Pie 'n' Mash and Prefabs (7 page)

Mum would always have lunch ready and waiting for me when I got in as she could be absolutely sure of the time. School broke up for lunch at 12.30; it took me seven minutes to walk home, so she was sure I'd be home by 12.37. However, one lunchtime, I wasn't home by 12.37; I wasn't even home by 1pm because this was the day they started work on converting the bomb site in Chatsworth Road to a block of flats. On my way back, I stopped to watch the lorries move onto the site, bringing in all the necessary machinery as well as the bulldozers ploughing up the rubble. It was a very exciting interruption to the normally routine day and I stood gazing in awe for ages until I suddenly remembered that I had to get home for lunch. When I eventually got back, Mum was very relieved to see me. I shudder to think what thoughts must have been going through her head about why I should be so late back, but she didn't say
anything after I explained what had happened, though it did mean I missed most of
Workers' Playtime.

By the time I was about nine years old, Mum said she wanted to get back to work. It wasn't really that we needed the money, just that she felt a bit lonely and isolated being on her own most of the day. She soon found a job near home at a toy factory in Brooksby's Walk. This meant that, for the first time, I had to have the dreaded school dinner. It was a ghastly experience. I was served up with a plate of horrible pulp, which I think was supposed to be minced meat of some description, but the ‘meat' consisted mainly of inedible fat, skin and gristle accompanied by a single hard-boiled potato and some soggy, limp, mushy green vegetable that could have been cabbage, but might have been anything. Even the semolina dished up for afters was no better.

For someone used to home cooking, the food was simply appalling but there was more to come in this completely alien experience as, when I finished my dinner, I crossed my knife and fork on the plate. Bob Marriott, who was sitting next to me and an old hand at school dinners, was aghast. He said, ‘You're not allowed to do that! You have to put them down beside each other.' This was the final straw. When my parents asked me what I thought of school dinners that night, I told them how terrible they were. So after just one day Mum gave up her job so that I wouldn't have to go through that torture any more. However, she was really feeling the strain of being at home, but she then had a brainwave when she saw that my school was advertising for dinner ladies. This was the answer, she thought: she could work and keep an eye on me at the
same time. So, although the dinners didn't improve, consisting mainly of such delicacies as a slice of beef mince pie, a dollop of cottage pie or some glutinous mass masquerading as stew with a lump of mashed potato, scooped onto the plate with an ice-cream scoop, and cabbage followed by tapioca pudding (commonly known to us as ‘frog spawn'), prunes and custard and sometimes just a plate of pink custard on its own, at least I had my mum there at dinnertimes.

Eventually, once I got used to the idea of staying at school for lunch, Mum went back to the toy factory. I have to say there was an added bonus in this for me as she used to bring home ‘samples'. The toy she brought back the most often was a little cannon that fired matchsticks. I had several of these. Occasionally she also brought back a toy car. So, in the end, it was win-win all round. Mum felt a lot better as she was able to get out and enjoy the company of the other factory workers during the day and I got lots of new toys.

In my last year at Rushmore, I was made not only a milk monitor but a stair monitor as well. In those days, all schoolchildren were provided with a free 1/3 pint bottle of milk at morning break. As milk monitor, my job was to help get the crates ready in the hall for each class to take up to their room. My fellow monitors and I had to punch a hole in the top and push a straw through every bottle. This was all right most of the year, but in the depths of winter these bottles actually froze up and it was hard to push the straw through. My function as a stair monitor was to stand on the stairs at playtime, dinnertime and going-home time to make sure that no one ran. If they did, then we had to tell them to stop and if they still carried
on running we had to report them to a teacher. It wasn't a job I enjoyed for it felt too much like being a snitch.

Towards the end of my school days at Rushmore, I had to take the dreaded 11-plus exam. If you passed then you went on to grammar school and if you failed it was the secondary modern. The 11-plus was created by the 1944 Butler Education Act and was supposed to establish a tripartite system of education, with an academic, a technical and a functional strand. Prevailing educational thinking at the time was that testing was an effective way of discovering to which strand a child was most suited. The results of the exam would be used to match a child's secondary school to their abilities and future career needs. However, when the system was implemented, hardly any technical schools actually appeared and the 11-plus came to be characterised merely as a competition for places at the prestigious grammar schools, so that, rather than allocating according to need or ability, it became seen as a question of passing or failing.

