I caught the double Decker bus at Pencester Gardens
As I remember, bus journeys of any length were exciting for a pubescent teenager. Long ones were particularly exciting.
In my estimation it probably took a lot less than a minute on a jostling bus to get an unwanted erection, very difficult to disguise when wearing tight jeans. There followed a sense of fear that you might be found out when you stood up, this is the reason for sitting at the rear of the upstairs. It left enough time to get up, quickly plunge your hand into a pocket to disguise the offending bulge from prying eyes and briskly walk down the stairs.
Walking down the stairs of a moving bus with a hand tucked deep into a pocket was no mean feat I can tell you. One lurching manoeuvre from the bus driver could spell disaster; if you fell, it wouldn’t be just an arm you’d break.
So if you ever see a spotty youth at the rear of an upstairs bus, or one getting off with a hand stuffed tightly down his pants, you know exactly what his plight might be.
I arrived at Nelson Park early, still a bit stiff from the journey; I ambled along to find ‘Glenfield’, and after a short knock Eric’s Mum answered the door. ‘Hello Ken, we’ve heard a lot about you!’ Oh God that sounded ominous I thought, had they heard of my escapades on the bus, I blushed at the thought……………………….. ‘ERIC!’ she shouted to some distant room in the house, I could hear the faint rumble of what sounded like a baby elephant running down the stairs.
Eric ushered me into, ‘The Front Room’ a place in working class homes reserved for high days, holidays and special guests, I felt honoured. Eric produced the thing I had come to see and listen to. Let me say at this point that my host was a little bit better off than me; he actually owned a record player and one 78 rpm record that was worth playing, Paul Anker’s Diana. We played it over and over and I’m not sure what wore down first, the needle on the gramophone or his Mum’s patience. ‘Eric, why don’t you take Ken down to the farm?’ she said diplomatically, so off we went and there was a distinct sigh of relief from her.
Eric introduced me to the local farmer’s dairy herd. Just to clarify a point, when I say introduced I mean the three cows had names and I formerly met Daisy, Bluebell and Primrose, they declined the offer to shake hands. Milking time was very new to me and I jumped at the chance to have a go. I managed to squirt milk everywhere but the pail provided, and settled for a drink of the stuff. If you have ever tasted milk straight from the cow, you will know exactly the feeling I had right then. I love milk but only from a refrigerator, this was very warm and I’m sure there were bits in it. Fifty years later I can still taste it.
When we got back to the house, tea was already on the table and Eric’s Dad was sitting at the head of it, a no nonsense sort of bloke you wouldn’t want to upset. He happened to be the local butcher and had a look in his eye that might suggest he enjoyed the slaughtering part of his job. His hands were rough and scarred with bits missing, just like you’d expect from an animal murderer.
Now I love all sorts of animals and when a Labrador walked into the room I instinctively reached out to stroke it. There was a united shout of ‘NO!’ from the other three people sitting with me and I withdrew my hand in just enough time to feel the brush of whiskers on my fingertips and the gnashing of very sharp teeth, honed by years of bone consumption. The dog was immediately marched outside and we heard muffled expletives and yelps coming from the yard. I secretly wished the yelps were from Eric’s Dad. Apparently a few weeks after this event the dog snapped and killed the cat, he was immediately dispatched into the water butt and the lid put firmly on. Sad but true.
We all retired to the front room and sat and listened to Eric playing ‘Green Door’ on the piano, I think I was more impressed with him not mentioning the fact that he could play than of him actually playing.
Eric took his bow and his parents left to do what ever parents do. We decided to play Paul Anker one more time before I left, but that’s when we discovered that his Dad had unwittingly sat on the 78 and it was no more.
It had been quite a different sort of day, I’d milked a cow, I still felt sick from the taste its warm lumpy milk, I was involved in breaking a record and I was nearly savaged by a rabid butcher’s dog. ( No, that isn't a grammatical error)
I was looking forward to the ride home on the bus, upstairs on the back seat of course.
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