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Wardy The Kid From The Rough End Of The Street

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If anyone is interested, from 3pm today and thereafter every Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Sunday, I will be telling my story of growing up In Rodwell Road East Dulwich in the 1950. "Wardy The Kid From The Rough End Of The Street" Is a book I published last year. If like me you are tired of this lockdown and are looking for something to do, then this may interest you and brighten up your day a little. So, at 3pm sit down with a nice cup of tea/coffee and enjoy the journey. Stay safe Wardy
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Wardy The Kid From The Rough End Of The Street


CHAPTER 1


Mum and Dad


Before I start to write about my life, I think it?s important to give you some background into my mum and dad?s life.


Over the years we will take on some of our parents? values and ways, we may try to discard them, dislike them or even love them, but subconsciously we learn from them. This learning might be for our good or to our detriment; it depends on the characteristics of our parents and the natural characteristics within us. Some of us may grow up admiring our parents, and others hating them, but like it or not they are probably the biggest contributors to what we are and to what we become. Whether they be dead or alive they will always be there; you can?t escape them.

Believe me when I tell you that one day, probably when your parents are long gone, you will look into the mirror and see your parents looking back. You will see some part of your features turning into your parents? features. You will sit somewhere and make a remark, probably quite an innocent remark, but you will know it is one of your parents speaking. You will make a move or place you hand in a certain position and you will know that you have momentarily taken on the position or move of one of your parents.

I first experienced my parents? momentary possession of my body following a bath. I had my foot placed on a bath stool, drying my feet with a towel. As I dried my feet a sudden shock came over me, I was drying my dad?s feet. Yes, my toes had turned into my dad?s toes. For some unknown reason I could remember what my dad?s toes looked like and those toes where now my toes. Over the years slowly but surely parts of my body, movement, speech and mind have become what were my dad?s. So let?s start with him.


My dad was born in London in 1910; he was christened Cecil Fredrick Lees Ward. In his family there were his dad, his mum, three brothers and a sister. Dad was the middle child. Both my dad?s parents were said to be decedents of Irish gypsies, the Wards on his father?s side and the Lees on his mother?s side. Now the story is, these two gypsy families were not good friends and for them to marry into each other?s family was a terrible thing to do.


My great grandfather Lees, my grandmother?s father, was a very wealthy man and proud of his background. He owned numerous houses and business premises in Brixton, London; he was the owner of several trotting horses, trustee of the then large company ?Mac Fisheries? and, together with the famous ?Tubby Isaac?, the first man to bring prawns into this country and onto the dinner table. He was also a very influential member of the Masonic Lodge. He married three times. His first two wives committed suicide and the third, very much his junior, outlived him and eventually attended my grandmother?s, her stepdaughter?s, funeral. When he found out that my grandmother was to marry a Ward he disowned her completely.


The Wards on the other hand, although not wealthy, were respectable and proud; that?s about all I know of them.

The wedding took place and my grandparents settled down to a moderate lifestyle. I say moderate; they didn?t have money, my great grandfather saw to that, but they did have pride and they knew how to act like middle-class people.

Life must have been pretty tough for my grandmother. She was the daughter of a wealthy man and prior to her marriage had all that comes with wealth: a big house, nice clothes and money in her pocket. Because of love, she married a poor man and because of her father?s rejection she now had all that came with poverty, a couple of rooms, no money and few clothes.


My grandparents brought their children up to have respect and were conscious that education was important if their children were to climb out of the pit of hopelessness and back to the level where, they thought, they rightly belonged.

On leaving school the first of the children went to good firms, training in professions. Whilst training

the pay was very poor; the benefits hopefully coming in later years.

My dad?s eldest brother found a place with a national newspaper and went on to become a very senior person in the printing industry. His eldest sister found a place with a London City firm and finished up as the personal assistant to the chairman of the board; this was in a time when very few women, if any, had senior positions in business. She never married.

When it came to dad?s turn to leave school, his parents were in a predicament. They had two children at work, training in their chosen professions, neither bringing home a wage, two more attending school and with dad about to leave school. Being in this somewhat difficult financial dilemma, dad?s parents decided they couldn?t afford for him to go into a profession; instead, he was to find a manual job. He would have been about thirteen years old at the time. By doing this he could earn decent money for the family pot and help support his brothers and sisters.

It?s difficult to imagine how dad must have been feeling at this time, I?m sure if it was me I would have been pretty pissed off with the situation. But in those days you didn?t argue with your parents; you just put up with it and knuckled down.

I think the decision by his parents to send him out to work probably shaped his life for evermore and in a peculiar way shaped mine to.


