It was a year to remember. I'd just left school at fifteen without any qualifications, and had just been reminded of how lacking my education had been. My manager at the restaurant where I had started an apprenticeship had asked me how I was financially, I didn't reply because I didn't know what he meant. I had never heard the word before. Where I came from you didn't hear words like financial. My world, along with everyone else's was monosyllabic one, coloured only by profanities.
The school I attended just taught the basics, but we were encouraged to pursue our natural talents. I excelled at metalwork and woodwork and chose the former because the woodwork teacher had a cruel reputation for corporal punishment. He was fondly known as "Attila the killer".
We were poor but didn't I know it, not at least until I ventured out of the situation I'd been in for the past few years and into the real world. I realised without an education I would struggle. Being the nice boy I was brought up to be wasn't going to be enough.
Douglas road held some pleasant memories for me, we moved there when I was about three and I quickly made lots of friends. There seemed to be lots of Kids, probably brought about by the baby Boomers and the X generation. Mostly working class people, but there existed a definite hierarchy, my best friends Dad was a foreman painter and always wore his bowler hat to distinguish himself from the mere painters. Another would always wear a flat cap and have Panda like eyes, attributed to working in a coal mine. The miners were the big drinkers in our neighbourhood and had their own pub; not literally, it was just that no one else would venture into their domain. They worked hard, drank hard and wouldn't hesitate to punch anyone who looked at them, for what ever reason. They came from up north and didn't like us southern softies. Their accents were heavy and difficult to interpret, making them repeat something you didn't understand was a big mistake. I only did it once and paid for it with a bloody nose and a black eye. I got my revenge for that a few years later.
I was raised by my Mother and maternal Grandmother in the back of a convenience store, one living room, a scullery and an outside toilet; three bedrooms upstairs. I had the small bedroom, and the spare room was for guests. My Mother and Grandmother shared the same bed, and at the time I never thought of it as odd. The only odd thing looking back, was that we only ever had guests once in all the time I lived there. My Mother ran the shop from morning until 6pm, she then went off to work as a waitress in a Hotel until the early hours of the next day, seven days a week. All this just to scrape an existence to feed us.
I seemed to be very popular with the neighbourhood girls because of my apparent good looks and outgoing nature. Most of them were eager to show you their 'bits' if I would show my 'bits' and being brought up always to be polite, I agreed, but I was amazed by how many girls would seek me out. I was extremely flattered, but in reality I guess living in a sweet shop with the rationing still on may have had some bearing on it.
By the time I had reached puberty I had seen all the local girls without knickers, and some not so local.
This flush of success with the opposite sex didn't last long.
Gran was a keen bible reader and quoted from it all the time, she lived the only life she knew; Victorian austerity had moulded her life, and she had spent time in a workhouse. I was made to go to Church from the age of four, and I joined the choir at eight. Friday evening was practice, Saturdays were for weddings, Sunday morning was the mass, Sunday school was in the afternoon and Sunday evening was evensong. I hated every moment, but Sunday evenings all my choir mates came back to mine to play cards. I could never work out how my Gran ever allowed that, but she sure did, bless her.
My choir singing was a premium at Christmas. Two of us used to carol sing for pennies on people's door steps. One Christmas Eve we were just going home after a session of singing and we were passing the notorious "Dew Drop Inn" where all the miners drank. Two miners were just going in and asked us what we were doing. We were persuaded to go in and they cleared a table and stood both of us on it. We couldn't hear ourselves think but we began to sing 'Silent Night' and by the middle of the first verse the whole place fell silent and I swore I saw grown men cry. We sang a couple more Carols and someone passed a cap around, and we came out of there with more money than we'd ever dreamed of. I've always liked that time of the year and I learned a valuable lesson that night. Men of iron had soft hearts, but I still wouldn't look one directly in the eye for more than a split second. I think we were the only two southerners to enter that pub and come out in one piece.
There was one car in our street along with just the one telephone and television set, all owed by the same person; Miss Blundle, a Spinster obviously from a different social class, but living out her days in reduced circumstances. She was 'posh' to all of us simply because she spoke with diction and didn't drop her aitches. A trick I learned to mimic, sophistication was my tool and I sometimes fooled my peers into thinking I too was posh. I only had a vocabulary of a few hundred words, but at least they sounded nice. I fooled a lot of people into thinking I was what I wasn't.
The opposite applies today of course, most public school educated people try to play down their poshness and adopt a mockney ( false cockney) accents. Why? for the same reason I did; to be more socially accepted.
In the end the key to it all is, to be yourself, no matter what. Poke the Devil in the eye and tell the truth.
Life was tough and people were even tougher, everyone looked out for everyone else and if you fell foul of the law it wasn't the police you had to worry about. A visit from the local builder or scaffolder was sufficient to put the fear of God into any man, let alone a juvenile delinquent. Re offending was unheard of.
I remember a guy was caught red handed stealing knickers off the washing line of young Mum. He was stripped naked, dressed up in a ladies nightdress and tied to the lamp post in the square for several hours, the humiliation must have been enough of a punishment but apparently a few Months later the whole family moved away, under duress no doubt. Harsh? Yes they were hash times and you didn't step out of line. Everyone knew their place and respect had to be earned, there weren't any free rides.
There were some bad apples in the barrel, but you did your best to steer clear of them. I think the most serious crime I heard of, was someone stealing milk off a doorstep. Most misdemeanours were committed because of poverty.
My most enduring memory of grinding poverty was in the sixties, certainly not Victorian times. We'd heard rumours of a local seaman having had his hand crushed in a work related incident, but didn't actually know who he was. I was with my mates up on the western heights having snowball fights with what snow was left . We saw a man pushing a pram, now in those days men didn't push prams and we were about to take the micky out of this big softie. As he drew nearer it was evident he wasn't pushing a baby. He was collecting kindling for his fire. He was several days unshaven and looked cold with his ill fitting overcoat. On closer inspection his coat was just across his shoulders and his bandaged arm was in a sling, the bandage was oozing blood and he looked in pain. We offered to help with his collection but was told in no uncertain terms to bugger off. I can only guess that the man still had his pride and refused any sort of charity. I never saw the man again.
unfinished and unedited
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