge. As we approached he would tell us of the great green hairy monster which lived beneath, with its dripping fangs and redrimmed eyes. He would slow down and nearly stop at the brow of the hill and announce in a mock-frightened voice, ‘We’ve broken down.’ We would all howl.
Once at the seaside we made straight for the quay for a trip around the bay on the Bridlington Belle. Another of Dad’s stories was of how the leaking vessel had sailed to Dunkirk to rescue the stranded British troops. I have an idea that this particular story was true.
If it was Filey it would be a stroll along the Brigg, followed by fish and chips, smothered in salt and vinegar, eaten out of newspaper as we sat on the harbour wall. Sometimes we would go further afield: to Staithes, where time seemed to have stopped; Sandsend, where we would search for fossils and walk along the great stretch of golden sand; Robin Hood’s Bay, where we would explore the narrow entries; Runswick Bay, where the cluster of cottages seemed to cling precariously to the cliffside; and of course, Whitby with its quaint streets, picturesque quay and imposing abbey. One memorable Sunday my parents insisted we visit St Mary’s Church, situated high on the clifftop. We were told there was a magnificent view over the harbour from the church and we could see the famous box pews and the three-decker pulpit. We were deeply unimpressed until Dad mentioned Count Dracula. It was just off the coast, he told us, that the ship bringing his remains to England had been wrecked, and in the graveyard he still roamed at midnight. One hundred and ninety-nine steps later, we arrived at the church but were not overly interested in the famous box pews and three-decker pulpit. We were in search of the vampire. When the vicar, a tall, thin, white-faced individual in a flowing black cape, appeared at the door of the church I was very impressed.
‘Are you Count Dracula?’ I asked innocently. My red-faced parents hurried their little boy down the steps and back to the car.
Scarborough was a favourite holiday destination. I loved making sandcastles on the soft sandy beach, the donkey rides, steering the chugging smelly little motor boats on the boating lake, listening to the music at the Spa, walking along the promenade with lips sticky with candyfloss and the sweet pink sticks of rock which lasted for hours and hours. I loved the climb up to the castle and later, hungry from the walk, fish and chips with bread and butter and a pot of tea in the café on the front. I remember one holiday we stood outside the entrance of the palatial Grand Hotel. We marvelled at the Gothic splendour: cast-iron balconies, corner domes with porthole windows, the red and orange terracotta and the great Corinthian columns.
‘When I win the football pools,’ I remember my father saying, ‘we will all stay here.’ Sadly, that was never to be.
Most of the year I would be free of accidents and mishaps, save for the odd scraped shin, cut finger and bruised knee, but when it came to the holidays it was a different matter. I seemed to attract accidents like a magnet. At the age of seven the family had a rather cramped week in Auntie Nora’s four-berth caravan, sited overlooking the sea near Flamborough Head. The year before I had managed to get a piece of popcorn wedged up my nose and had ended up with my father at the hospital. The doctor had managed to extract the foreign body with a long silver needle-like instrument with a tiny hook on the end. My mother told me many years later that when I arrived back from the Casualty Department she had asked me what had happened to the popcorn.
‘I ate it,’ I announced.
Then I swallowed a marble, pretending it was a sweet, and made a return visit to the hospital. I had to take this pink, foul-tasting viscous medicine. Sitting on the toilet the next day there was a clunk and I announced loudly that I had got my marble back.
As she unpacked the bedding in the caravan at Flamborough, Mum warned me to stay out of trouble. ‘And no accidents,’ she said. Sadly I didn’t oblige.
The holiday ended with another incident. I had been paddling at the sea edge at Filey, looking for crabs and shells and interesting pebbles. Suddenly I ran out of the sea screaming. My mother wrapped me in a towel but she couldn’t see why I was so distressed. I was in agony and began rubbing my foot madly. Mum looked but could find no cut or bruise. I continued to writhe and scream and all those around on the beach began to gather around. I was carried to the first aid point and an ambulance was called. Mum went with me to Scarborough hospital while Dad looked after the other three children.
Road to the Dales Page 26