Dad got a job labouring on a building site and the money came home. The proceeding years saw his brothers and sisters, older and younger; get their education and their first steps onto the professional ladder. During this period dad become a hardened manual worker, labouring for bricklayers, carrying a laden brick hod up and down ladders all day long. If you don?t know, a brick hod is a three-sided box for carrying bricks. It has a long handle and is carried over the shoulder. I was told that one particular year, dad won the South London championship for carrying the heaviest hod up a ladder; you needed to be bloody strong to do that.


It wasn?t until my dad was very old that I met one of his brothers, Albert, for the first time. He told me, that when dad was a teenager, and without his parent?s knowledge, dad would enter bare-knuckle fights to earn extra money. Apparently, he would wait outside a factory, any factory, on a pay day; people got paid weekly in cash in those days, and as the workers came out from the factory at finish time, he would challenge any man to a bare knuckle fight. All the workers from the factory would put a penny into a hat and the winner took the proceeds.

I can?t imagine what guts it must have taken to stand in the street and challenge anyone to a fight. There must have been times when he was beaten to a pulp, lost the fight and got #### all for his efforts. What a hard way to make extra money. However, it was honest money, he didn?t pick on just anyone; all of his fights were with volunteers and the crowd loved it. Hats off to my old dad! I don?t condone what he did, but he must have had some bollocks to do it.


Dad sort of drifted from job to job and spent a lot of his time in the pub and betting on horses and dogs. I

don?t know exactly when, but at about the age of twenty he met my mum. They married in about 1931 and lived in Peckham, London. They moved several times over the years but eventually settled down at 25 Rodwell Road East Dulwich, London SE22.


I can remember my mum telling me a couple of strange things. Before she married, my grandfather Lees, the man who cut off my grandmother, summoned my mum to his house. Now if that was today and someone summoned me, regardless of their wealth; I would tell them where to go, but not my mum, not in those days.

She arrived at my grandfather?s large house, somewhere in the city of London, and knocked on the door. The door was opened by a servant who told her to wait on the doorstep. Shortly after, my great grandfather Lees came to the door. He looked mum up and down and told her he had heard she was going to marry his grandson. Remember this was a grandson he had never seen. He said he wanted to see what she looked like. He wished her well, shut the door and left her standing there. My old mum had got up that morning, washed, put on her best dress and coat, travelled across London on numerous buses, or trams as they probably were in those days, just to have some old fart look her up and down and wish her well. She wasn?t asked into the house or even offered a cup of tea after her long journey. Now I know he disapproved of his daughter?s marriage to a Ward, I know he was a wealthy and an important man, but in my mind he was a complete prick. No money in the world gives someone the right to treat another person like shit, particularly a young girl on the eve of her wedding.


The other strange thing my mum told me was that just before she and dad got married my dad?s mum told her to walk away. She said that my dad wouldn?t be good for her and she would never have anything. Now she probably thought that she was doing the right thing, but, if you look at it from my mum?s point of view, she must have been devastated. She travels across London just to be looked up and down by some old bloke with money living in a big house and now her future mother-in-law was basically telling her to ?#### off.? What a wonderful start to a marriage that must have been!


After their marriage, dad?s family, his brothers and sisters, bought him a market vegetable stall in Peckham, London. I suppose it was their way of Saying - ?Thank you for leaving school at thirteen years old and helping us to get educated and into well-paid professions.?

From my dad?s point of view he may have thought it was their way of saying - ?There you go, there?s a little market stall,now #### off, leave us well alone and let us be successful and make some real money.? I say this because in all my childhood I can?t remember more than two occasions when I saw a member of his family or knew of my dad being in their company. As for my grandmother, I only saw her on one occasion, when she was ill. I was allowed to wave to her through the hospital window a couple of days before she died, in about 1957.


Dad didn?t make any effort to make a success of the stall. He employed a young lad to run it for him while he spent most of his time and profits in the pub. Needless to say he went broke and was back to square one, potless.


I will say one thing about dad: despite all of his faults, he had charm, charisma, was always smart and tidy, when not at work, and no one could help but like him, particularly if he had a pint in his hand. My mum on the other hand was a completely different kettle of fish.


My mum was born Mabel Florence Quaife in Peckham, London in 1911. She was born into a very poor family all living in a single room. My mum?s mum, my grandmother, had been married before and had two children by this marriage, both boys. Her married name then was Conlon, her maiden name was Benstead. Her first husband was killed in a mining accident, I believe somewhere in Kent. Apparently, the lift shaft, bringing him up from a mine, broke and he fell to his death. She married my grandfather some time afterwards, taking on the name of Quaife. She had two further children in this second marriage, my mum and mums younger sister Nell.

