Honour of the Line (2 page)

Most of the houses were privately owned and rented out to tenants, although a couple of the streets were council owned and very dated with outside toilets and no bathroom. It took until 1963 for the houses to get an extension whereby toilets and bathrooms were added.

Many of my best friends lived in these council houses. The local school was just up the road from us. Children went there from five to seven years of age and returned again from twelve to fifteen, which was the school leaving age of that time. The intermediate school years were spent at another school on the far side of town, where us lot from the Arches felt complete strangers. In all but the council streets there were various shops. Everything you could possibly think of, from grocers to a wet fish shop and even a cobblers where people took their worn out shoes to be re-soled or re-heeled. A certain Mr Hagger was the barber and even as a young child I recall him being referred to as ‘
Hagger the
Shagger
’, which looking back seemed rather unfair as he was a really decent ‘salt of the earth’ kind of bloke. The greengrocer, a certain Mr Taylor, was always known as ‘
Tinker
’, and the builder, W C Brown and Sons, was always known as ‘
Shithouse Brown
’ by all and sundry. Many people had nicknames but our family seemed to avoid any, or perhaps they were just used out of our earshot.

The Arches boasted just the one pub. It was the watering hole for most of the men and if a lady went in there she would always be escorted by a man and taken into the lounge bar where drinks were around a penny a pint more expensive, supposedly for the relaxed atmosphere and more comfortable surroundings. This bar was really quite unappealing, in fact, pretty dire, so it takes little imagination as to the state of the public bar which was only frequented by the working men of the area. This was a bar where men would go straight from work in their filthy working clothes and dirty boots. Visitors and families of the locals were always made very welcome but strangers, in general, were not. It took a brave man to set foot inside and occasionally, if one were bold enough, they very rarely made a second visit.

The pub was named Honour of the Line and it was supposedly the only pub in the world which carried that particular name, although the fact was never verified. The building dated back to 1840 and must have been quite grand in it’s heyday. However, by the 1950’s it was really shabby and in desperate need of some love and attention. On the wall of the public bar was a scroll which defined how the pub was named. It stated that as the area of between the Arches grew and grew the people of the area regarded themselves as the lesser people of the town, every man was a ‘hands on’ worker, where other areas in general housed the more affluent.

The population of the Arches decided to adopt their own code of conduct, it was a bit like Scouts Honour. It you shook hands and agreed to the Honour of the Line it was forever binding and, if agreeing to this bond, it was a rule that at least two independent witnesses were present. Very few people took this oath as it was usually only agreed on a matter of grave concern. No matter what your religion this oath superseded all other oaths for the people of the Arches.

The pub was the centre of most that went on, rather like the Rovers in Corrie or the Queen Vic in EastEnders. Darts, bar billiards, crib, shove halfpenny, you name it, they had a team in every league. Needless to say, all visiting teams received a very warm welcome and always seemed to relish going behind enemy lines, so as to speak. On Saturday lunch times it was heaving as the men finished work for the week and had a pint or two before going off to watch the town football team, who during the late 50’s, were one of the top amateur sides in the country. Around 6 o’clock the bar gradually started to fill again with all the usual banter that, to this day, still goes hand in hand with football. Almost, without exception, the men would think they could have done much better than the team, especially if the team were to lose.

Sadly, most of the pub’s customers had beer bellies and smoked heavily and as the pints disappeared their imagination as to their own talents increased. Indeed, some would start of by stating how bad the team had played and by closing time they would have you believing that they had been the Pele of their generation.

For all the rubbish which was all too frequently spoken there were seldom cross words exchanged. It was the most friendly of potentially hostile places, if that makes sense?

Paddy was the Landlord of the time and his wife was called May. He resembled an ex RAF Officer with his moustache and elegant wavy blonde hair. He always looked really smart but the only part of his dress to ever change was his bow tie. He wore a different colour for every day of the week. He always wore a light brown suit which would surely have fallen to bits if it were cleaned, although it somehow, by a minor miracle, always looked fresh. May was a typical publicans wife of the time, great with the customers but when Paddy held court she knew her place.

Despite his Irish sounding name Paddy had moved to the area from Salisbury in 1948 and had become the focal point at the hub of the community. May had been married to the shop-keeper of the local tobacconist and Confectioners but they were divorced after her and Paddy had a fling. He could have charmed the pants off Ena Sharples.

Unlike the pubs of today, many of which resemble restaurants, the only food on offer were cheese or ham rolls at lunchtimes, or stale crisps during the evenings. According to my Grandad, Paddy’s rolls could be used for weapons of war. He said you could bash the enemy into submission with them as they were always dry and hard. This was quite probably due to the fact that they were kept on the bar under a clear plastic cover for several hours. It was always hot and smoky in the bar so it was hardly surprising that the rolls were, to say the least, past their prime.

Although I was far too young to ever cross the boundary to the haven of the local men, unbeknown to me, events in that pub would one day change my life forever.

My earliest memories began when I was around 4 years old. I remember sitting in the back room with Grandad lining up toy soldiers on the table to make a marching band. The soldiers were ‘hand me downs’ made of lead and many had become beheaded over the years and the heads were then loosely joined to the body by matchsticks. I had more toys than most of my friends mainly because my Grandad really spoiled me. I still remember him getting me a second hand three wheeled bike with a carrier on the back which resembled a bread bin. Mum and Dad decided it needed painting before I could use it and it seemed to take a lifetime for Dad to complete the painting. For some reason I imagined it would only take a few moments to paint but Mum and Dad seemed to be rubbing it down forever and applied coat upon coat of paint. When it was finished it looked fantastic, it was painted in maroon and cream, just like some of the railway carriages which used to pass across the arches near where we lived. Thank the Lord they never had the job of painting the Forth Bridge.