The examination itself consisted of three papers: arithmetic, writing and an IQ test. I passed the exam but that in itself led to two twists in my academic career. The first was that, in the school's own end-of-year test, I only came seventh in class. Every year the top eight in the A stream were awarded a prize, usually a book of some sort. That year Mr Moore decided that he would award prizes to the top six, plus two others whom he thought deserved a prize for their hard work even if they didn't finish high up in the exam. Dad was upset that this meant my not getting a prize. Personally, I wasn't really very bothered, but he went up to the school to see the Headmaster about this injustice.
The outcome of the meeting in some ways made the injustice seem even worse as it was a real case of ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?' The good news was that I had actually received the highest marks of anyone in the school for the 11-plus exam; the bad news was that I still wasn't getting a prize! Dad was absolutely incensed and he forbade me to go to Prize Giving Day, which was compulsory for all pupils to attend. He said it would upset me but I think it upset him more.

Although I didn't get a school prize, I was rewarded for having passed the 11-plus, firstly by my parents, who presented me with a signed Tom Graveney cricket bat (Graveney was my favourite cricketer). Secondly by Nan, Grandpa and Aunt Clara, who each bought me a Premium Bond. I still have them today, 56 years later at the time of writing, and they've never won me a sausage!

As far as upsetting news about the 11-plus and prizes went, that wasn't the end of the good news, bad news, as some time later the Headmaster asked to see Dad again and told him the good news, which was that my high 11-plus marks meant that, like John, I had been offered the chance of going to Christ's Hospital, Westminster or Bancroft's on a scholarship. The bad news was that he hadn't said anything until it was too late to apply as he felt I wasn't cut out to be away from home. Once again, Dad was furious. Although I suspect he didn't want me to go away either, he quite rightly reasoned it wasn't Mr Foreman's decision to make. There was also the point to take into consideration that, had I gone to Christ's Hospital, I wouldn't have been on my own as John would still be there in his last year and would be able to look after me.

Anyway, it never happened and I had to choose between three local grammar schools instead, Hackney Downs, Owen's and Parmiter's, all single-sex boys' schools. Hackney Downs was the nearest, and most of those who passed at Rushmore decided to go there, including my best friend, Andy. For some reason, I quite fancied Parmiter's. It had a better name locally and, although administered by the London County Council (L.C.C.) just like the other two, it had a certain degree of independence and still carried the status of ‘public school'. I think Dad quite fancied this as well for it would go some way towards spiting Mr Foreman with the idea that I was going to a public school after all. So Parmiter's it was, along with Bob Marriott and Terry Gregory.

Before I left, I had one more run-in with Mr Brown. During the last week at school, it was traditional for those leaving to go round getting the teachers' autographs. All of them, except one, signed with no difficulty. That one was, of course, Mr Brown: he said you had to give him a reason why you wanted his autograph. We had been to a carol concert for schools at the Royal Festival Hall the previous Christmas and I'd noticed that he was a member of the London School Board organising committee for the event so my reason for getting him to sign was to say he was famous as he was on this committee and had his name printed in the programme. He said he wasn't famous and I should come back with a better reason. I told Dad about this and he suggested I just say to him that I wanted something to remember him by. On my way to school the following morning, I considered this and thought to myself that actually I didn't even like Mr Brown and didn't particularly want to
remember him, so I just took the view, ‘Sod it, if you can't sign my autograph book like all the other teachers, I really don't care!' And I never went back to him, hoping in time, without his autograph to remind me, he would simply fade from memory.

I still have my autograph book with all the teachers' signatures in it, including Mr Moore, Mr Wills, Mr Evans and Mr Bristow. There are many others, most of whose names I have long since forgotten. But, annoyingly, even though he is not there, one of the teachers I still remember the most, as can be seen from this chapter, is the one I hoped to forget.

