Honour of the Line (4 page)

As time went by other lads also told of the terrible beatings they had taken at the hands of Boddingford but none of us dared to tell our parents. We all then realised he only ever thrashed the boys from the Arches, which seemed very unfair. Eventually one lad, who had taken the most severest of beatings, told his father who had gone to the Police and informed them of the names of the other lads who had been abused.

That October, when we returned to school after half-term, we learned we had a new Head Teacher, a lady called Miss Baker. Boddingford had lost his job and had been taken to court and put on probation for dishing out corporal punishment. He was also banned from ever working with children again. Three weeks later he committed suicide and when those who he had abused found out where he was buried we all went along one night after school, when it was dark, and pissed on his grave. If nothing else it made us feel we had gained some revenge. I am sure I would be speaking for all of us from the Arches when I say we hated him with a vengeance.

Grandad and I started kicking a proper leather football around at the local rec. I had no idea whatsoever how to play the game and wondered why the bigger kids kicked the hell out of each other trying to get the ball. I was told this was called tackling. I didn’t like the look of it at all, it seemed far easier if everybody just let you kick the ball and try to score a goal.

We started playing ‘three and in’, meaning we took turns in goal until we let three goals in and we would then swap around.

On Saturday afternoons I started going with Grandad to watch our towns team play, which was great because they won more games than they lost. We also travelled on the coach to most of the away games, some of which were the other side of London, which was great for me as from time to time I might see a new train number as we passed railway locations from different regions. Although this was great I probably missed a lot of Daisy growing up, but then you can’t have it all.

Over a period of time I realised that Grandad was striking the ball so much harder. Apparently he had been a really decent player in his younger days. Without realising, I was getting better, fitter and stronger and my spells in goal were getting longer by the day.

It was the early summer of ’61 when four of the much older lads banged on Grandad’s door and asked him if I wanted to play footie with them. Apparently they had watched me practising with Grandad and thought I would be good enough to make the numbers up. I suddenly felt I had arrived and really loved it. I was the first of my age group to get invited and I felt very proud although it was quite hard going at first.

By the time the next School Sports arrived I was far stronger than the previous year and I won the 80 yards easily, that’s inflation for you I suppose, beating Derek and Tim, my conquerors from last year. This left the mountain to climb in the final event of the day, the boys 150 yards where I had to face others up to 4 years older than myself, but I surprised everybody by taking 2
nd
place. With 10 yards to go I was in front but just got collared close home by a senior boy from the other side of town. All in all I was pleased with my efforts.

This was my first break-through in sport yet, unbeknown to me, far greater was to follow. As a result of my success I went onto the Area and then the County Sports against boys of my own age and won them both, but it was football I had fallen in love with.

September 1962 and all of the kids from the Arches had returned to our local school. It was like coming home. The girls shared the bottom playground with the infants, whilst the boys were confined to the top playground and were allowed into the bottom one only to retrieve footballs should they go over the dividing wall. Plastic Frido footballs were now all the rage and it was all too easy to miscue your shot and send it high over the wall. These balls were great but punctured easily on the hard surface so much of our time was unfortunately spent playing with an flat ball. But a flat plastic ball was still a whole lot better than playing with an old leather ball where the laces could cut your forehead to shreds if you headed them incorrectly.

On weekday evenings I would have tea at Grandad’s and then go to the rec to play footie. Most members of our year at school would be there. The girls all sitting round chatting and the boys slowly but surely, one by one, getting the nod to join in football with the bigger lads. It was all a very age group related type of thing when it became too dark to play football. The older boys seemed to disappear on to the street corner by the parade of shops and our lot just sat by the swings talking and messing around. At our new school each year was divided into A and B streams. I was in the A stream, which was designed for the better students but the mind boggles just how hopeless the B stream were. Most of them seemed to struggle to write their names or get the concept of money. Nevertheless we were all pals and spent lots of our free time together. Homework was still a million miles away for the boys and girls from the Arches.

A major change also took place around this time. Dad told me that Paddy was leaving the Honour of the Line in order to retire back to Wiltshire. He was now approaching 70 but still had extremely good health so it seemed the right time for him to call it a day. The new Landlord was from Lancashire, although a Southerner born and bred. His name was Den and he had run a pub near Nelson in Lancashire for the past 5 years but was anxious to return to his Southern roots. He had stayed on in the Army after the war and eventually used his Army pension to set up in the licensed trade. His wife was called Diane and they had three children, two girls and a boy.

One Monday, midway through the morning, the first of the children was introduced to us. The Head Girl called Yvonne escorted her to our class and our form teacher, Miss Page, asked her to stand out the front and tell us a little about herself. Her name was Angela and she had moved into the pub from Nelson in Lancs. She spoke with a very correct English accent with a hint of American as she delivered some of her words. Catterick, in North Yorkshire, was her birth place but she had lived in many places, including South Africa, America and India, as her father’s time in the Forces had destined where their home should be. Her own private tutor had escorted her during her early years but she had returned to state schooling after her father left the Army for civvy street. Peter, her brother, was at the same time being introduced to 4A and they also had an older sister who had just left school.

