have been the ocean view Jean may have once dreamed of looking at from her honeymoon suite window, but it was certainly a view she was unlikely to forget.
The following morning a milk cart rattling past awoke us. I started the engine and resumed my search for somewhere to stay. Jean sat next to me in silence; her first night as Mrs Martindale had hardly been magical. The tin cans, which were still attached to the bumper, rattled along the street disturbing the early morning silence and destroying my concentration. After what I had endured, fortune just had to smile on me. The first guest house I found had a vacant double room, which we booked for a week. I was overjoyed. We had a roof over our heads, and a bed, but the icing on the cake was the fact the landlord was an ex-fighter who had adorned the walls of every room with photographs of boxing legends. Happy? I was in heaven.
When we returned from Blackpool, Jean’s mum greeted us with good news. A lady she knew had advertised a flat to rent in Thatto Heath, St Helens. Jean’s mother had been to see her, explained we were looking for our first home and she had agreed to rent it to us. Jean cried, she was so happy. I too was happy, mainly because I hated being under the same roof as her father. Over the next few weeks our mothers helped us to furnish and decorate the flat, which was above a chip shop in Grange Park Road. Shortly after moving in, Jean went into labour and was rushed to hospital. When I heard the news, I drove to the nearest public telephone box. ‘It’s a boy, Mr Martindale,’ the nurse said. ‘You have a son.’ I went home, got changed and rushed to the hospital. It’s hard to explain how I felt when I first set eyes on my son. It’s a unique experience that only people with children can appreciate. We named him Glynn, in recognition of my mother’s Welsh heritage. My future appeared to be mapped out. I had my menial steady job, a wife (who didn’t yet look tired), one snotty kid and a second-hand car. Jesus Christ, I thought, I’m turning into my old school headmaster.
I don’t know what possessed me to do it – visions of leapfrogging my headmaster’s success, perhaps – but I exchanged my reliable Ford Anglia for a Ford Zodiac Executive with a Scouser who had ‘don’t trust me’ written all over him. The vehicle looked the part, but halfway home the oil light came on. I pulled into a garage and topped the engine up, but a few miles further down the road the light came on again. After topping the engine up a second time, I managed to get the vehicle home despite a glowing engine that threatened to melt the bonnet. Parked outside the chip shop, the car looked the business. Mr and Mrs Martindale, the neighbours must have thought, were doing very well for themselves. We were in fact doing far from well. The truth was the car was a heap of scrap and the wedding, honeymoon, flat and birth of our son had left us in debt – so much so that I couldn’t afford to tax the car, so I ‘acquired’ somebody else’s tax disc and altered the details on it. A few days later a policeman pulled me over for a routine check and spotted the tax disc had been tampered with. I was arrested, taken to the local police station and interviewed. I told the police that I had no idea who had stolen the tax disc and altered it. ‘I only purchased the vehicle three days ago, and the tax disc was on it,’ I lied. I was released on bail, while the police made further enquiries. When I returned to the station a week later, I was told that there would be no further action against me.
‘That Scouser had plenty of previous convictions for this,’ the policeman told me. ‘We searched his garage and found lots of false paperwork. I’m sorry for troubling you.’ I had to laugh to myself. I had taken the tax disc from a car in a scrapyard, but I didn’t feel guilty about the Scouser getting nicked for it because he had told me the Zodiac was in good condition when
The following morning a milk cart rattling past awoke us. I started the engine and resumed my search for somewhere to stay. Jean sat next to me in silence; her first night as Mrs Martindale had hardly been magical. The tin cans, which were still attached to the bumper, rattled along the street disturbing the early morning silence and destroying my concentration. After what I had endured, fortune just had to smile on me. The first guest house I found had a vacant double room, which we booked for a week. I was overjoyed. We had a roof over our heads, and a bed, but the icing on the cake was the fact the landlord was an ex-fighter who had adorned the walls of every room with photographs of boxing legends. Happy? I was in heaven.
When we returned from Blackpool, Jean’s mum greeted us with good news. A lady she knew had advertised a flat to rent in Thatto Heath, St Helens. Jean’s mother had been to see her, explained we were looking for our first home and she had agreed to rent it to us. Jean cried, she was so happy. I too was happy, mainly because I hated being under the same roof as her father. Over the next few weeks our mothers helped us to furnish and decorate the flat, which was above a chip shop in Grange Park Road. Shortly after moving in, Jean went into labour and was rushed to hospital. When I heard the news, I drove to the nearest public telephone box. ‘It’s a boy, Mr Martindale,’ the nurse said. ‘You have a son.’ I went home, got changed and rushed to the hospital. It’s hard to explain how I felt when I first set eyes on my son. It’s a unique experience that only people with children can appreciate. We named him Glynn, in recognition of my mother’s Welsh heritage. My future appeared to be mapped out. I had my menial steady job, a wife (who didn’t yet look tired), one snotty kid and a second-hand car. Jesus Christ, I thought, I’m turning into my old school headmaster.
I don’t know what possessed me to do it – visions of leapfrogging my headmaster’s success, perhaps – but I exchanged my reliable Ford Anglia for a Ford Zodiac Executive with a Scouser who had ‘don’t trust me’ written all over him. The vehicle looked the part, but halfway home the oil light came on. I pulled into a garage and topped the engine up, but a few miles further down the road the light came on again. After topping the engine up a second time, I managed to get the vehicle home despite a glowing engine that threatened to melt the bonnet. Parked outside the chip shop, the car looked the business. Mr and Mrs Martindale, the neighbours must have thought, were doing very well for themselves. We were in fact doing far from well. The truth was the car was a heap of scrap and the wedding, honeymoon, flat and birth of our son had left us in debt – so much so that I couldn’t afford to tax the car, so I ‘acquired’ somebody else’s tax disc and altered the details on it. A few days later a policeman pulled me over for a routine check and spotted the tax disc had been tampered with. I was arrested, taken to the local police station and interviewed. I told the police that I had no idea who had stolen the tax disc and altered it. ‘I only purchased the vehicle three days ago, and the tax disc was on it,’ I lied. I was released on bail, while the police made further enquiries. When I returned to the station a week later, I was told that there would be no further action against me.
‘That Scouser had plenty of previous convictions for this,’ the policeman told me. ‘We searched his garage and found lots of false paperwork. I’m sorry for troubling you.’ I had to laugh to myself. I had taken the tax disc from a car in a scrapyard, but I didn’t feel guilty about the Scouser getting nicked for it because he had told me the Zodiac was in good condition when
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