W
hen I wasn't scoring at cricket matches or attending drama classes, I used to play with my friends after school. Before we got down to this, however, there was the important matter of looking in on Reg's on the way home. Reg's was a newsagent situated at the corner of Millfields Road and Powerscroft Road and was my supplier of comics. Starting with
The Dandy,
my weekly purchases grew to include
The Beano, The Topper, The Beezer, Radio Fun
and, finally,
Junior Express.

The Dandy
was home to Korky the Cat, Keyhole Kate, Hungry Horace, Black Bob and, of course, the one and only Desperate Dan with his cow pies.
The Beano
included among its characters Biffo the Bear, the Bash Street Kids, Minnie the Minx and Dennis the Menace. Both magazines had been going since before the War but
The Topper
and
The Beezer
started
during the 1950s so I was in at the start. Each one celebrated their inaugural edition by giving away a banger. This was a popular free gift at the time, which consisted of a triangular piece of card with paper partly stuck to the inside. The card was held at one corner and then with a sharp flick of the wrist the card would open out and the paper inside would make a mini sonic boom as it flipped out. As they were made of thin card and paper, they never lasted very long, but they were fun while you had them.

The Topper
's front-page star was Mickey the Monkey, who was forever winning prizes in competitions, quite often a sandcastle competition, but not always. He would make the biggest, the brightest, the loudest and the best of whatever it was and he was always presented with his prize by the Mayor, who was naturally shown wearing his official chain. Most strips ended with the line, ‘You win, Mickey.' This was repeated so often in the comic that it became a popular saying in our house, so that, whenever anyone won at cards or a board game, we would say, ‘You win, Mickey.'

Radio Fun
was a good source of ciggies as they often gave away free sets of cards depicting wireless personalities and sports stars. The comic itself featured strips based around leading radio personalities of the day such as Arthur Askey, Cardew ‘the Cad' Robinson and Jewell and Warris.
Junior Express
's most popular character was Wulf the Briton, who started life as a gladiator in Rome but later returned to Britain to lead the heroic struggle against the Roman invaders.

If the weather was fine, we would play outside. I was very fortunate living on a big field as we were able to play football or
cricket, according to the season, very close to my home. Football meant throwing our jackets down to make the goalposts, the captains picking their teams and then play would commence. Although there were arguments, of course, about offside, the ball being too high, going for a throw-in and the rest of it, because we were all friends these never really got out of hand. If there were only three or four of us, we would play in front of the prefab and use the two trees to the side of the path as our goal and generally we played ‘Three and in'. Someone was designated the goalie and the other two or three had to put the ball past him. When one boy managed to get three in, he would then go in goal. Sometimes we played ‘tackling', other times ‘passing'. If we played ‘tackling', it was every boy for himself; if we played ‘passing', then we were supposed to co-operate, although I think this game led to more arguments than any other. ‘You should have passed, I could have scored', ‘No, you couldn't, I had the best chance' and so on. Cricket followed much the same pattern, and if there were only three or four of us we played French cricket.

We also had running races round the field. Mum once knitted me a badge to sew on my shirt, bearing the title, ‘Norman Harriers', with a picture of a Norman helmet. We could hold bicycle races too if enough boys with bikes turned up. One boy in particular earned himself one of Dad's nicknames because he always turned up on his bike. His real name was Robert Smith, but he came to be forever known in our family as ‘Bike Robert'. He actually lived quite a long way from me, but loved cycling.

Picking to see who would be team captain or who would ride in the first race was a rigmarole in itself and we had several
‘dipping games' to help us decide. The most popular was ‘Dip, dip, dip, my little ship'. Everyone lined up and someone would go along the line, pointing at every boy in turn as each syllable was said. The full rhyme was ‘Dip, dip, dip, my little ship, Sails on the water like a cup and saucer, You are not it!'. The boy who was not ‘it' therefore dropped out and the whole thing was repeated. If there were a lot of us playing, this in itself could take some time! As we grew older, this rhyme sadly got corrupted as we discovered certain words that we could daringly use among ourselves that we couldn't use with our parents and teachers and so it got shortened to ‘Dip, dip, dog shit, You are not it'.