Why the hell Paddy hadn’t retired earlier was my first thought. Angela was so good looking with a really friendly face, long legs and her chest also stuck out, although not as much as some of the other lasses who were beginning to grow tits. Angela’s hair was in a ponytail with a fringe at the front but because she spoke so correctly most of the lads were put off her, she seemed far too posh for us lot. Georgina straight away became Angela’s friend and after a couple of nights, as we were talking at the rec, Georgina told us Angela was really okay but she wasn’t allowed to join us as she had to help her Mum behind the scenes in the pub preparing food for the visiting teams to eat during the break in their darts or whatever match. This food was known as ‘the spread’ and according to locals was considerably better than the dry, often stale offerings, of Paddy’s reign, which were made in the morning and were not at all fresh by the time evening came around. Most of the lads thought Angela was a good looker but thought she was rather snooty because of her correct use of the Queen’s English, unlike the other girls who, once in a while, could be known to let the odd swear word slip out.

Although our lot were very working class, most of us only used bad words if the need arose, say if we dropped something or fell over and hurt ourselves. I really wanted to get to know Angela and wanted her as my girlfriend and often thought I would love to kiss her and put my arm around her. Probably I said more to her than any of the other boys did but it didn’t amount to much more than the occasional hello as we entered the classroom or passed in the hall.

Having separate playgrounds and the fact that Angela never came to the rec were a problem I felt I would never be able to solve. All the rest of us still met in the rec, even when the nights drew in. With the help of a scaffold pole we somehow managed to bend the railings and so we were able to get in after hours, so as to speak. Mr Peters, the Groundsman, always locked up as darkness descended and made us all get out but as soon as he was gone we were back there in a flash. Really all we did was chat and lark about but this was now our patch, the class of 62 had arrived on the scene.

Music had just started to become a major part of everybody’s lives, although getting to hear your favourite tunes was something quite different. Radio 1 was still years away so the best any of us kids could hope for was Radio Luxembourg, which played songs from the Hit Parade but the reception was poor and the sound always seemed to fade as your favourite tune was being played. Popular songs of this time were
I Remember You
by Frank Ifield.
I Can’t Stop
Loving you
by Ray Charles and
Speedy Gonzales
by Pat Boone.

During the summer of 62 Woollies, the biggest shop in town, had been extended with a side entrance added, which opened onto a street that faced a large car park which also served as the market place on Saturdays. When the new part of the shop was opened it had a music counter right next to the new side entrance. Sheet music was available as were small musical instruments and record players. The record players seemed way ahead of their time. Most were like carry cases where the speaker was part of the outer case. They also could be loaded to play up to ten records although, without fail, one would always slide and sound totally distorted. Further problems would be that some records got stuck on the spindle and failed to drop so the same song got repeated time and time again. Needless to say, at this time, us children of the Arches were in no position to buy the records, let alone a record player, which would cost upwards of £10, which was over a weeks wages for a manual male worker of that era.

Woollies only sold records on their own label. They were the songs from the Hit Parade but sung by some tinpot artist, many of whom were worse than karaoke singers or modern tribute artists. Why they are called tribute artists I can never really fathom out. Many are so bad they should be called Insult Artists. Getting back to the records. They were played virtually non-stop so it was possible to stand just outside on the street and listen to them. I became really hooked and often spent quite a bit of time straight after school biking into town just to stroll around the shop without a penny in my pocket just to listen to the music. I would often stop at the music counter, especially if one of my favourites were playing.

The girl who was usually serving must have been around 17 years old and as time passed she would, from time to time, ask me what songs I would like her to play. Eventually I realised that I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was tall, kind faced, with shoulder length dark hair with a fringe. In fact a typical good looker from that era. Sometimes if it was raining this girl would say ‘stand in the corner to listen but go straight away if the Supervisor comes around’. She was way out of my league, in fact, she seemed a generation older but still I could dream.

As I got a bit more confident I sometimes asked which days she was working. Her days off were officially Monday all day and Wednesday afternoons, which was the early closing day in our town, although she often did extra as she had just passed her driving test and was saving for a car. This confirmed my thoughts, she must be at least 17 and, although very friendly, that was it. Often I lay in bed and wondered if she was as friendly and helpful with everyone or did she just take sympathy on me and feel sorry that I couldn’t afford to buy the records. Although I really wasn’t that shy I was fairly quiet compared with most of the boys of my age but I didn’t need to make a noise to get myself noticed, I was starting to get good at sport and I knew it.

Our school football season didn’t start until mid October but we had practice in the upper playground once a week and our matches were to be played on a council pitch across town so every match would be like an away fixture. We had a junior team for years 1 and 2 and senior team for years 3 and 4. I was so hoping to be picked for the junior team but didn’t think I would get a chance in the first year as I would still be bottom of my age group. Mr Tindall, the games master, always made me play in goal but at break times I liked to play outfield. It was great to dribble around a player and perhaps score a goal from time to time.

Just a few days before the first match I was called by Mr Tindall to see the Head Master who hit me with the biggest shock of my life so far. He told me that Mr Tindall wanted me to keep goal for both teams, junior and senior, and wanted to know my thoughts. This meant playing against every age group but I was now approaching six feet tall and was getting quite strong. Our Head Master, whom everybody was petrified of, was actually a right nice kind of chap. He said ‘B
illy, you should be so proud. In my 27 years here this has never happened before, but this offer comes with a price, which is you will have to do some homework in order not to fall behind with your school work
’. He pointed out that junior games were on Mondays and senior games on Wednesdays, which meant missing the last lesson which was arithmetic on both days. Nowadays the two times table is regarded as maths, what a joke that is. I was told I would get my tuition for the lessons but would have to do the exercises at home. Agreement was instant, this chance at footie was too big to pass over, even if homework did take up some of my evenings.