´óÏó´«Ã½

Continued from…

• Sports Days

The people who lived at the top of Oak Place were a close community. The majority had children who were born within three years of each other. The Hornes had Roy, a big strong innocent boy who obeyed his mother’s instructions to the letter. Next door at number 35 lived the Mills family. They were slightly older and had two teenage sons. We were next at number 37. Over the fence lived Mr. And Mrs. Murrey, her sister Martha and their son Christopher. Mr. Murrey was one of the few fathers at home so I assumed his job exempted him from military service. Christopher was about four years younger than me and I remember him being born. Gossiping neighbours referred to him as a mistake. I could never work this out. How could a person be a mistake? Perhaps he had been delivered to the wrong address, perhaps he wasn’t the age they ordered, perhaps he should have been a girl…whatever. Christopher was a mistake and was treated as such until the day he gave Michael Degg a black eye. After that he was treated with a bit more respect. Next door and adjoining the Murreys was Mr. and Mrs. Clewes, they had no children and poured their entire energy into their garden and a small but immaculate aviary of budgerigars. They had a slightly severe air about them which caused a certain fear. If the ball was kicked over the fence and into their garden it was written off as nobody had the courage to go and ask for it back. This was totally unjustified as nobody had ever seen them get upset about anything. But nobody was prepared to risk putting it to the test. So any ball kicked into the Clewes’s roses remained in the Clewes’s roses.

Number 43… Reaneys, son Leslie was my ‘best friend’. Leslie constantly took advantage of me as my other was constantly telling me and I (constantly) refused to believe her. She was right of course. Leslie was a bully. Or at least he bullied me. Until the boxing match. We were both in the choir at Holy Trinity and when we became old enough we both joined the church youth club juniors. It was the place to be largely because it had recently been given a new lease of life by a new curate. A fresh faced young man named Edgar Blant. Edgar, or Father Blant as we were supposed to call him, introduced a number of activities to the youth club which the vicar, a very large man named Father Woodward disapproved. One of these activities was boxing. Lesley fancied himself as a boxer. He secretly thought himself to be the next Bruce Woodcock. I, on the other hand, secretly hoped Edgar wouldn’t pair him off with me. Needless to say he did. The enormous gloves were fitted and as I stood miserably in my corner, Lesley in his corner went through the boxer’s routine just prior to the total annihilation of his opponent. The whistle (Edgar didn’t have a bell) went and Leslie flew out of his corner intent on felling me with a single blow. I quickly realised that he was totally out of control and if I kept my eye on him I was able to anticipate his every move. I found it easy to dodge his lunges and punches and what’s more I found myself throwing the odd punch. In short I made him look a fool. Big mistake! Edgar blew the bell for the end of the bout, (we only boxed one round), I dropped my guard feeling pretty pleased with myself and Lesley hit me with the most horrendous right hook. For a moment the lights went out and the next thing I remember was my opponent claiming he hadn’t heard the bell. But in spite of Lesley knocking me down the humiliating damage to his ego had already been done. The rest of the club considered me the winner. He challenged me to fight afterwards but I haughtily refused maintaining the only fair way was by Queensbury Rules. The others agreed. I later found out that the others didn’t know what Queensbury Rules were but they sounded very impressive. I had started to make new friends.

The war finished. Or if did in Europe. And we celebrated something called VE Day. It was years before I knew what the letters VE stood for. But whatever I thought they meant at the time it was some celebration. The food shortage everybody had been talking and complaining about for most of my life suddenly came to an end. Rows of tables were set end to end down the street. They were covered in cloths, some white, some coloured, some union flags, some looked new and others looked not so new. But all were spotlessly clean and had obviously been kept for this day. This celebration, this enormous party where for the first time no sirens were to wail, no air-raid wardens whistles were to shrill, nobody was going to care about the blackout and for once I could my trifle before my sandwiches. After the feast there were races. A few Yanks had appeared from nowhere and presented the race winners with half-a-crown. An enormous amount of money. I was able to run fast and so was confident that I would win the race in my age group and collect the prize. Whilst waiting for my turn to run the ice-cream cart arrived. A beautifully painted two wheeled wagon drawn by a white pony whose harness and brasswork gleamed specially for the day. The Yanks decided to call an interval to the races and buy everyone an ice-cream. We all formed a queue at the cart and when we reached the front were confronted by a wagon wheel above which was a white turbaned woman with very red lips. The turban came through the serving hatch and the lips said ‘Cornet or wafer?’

I was about to say ‘cornet please’ for I was always polite, when the white pony moved forward a few inches. Presumably to transfer its weight from one foot to another. The cart also moved forward and transferred its weight onto my foot. I screamed.

The turban said ‘don’t you yell at me young man or you’ll get no ice-cream at all’.

The pain was excruciating and I continued to yell. The turban whose face was rapidly becoming the same colour as its lips ordered my removal and it was only then that they realised I was pinned to the ground by the combined weight of the cart and the turban.

Not only did I not get my ice-cream but I was unable to race and so did not collect my half-a-crown from the Yank. A sad end to an important day.

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.