Another dipping rhyme we had was ‘Eenie meenie macaraca, Rare raa dominaca, Knikerbocka lollypoppa, Om pom push'. For some reason this was a favourite of Bob Marriott's, but hardly anyone else ever used it – I don't think we could remember the words. And then, of course, there was the now highly politically incorrect ‘Eeny, meeny, minee, mo, Catch a nigger by the toe, If he hollers let him go, Eeny, meeny, minee, mo'. But, of course, it meant nothing to us in those days. Another variation was ‘One potato'. Everyone in the line-up had to hold out his fist, pointing downwards, and the picker went along the line, hitting each fist in turn to the words ‘One potato, two potato, three potato, four, Five potato, six potato, seven potato, more'. The fist that was hit on the word ‘more' had to be lowered and then the whole process started again. This took twice as long, but at least you got a second chance in this one. These were also used for games of ‘He' and ‘Hide and Seek', both outside and in school.

When the weather wasn't so good, we didn't play outside and
normally I would just be left with my best friend, Andy. He and I both loved sport so if we couldn't do the real thing we'd play football, cricket and athletics with our toy soldiers, of which we had many. Many of these were still the old lead variety, but new plastic ones were just starting to come through. I say soldiers, but of course, although there were soldiers, probably the majority of them were cowboys and Indians. Every one of them was given a name relating to some characteristic or other of the soldier in question. Some I can still remember are Grey Indian, Black, Lay Down, Bugle, Silver Stripe, Sheriff, Mauve Shoot-both-ways, his brother, Yellow Shoot-both-ways, and one simply called Girl.

Our preferred game was cricket and the way this was played was to put two matchboxes on top of the dining-room table to represent the wickets. The fielding team would be spread out around the table, while the batsman would be held in front of one of the matchboxes and the bowler by the side of the other. The owner of the bowler would then hurl the ball – a piece of silver paper rolled up into a small ball – at the batsman while the owner of the batsman would take a swipe at the ball with his soldier. If he missed and the ball hit the matchbox he was out; if he hit it and it went straight to one of the fielders he was out caught, but if he hit it away from one of the fielders he could run. This was done by moving the batsman as quickly as possible to the other end and even back again if there was time for two runs, while the nearest fielder had to be pushed to the ball and then the ball could be thrown at the matchbox stumps in an attempt to run out the batsman. Grey Indian was probably the best batsman I owned because he was very
big and heavy, so he covered the stumps up and could take a hefty swipe.

When we got fed up with that, we used to play board games. Monopoly, of course, but also Totopoly, Rich Uncle, Scoop, Careers and Buccaneer. My favourite of all these was Scoop, which did not involve throwing dice and moving round a board as the others did and which appealed to my love of reading. The object of the game was to fill the front page of a newspaper with stories and advertisements. Each player was given a blank newspaper front page to fill split into different size spaces. The stories and adverts were obtained by collecting cards from a central pile or by ‘stealing' an opponent's card. To acquire a story, a player had to collect three Scoop cards – a reporter, a photographer and a telephone card. Once you had these, you had to use an ingenious cardboard telephone device to ‘phone' your story through to the editor. By moving a small handle to the left and then returning it to its starting position, a message appeared randomly in the centre of the phone, saying either to print or ‘spike' the story. If you could print it, the appropriate story card was taken from a pile and placed on the player's front page. One story I can remember was headlined ‘TV Set That Will Pick Up The Past'. Players obtained advertisements by collecting a set of three Scoop cards – salesman, artist and advertiser's approval. Adverts included Lyle's Golden Syrup: ‘spread a little happiness'; BOAC: ‘fly worldwide in supreme jet comfort'; and Dinky Toys: ‘with over 160 models and new additions every month'. The first to fill the front page was declared the winner.

