father told me not to be such a sissy. (A bit late for that advice.) I kept a lock of her hair in a matchbox and carried it around in my blazer pocket until well into the sixth form.
With Hildebrand gone, I felt the need for my own pet and rather fancied a kitten this time. My parents said no to this as we had two cats already.
‘Robinson can be your cat from now on,’ my mother offered, but I wasn’t having that.
There was a pet shop next to Richmond station that I frequently popped into on my way home from school. One day I saw they had some kittens in the window. I stood there watching them for half an hour until the shop was about to close, then rushed in and bought a little black and white male I called Pao, after the main character in a book I was reading at the time about a Chinese boy. He cost 52½ pence. I tucked him inside my blazer and caught the train home, thrilled but full of trepidation as to what my parents’ reaction would be.
As I turned the corner into St Mark’s Road, I saw my father standing in the driveway waiting for me, as I was late home. He didn’t spot the kitten until I was a yard or so away.
‘You can take that straight back!’ he said, really rather cross at my defiant purchase.
‘They’re closed now,’ I said.
‘First thing tomorrow, then. We are not having another cat! You’ve been told that already.’
That night Pao slept in my bed, under the bedclothes, down by my feet, purring loudly. The next morning his return to the pet shop was deferred to Saturday, as I couldn’t possibly be late for school. Over the next few days Pao charmed everyone, as kittens do, but my father stuck to his guns.
‘He’s going back to the shop. I will not be defied.’
Saturday morning arrived. Just before I left the house my mother took me aside.
‘If for any reason they won’t take him back then I suppose you’ll just have to bring him home again,’ she said with a knowing look.
I took Pao all the way to Richmond and back to the pet shop. They would take him, they said, but there would be no refund of my 52½ pence. That was all the excuse I needed and Pao and I hopped back on the train to Teddington. My father looked secretly pleased; he’d stood his ground but the kitten could now stay.
Pao grew into a lovely cat who knew I was his master; he slept down at the bottom of my bed and would sit on the garden wall waiting for me to come home from school. In the mornings he would follow me down the road when I left, running ahead and blocking my path for a final stroke until I told him to go back home.
There was only one drawback. Being a male cat, as he grew older he took to marking his territory by spraying his pungent, acrid urine. Unfortunately one chosen spot was on the kitchen counter, up against the display of kitchen utensils. We were greeted most mornings with a soup tureen full of cat’s piss.
I HAD HAPPY times outside school. Barry Jones’s elder brother, Gary, had been a coxswain for Kingston Rowing Club but had grown too big for the job, so Barry and I went along one Saturday for a try-out.
The job of a coxswain is rather exciting and important, especially when you’re only twelve. Apart from the coach, who is cycling along the towpath shouting handy hints through a megaphone, the cox is in complete control, not only of the steering, controlling the rudder with two toggles either side of the seat, but the speed and pace. During a race you also need to bully the oarsmen into giving their all with every stroke, even when they are completely exhausted. For a prepubescent boy this is quite a power trip.
To help in these endeavours I too had a megaphone, a mini tin one, fixed to my head with plastic straps.
Most of the year was spent training. The oarsmen ran and weight-lifted three times a week, then we would go out on the river in the boat at weekends, maybe the odd evening too if there was an important race looming. The regattas happened each Saturday in the summer
With Hildebrand gone, I felt the need for my own pet and rather fancied a kitten this time. My parents said no to this as we had two cats already.
‘Robinson can be your cat from now on,’ my mother offered, but I wasn’t having that.
There was a pet shop next to Richmond station that I frequently popped into on my way home from school. One day I saw they had some kittens in the window. I stood there watching them for half an hour until the shop was about to close, then rushed in and bought a little black and white male I called Pao, after the main character in a book I was reading at the time about a Chinese boy. He cost 52½ pence. I tucked him inside my blazer and caught the train home, thrilled but full of trepidation as to what my parents’ reaction would be.
As I turned the corner into St Mark’s Road, I saw my father standing in the driveway waiting for me, as I was late home. He didn’t spot the kitten until I was a yard or so away.
‘You can take that straight back!’ he said, really rather cross at my defiant purchase.
‘They’re closed now,’ I said.
‘First thing tomorrow, then. We are not having another cat! You’ve been told that already.’
That night Pao slept in my bed, under the bedclothes, down by my feet, purring loudly. The next morning his return to the pet shop was deferred to Saturday, as I couldn’t possibly be late for school. Over the next few days Pao charmed everyone, as kittens do, but my father stuck to his guns.
‘He’s going back to the shop. I will not be defied.’
Saturday morning arrived. Just before I left the house my mother took me aside.
‘If for any reason they won’t take him back then I suppose you’ll just have to bring him home again,’ she said with a knowing look.
I took Pao all the way to Richmond and back to the pet shop. They would take him, they said, but there would be no refund of my 52½ pence. That was all the excuse I needed and Pao and I hopped back on the train to Teddington. My father looked secretly pleased; he’d stood his ground but the kitten could now stay.
Pao grew into a lovely cat who knew I was his master; he slept down at the bottom of my bed and would sit on the garden wall waiting for me to come home from school. In the mornings he would follow me down the road when I left, running ahead and blocking my path for a final stroke until I told him to go back home.
There was only one drawback. Being a male cat, as he grew older he took to marking his territory by spraying his pungent, acrid urine. Unfortunately one chosen spot was on the kitchen counter, up against the display of kitchen utensils. We were greeted most mornings with a soup tureen full of cat’s piss.
I HAD HAPPY times outside school. Barry Jones’s elder brother, Gary, had been a coxswain for Kingston Rowing Club but had grown too big for the job, so Barry and I went along one Saturday for a try-out.
The job of a coxswain is rather exciting and important, especially when you’re only twelve. Apart from the coach, who is cycling along the towpath shouting handy hints through a megaphone, the cox is in complete control, not only of the steering, controlling the rudder with two toggles either side of the seat, but the speed and pace. During a race you also need to bully the oarsmen into giving their all with every stroke, even when they are completely exhausted. For a prepubescent boy this is quite a power trip.
To help in these endeavours I too had a megaphone, a mini tin one, fixed to my head with plastic straps.
Most of the year was spent training. The oarsmen ran and weight-lifted three times a week, then we would go out on the river in the boat at weekends, maybe the odd evening too if there was an important race looming. The regattas happened each Saturday in the summer
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