On a bright summers day I got my first taste of adventure as my bike was finally finished and it made me feel like a million dollars. At first I had to be restrained by my Dad with a rope he had wound around the saddle stem and we went round the four sides of our block and through the series of alleys behind the houses which gave access to the back gardens. After a few days I was told I could go out on my own on the promise that I only went up and down the footpath at the front of our house, which meant my parents could keep an eye on me. This was great for the first day or two but boys will be boys so every once in a while I would go just around the corner a few yards and eventually ventured into the alleys which seemed like a Grand Prix circuit. Naively I assumed nobody had noticed but unfortunately one of our neighbours said to Mum “your Billy is really good on his bike, he tears up and downs the alleys like a racing driver”. Poor Mrs Evans, she had no idea she was dropping me in deep shit. My Mum told me I was grounded until further notice and my Dad rubber stamped this when he arrived home from work. So naturally the only thing left for me to do was to crawl around Grandad and see if he could make them change their minds. It all seemed to no avail but after a couple of days the ban was lifted but I had to promise to play by the rules. But rules were made to be broken so once again I cycled out of bounds but unbeknown to me my parents were on the lookout. Mum stood on one corner with Dad on the other but I headed for the complex of alleys and had the time of my life dodging them until eventually they sent for reinforcements, namely two Aunts and Uncles who lived on the next block. When I was eventually captured I got the mother of all bollockings from my Dad but I noticed my Mum, trying for all her worth, not to laugh. It must have been obvious to all and sundry that I would be destined for a life of mischief and controversy. Poor old Mum and Dad, they took their choice and opened box 13, which contained me, the booby prize.

By the time I started school I was allowed to play in the street with the other kids form our block and all of the boys and girls became and remained friends throughout out school days.

The family next door had two boys, John and Bob and a daughter Georgina, who was in my class at school. She became my best pal throughout our school days.

John and Bob were older than me and my parents used to blame them for leading me astray, but I took no persuasion whatsoever to get into mischief. We sometimes crossed into the next block, bashed on peoples doors and legged it or ran past the greengrocers and grab an apple or banana, not to eat them but for the sheer devilment. At the far end of our block there was the community hall where whist drives and dances were often held. The hall had seen better days and the grounds were totally overgrown. John and Bob, being that bit older, managed to get some matches and so we used to set light to anything we could find in the hall grounds, waste paper, wood etc. I was always being questioned about being near bonfires but denied it to the bitter end. I clearly remember one time after school when I was around 7 years old, that we went for the jackpot and broke pieces of the already rather distressed fencing and made the mother of all bonfires, but sadly it all went horribly wrong, as owing to the unusually dry weather, the fire spread like fury and caught first of all the shed and then the other out buildings on fire. A passer-by rushed to the phone box, which was just opposite by the gas works entrance, and obviously they were extremely concerned that the fire would get totally out of control and cause devastation. For lads of our age this was an adventure beyond belief. The Police evacuated the gas works as the Fire Brigade battled to bring the fire under control. We just watched with all of the other passers-by and tried to show our innocence but probably failed miserably. Eventually Mum, Dad, Grandad and my Aunts and Uncles joined the throng and I was petrified but for some reason or another I was never questioned, although I was fairly certain my parents suspected something. The fire was brought under control and again normal service was resumed and everybody returned home.

After tea I sat in the back room with Grandad trying to bury my head in the sand. That night I hardly slept a wink. The next morning at school Georgina came up to me and said “whatever you do deny it. John and Bob will never split on you so stay strong”. During assembly Miss Morgan, our Head Mistress, asked if anybody knew anything about the fire as children had been seen in the grounds but nobody said a word. Silence was the order of the day.

Our school was divided into two playgrounds, the upper one for senior boys, the lower one for senior girls and infant boys and girls. Each playground had a large covered cycle shed with bench seats. At morning break one of our footballs was kicked into the girls playground and when I went to retrieve it a couple of the senior girls called me over. One of them said to me “Billy you bring trouble wherever you go, you must know something about the fire”. For the first time in my life I felt totally ashamed.

I somehow managed to steer clear of trouble for a while except for one minor blip. Quite a few of the lads had this money making idea. A group of the lads would go to the back of the pub and pick two of the lads to go over the back gate into the yard. These two unfortunate lads would then hand two pint bottles of brown ale to the other lads waiting by the gate. We would all then go to the recreation ground, unscrew the tops of the bottles and pour the brown ale into the sandpit. It mixed nicely with the dog shit that was a feature of the sand pit.

It never really mattered as nobody ever played in the sand, it was far too disgusting for words. We saved the bottles in my friend Brian’s shed and when we collected a lot we took them to the Off Licence in another part of town to get the deposit back from the bottles. The proceeds were spent on stuffing ourselves senseless with bars of chocolate and sticks of liquorice. Needless to say we all suffered from overeating and had a bad nights sleep.

We took it in turns to scale the gate and it was just my luck that Paddy, who was aware of his beer being stolen, caught me red handed. He promptly marched me home and told my parents what had happened and they asked who else was involved but I would never grass on anybody. It was agreed if my parents gave Paddy fifteen bob, which is 75 pence in today’s money, then he wouldn’t contact the Police.

For my punishment I was docked eight weeks pocket money and given a two week grounding. One week for getting caught and a further week for not bringing the beer home for Dad to drink. My lesson was finally learned but through all those misdemeanour’s Mum and Dad stood by me solid as rocks.

They seemed to think an addition to the family might help and so the question of a brother and sister arose.