When I was seven, I made my first visit to the local library
in Brooksby's Walk, and this also became a regular after-school activity. I was a very keen reader and the first time I went there I found it a truly awe-inspiring sight to see so many books in one place. The first book I ever got out was Kenneth Grahame's
Wind in the Willows.
As I read it, I quickly became immersed in the life of the Riverbank with Ratty, Mole, Badger and, of course, the magnificent Toad of Toad Hall himself – ‘Poop, poop'. Just like Mole, I was ‘bewitched, entranced and fascinated'. I was right there with them as my imagination took me inside Ratty's little house and Toad's mansion. And I was with Toad in his car every inch of the way and on his side in the final battle, ‘running round and round the room, and jumping over the chairs', whacking the ferrets, weasels and stoats with a big stick. I had never read a book like it and I couldn't wait to get back to the library to find more exciting volumes to read.

After
Wind in the Willows,
I discovered the ‘Dr Dolittle' books by Hugh Lofting, Barbara Euphan Todd's
Worzel Gummidge, Biggles
by Captain W. E. Johns and, best of all, Anthony Buckeridge's ‘Jennings' books. Although I loved playing with my friends and my family, the time spent reading books and immersed in my own world and my own imagination was very special to me so I always made sure I found time to do it.

After playing with my friends or visiting the library, I came home to have tea while I watched children's television. My favourite programmes were the many cowboy series then on, such as
Kit Carson, Hopalong Cassidy, Rin Tin Tin, Fury
and, best of all,
Range Rider.
Wednesdays was always a good day as it became a tradition to have steak and chips while watching
Casey Jones,
a Western with a bit of a difference as it was about
a railroad engineer and his engine, the
Cannonball Express.
There were also some one-off Western mini-series, such as
The Cabin in the Clearing.
Other must-see television programmes were
Crackerjack, The Buccaneers,
George Cansdale's
Looking at Animals, Mr Pastry, Sooty, Twizzle, All Your Own
and my personal favourite,
Billy Bean and His Funny Machine
– ‘Billy Bean built a machine to see what it would do. He built it out of sticks and stones and nuts and bolts and glue'.

In the early 1950s, television broadcasting hours were very restricted. There was little or no daytime broadcasting to speak of, and Children's Television at 5pm was the start of the television day. There was a short break, or interlude as they were then known, at 5.45, until the news came on at 6pm. During the interlude, the BBC showed some of their famous four-minute films, such as
The Potter's Wheel, The White Kitten
and my favourite,
London to Brighton in Four Minutes.
The news was only a very short bulletin and then there was another break until the evening programmes started at 7pm. During that break, I would either go back into the field to play with my friends, or amuse myself at home by playing with my soldiers or cars, or reading a book.

Dad used to come home from work at about 6.30pm and have his dinner, which normally consisted of larger portions of whatever Mum and I had already had. I mentioned having steak and chips on Wednesdays and that was really a bit of a mid-week treat. On other days, our dinner at that time would normally be something like spam fritters, smoked haddock, saveloys or faggots and pease pudding (the pease pudding having been made by Mum by boiling up split peas in a big
linen bag placed in the copper), sausage mash and onions (always referred to in the family simply as ‘S.M.O.' except I never had the onions because I didn't like them), toad in the hole, fried mincemeat (which was mincemeat just dry-fried in the frying pan and served up with bubble and squeak) or egg and chips, the chips of course having been hand-cut and fried – no readymade frozen chips in those days. All very simple but absolutely delicious foods. Dinner was always followed by ‘afters' – jelly and custard, apple or rhubarb pie and custard, tinned fruit (normally peaches or pineapple) and condensed milk, suet pudding with golden syrup or jam (also boiled up in the copper), rice pudding with the skin on top and blancmange, a particular favourite of mine. In the autumn, we often had blackberry pie made from blackberries Mum and I had picked ourselves in Epping Forest.

Sometimes, especially in the early part of the 1950s, Dad came home very late. This was because his journey had been badly affected by a good old-fashioned London ‘pea-souper'. To many Londoners, these smogs had become something of a way of life but the worst smog struck not long after I started school in December 1952. For several days, the streets were filled with a smelly yellow fog that cut visibility down to just a few yards. The street lights were useless as all you could see was a dim glow. It was a very eerie atmosphere all round as sounds were muffled and people walked about with scarves over their mouths and noses in an attempt not to breathe in the foul air. Public transport was at a standstill as buses were unable to run. It was estimated that the effects of the smog killed upwards of 4,000 people.