´óÏó´«Ã½

Continued from…

• Oak Place

There were seasons for everything, football, cricket, tennis, rounders, sledging (not tobogganing), kite flying, marbles. Everything. And not necessarily played in the fields. We also played in the street. Just as the mood took us. On the occasions when we had decided to hold our cup final or test match on one of the two full size football pitches beyond the long grass and next to the golf course it usually involved a lot of players. The teams came from other cul-de-sacs. Rival cul-de-saccers. A world of cul-de-sacs. A world going nowhere. A problem for mothers when they required their offspring to come in for dinner or tea or bed, which was the full-time whistle. We were anything from a quarter to half a mile distant. Those of us who lived on the field side of the street were shouted. The method being the mums would stand at the bottom of the garden and shout. It was soon observed that by far the loudest voice belonged to Mrs. Horne. Aptly named. Mrs Horne could be heard for at least two miles. We thought she would be more effective than the air raid siren. She was a small angular woman with pointed features. She had a certain severity and commanded attention, but not respect. Mr. Horne was a quiet man, large but quiet. The shout was amazing; she would march to the bottom of the garden and stand by the washing line post. She would compose herself and take a deep breath. Her brassiere would creak. Neighbours would discreetly but quickly close their windows. The sound started low and like the sirens gradually rose in pitch and volume until the most piercing ferocious utterance of her sons name blasted forth.

'Roooooooooyyyy!!!!!!'

Loose window frames vibrated as my friend’s name entered all houses within a two mile radius. All the noise of sport ceased instantly, footballers froze, golfers sliced wildly into rough and bunkers and farmer Bartlam’s dog gave an apologetic brief yelp as its tail disappeared between its legs with a snap. The poor animal was, on occasions, thus stricken for days. So effective was Mrs. Hornes’s call to Roy that all mothers instructed their children to come home at the same time as Roy. It followed then that all the children who lived at the top of Oak Place ate at the same time as Roy, went to bed at the same time as Roy and probably were given their syrup of figs at the same time as Roy. There were occasions when Roy was not the most popular boy in the street.

Sport in the street was never forbidden. There was no danger from cars. There were only two car owners who lived in Oak Place, the Hornes and the Bloods and apart form rare motorised visitors the majority of transport was horse-drawn. The huge high-sided dust cart, the milk man with his churns and measures, the popular ice-cream cart, the coal man, the rag and bone man with his strange call and many more. We didn’t complain about having to stop our game. It was merely a natural break to stand and admire the Morris 8 or the Standard 10 as it smoked past or force a handful of grass into a horse’s mouth. The other end of the horse would often prove to be a point of interest. Always caused a big shout when a deposit was left in the street. It was never there for long though. As if anticipating the animals evacuation a keen gardener would instantly appear with a shovel, deftly scoop up the steaming pile and carefully arrange it round the roses or the rhubarb. That done the game continued until a disputed goal, a lost ball, darkness or worst of all a broken window drew things to a natural conclusion.

The broken window is a particular embarrassment of mine. Prior to a needle match against Laburnum Grove, another cul-de-sac, I decided to practice my dribbling and passing skills before anyone else arrived. I moved with the skill of Matthews up and down the street passing the ball to the garden fences and immediately receiving a return pass as it bounced back. Having dribbled past all the defenders I drove the ball as hard as I could towards the goal only to see it strike the kerb of the pavement, arc swiftly over the fence and disappear through the Leese’s front window. My mother was far from pleased as she had to pay for the damage. The displeasure was heightened by the fact that the window was already badly cracked and had been for about a year.

°ä´Ç²Ô³Ù¾±²Ô³Ü±ð»å…

• The community

This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Genevieve Tudor on behalf of Graham Colclough and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.