boos if the baddies seemed to be getting the upper hand, the boos soon turning to cheers as the villains got their come-uppance.
When Mother learnt about our session at the bug hut (always on Saturdays), she spread a large piece of newspaper on the table, out came the fine-tooth comb, and there our scalps were searched for signs of fleas and other vermin.
Then there was the Tonbridge Club, named after the sponsor, a large public school situated in Tonbridge, Kent, which must have raised quite a large amount of money to get the project going. A completely new building on the corner of Cromer Street and Judd Street had been erected to accommodate this philanthropic venture. The senior boys at the school had a roster in which they took it in turns to come up to London to supervise the activities: classes in dancing for the girls, cricket, football and boxing for the boys.
In vain they tried to teach us the rules of cricket and football. Their failure was complete when it came to what they termed ‘fair play’. The local youth had their own ideas as to what was fair and what wasn’t. Their sports master sometimes put in an appearance. Boxing was his speciality, and we had a proper ring, complete with proper boxing gloves. This well-meaning individual attempted to teach us the rudiments of the Queensberry rules, but unfortunately for him the contestants came from streets where there was only one rule – give no quarter.
In the summer we went as far as the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens to watch the posh people sailing their model boats. What a sight my brother and I must have presented, a couple of scruffy kids in our short trousers (well patched) with our socks hanging round our ankles. If Mother had earned a good bonus she sometimes gave us sixpence each, enough to get a return ticket to Edgware on the Northern Line of the underground from King’s Cross. The ticket cost us fourpence each return. If by chance we lost our return tickets, which we often did, a pair of doleful eyes would get us past the ticket inspectors.
The most exciting part of the journey was when the train emerged from the tunnel and burst into open countryside. Once out of the station it was a short walk to a land of country lanes and open fields filled with sheep and cows.
On one trip we were approached by a man who asked us if we were lost and where we came from. ‘We come up on the train from King’s Cross.’ ‘Where’s that then?’ said the man. I didn’t know where King’s Cross was except that the train went there and that’s where we lived with our mum. John moved behind me, making sure that I was between him and the man who, dressed in his farmyard clothes, looked a fearsome character. It ended up with the man showing us all over his sheds where he kept his hens and pigs. The pigs really frightened brother John: ‘I don’t like the smell, let’s go home.’ For me things were just getting interesting, especially when the woman of the house appeared with a jug of lemonade and some slices of bread and jam and a couple of bits of fruit cake. It was the first time I had ever seen cake that appeared to have more fruit in it than cake. On the way back to the station John slipped into a muddy pond we had discovered in a field that we thought might be a shortcut. He was soaking wet all the way home. I think he got a whack from our gran. I made myself scarce.
Everything was an adventure; even looking into the shop windows of the West End transported us into another world, a world, funnily enough, against which we held no grudge. We were poor, they were rich, that was the way it was. Looking back I suppose that if I was asked ‘What’s being rich?’ my answer would have been: ‘Don’t know, mister.’
12
Picking Up Tips
Four o’clock and the bell has clanged its message that the day’s schooling has finished. As one, the entire class surges towards the door and freedom. Mr Jones, our arithmetic teacher, picks up his cane as if
When Mother learnt about our session at the bug hut (always on Saturdays), she spread a large piece of newspaper on the table, out came the fine-tooth comb, and there our scalps were searched for signs of fleas and other vermin.
Then there was the Tonbridge Club, named after the sponsor, a large public school situated in Tonbridge, Kent, which must have raised quite a large amount of money to get the project going. A completely new building on the corner of Cromer Street and Judd Street had been erected to accommodate this philanthropic venture. The senior boys at the school had a roster in which they took it in turns to come up to London to supervise the activities: classes in dancing for the girls, cricket, football and boxing for the boys.
In vain they tried to teach us the rules of cricket and football. Their failure was complete when it came to what they termed ‘fair play’. The local youth had their own ideas as to what was fair and what wasn’t. Their sports master sometimes put in an appearance. Boxing was his speciality, and we had a proper ring, complete with proper boxing gloves. This well-meaning individual attempted to teach us the rudiments of the Queensberry rules, but unfortunately for him the contestants came from streets where there was only one rule – give no quarter.
In the summer we went as far as the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens to watch the posh people sailing their model boats. What a sight my brother and I must have presented, a couple of scruffy kids in our short trousers (well patched) with our socks hanging round our ankles. If Mother had earned a good bonus she sometimes gave us sixpence each, enough to get a return ticket to Edgware on the Northern Line of the underground from King’s Cross. The ticket cost us fourpence each return. If by chance we lost our return tickets, which we often did, a pair of doleful eyes would get us past the ticket inspectors.
The most exciting part of the journey was when the train emerged from the tunnel and burst into open countryside. Once out of the station it was a short walk to a land of country lanes and open fields filled with sheep and cows.
On one trip we were approached by a man who asked us if we were lost and where we came from. ‘We come up on the train from King’s Cross.’ ‘Where’s that then?’ said the man. I didn’t know where King’s Cross was except that the train went there and that’s where we lived with our mum. John moved behind me, making sure that I was between him and the man who, dressed in his farmyard clothes, looked a fearsome character. It ended up with the man showing us all over his sheds where he kept his hens and pigs. The pigs really frightened brother John: ‘I don’t like the smell, let’s go home.’ For me things were just getting interesting, especially when the woman of the house appeared with a jug of lemonade and some slices of bread and jam and a couple of bits of fruit cake. It was the first time I had ever seen cake that appeared to have more fruit in it than cake. On the way back to the station John slipped into a muddy pond we had discovered in a field that we thought might be a shortcut. He was soaking wet all the way home. I think he got a whack from our gran. I made myself scarce.
Everything was an adventure; even looking into the shop windows of the West End transported us into another world, a world, funnily enough, against which we held no grudge. We were poor, they were rich, that was the way it was. Looking back I suppose that if I was asked ‘What’s being rich?’ my answer would have been: ‘Don’t know, mister.’
12
Picking Up Tips
Four o’clock and the bell has clanged its message that the day’s schooling has finished. As one, the entire class surges towards the door and freedom. Mr Jones, our arithmetic teacher, picks up his cane as if
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