Compared to today?s world, life as a child must have been pretty dismal for mum. Her dad was a labourer and her mum a cleaner, little money coming in. Materialistic things consisted of a bed to sleep in and a chair to sit on, no more, but probably very often a lot less.

To add insult to injury life dealt another blow to my old mum when her dad was killed on 21st June 1916 fighting in the First World War; mum was just five years old at the time and life was already dealing her some pretty shitty cards.

As a token of their gratitude for what her dad had done, the British Government gave my grandmother three medals and a large round bronze coin on which was inscribed- ?He died for freedom and honour? Seven months, after his death, in January 1917, she was awarded a weekly pension of twenty-two shillings and sixpence, just over a pound. Crazy isn?t it? Three medals a coin and a ####ing pittance of a pension for being blown to pieces. Saying that, I have treasured those medals all of my life.


How my grandmother survived with four young children and managed to bring them up with very little financial help I will never know; she must have had the strength of a lion and the determination of, I don?t know what, but she done it, and to me, although I never knew her, she was a bloody hero.


As far as I know my mum didn?t have a particularly interesting upbringing, no rich relatives, no dad and no fine clothes. She left school at thirteen years old and went to work in a factory ?Can you imagine that?? Going out to work in a factory for 10 hours a day at just 13years old. Eventually she met my dad and they married.


I will say one thing about my mum: unlike my dad, she had no friends to speak of. She was always somewhat cold towards strangers and she rarely let anyone into her heart or mind; but when she did you found a loving, kind person, full of humour, a person who would never let you down and who would give you her last penny. I know ? she let me in.


Well that?s the background of my mum and dad?s humble beginnings. Now, sit back and let me take you into my childhood world, the world of the 1950s in Dulwich. Next chapter - Chapter 2 Tomorrow (Monday 01/02/21) at 3pm

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CHAPTER 2 Life at Home


Having told you about my mum and dad, it?s time now for you to step into my childhood. This isn?t something I decided to do lightly; my childhood has always been reasonably private. I have occasionally discussed bits and pieces, but I have never attempted to describe the reality. It was a time when I learned a lot about myself and my family, a time that was second to none, but it was also a time that I would never want to return to or wish on anyone.

From the age of about five through to my teens I probably spent more time frightened and alone then most people spend in a lifetime. As such, I know before I start that it?s going to be difficult for me to describe my childhood; there are parts that I don?t want to remember or, should I say, that I have put to the back of my mind.

I have never had any hang-ups about my childhood and I have never resented not having a more advantageous upbringing; things were what they were and that?s that.

Thinking along these lines, I decided not to write about my childhood like a story book, but instead like a memory book, talking about things I remember as I remember them. The dates may not be exact and some of the names have been changed or forgotten. Some memories are pretty sad, others are funny and some are enjoyable; but they are all as it was - no exaggeration, nothing added, just the truth as I remember it growing up in the fifties.


I was born on 17 July 1950 in the back room of 25 Rodwell Road ?The rough end of the street? in East Dulwich, London SE 22. In that house lived me, my brother Fred, my sister Margaret, and my mum and dad. I had another sister, June, but she married when I was just nine months old and moved to Peckham, London with her husband John. The house where we lived had no bathroom, an outside toilet, and a very small garden, more like a yard. The house was very poorly decorated, very cold and had lino in most rooms. I say most rooms because the front room, lounge as it would be known today,

had a carpet. However, the front room was only used at Christmas or on very special occasions, such as a long-lost relative visiting. At all other times the front room was out of bounds and you would need to be very brave to disobey that rule.


The street where I lived was typical of South London streets. The houses were Victorian terraces with bay windows and very small front gardens. These gardens were mainly planted-out with privet hedging along the front boundary. The houses opposite from where I lived had basements; which we called the airy. Why? I don?t know.


I shared a bedroom in the house with my brother Fred. Fred was nine years older than me and he was my hero. My brother could fight the biggest bullies, would always protect me and knew more about everything then anybody. Fred would never let me down I was his little brother and we would always be together.

I can remember on miserable dark nights when Fred and me would go to bed. Our room was at the back of the house on the first floor; it was cold and always felt damp. There was no central heating in the house, just one coal fire which was downstairs in the kitchen. We would go to bed dressed in jumpers, a pair of old trousers and socks to keep us warm. There were no duvets or crisp cotton sheets in those days, at least not for us. We had a couple of old Second World War army blankets. These blankets were heavy, hard and itchy; it felt like they were made of thousands of small needles. Going to bed was a very horrible experience. At bedtime we knew what was waiting; cold, shivers and complete discomfort but, besides all that bedtime could sometimes be fun.

I remember one night Fred pulling my arm around his body and wiggling his bum up against my knee. I thought he was snuggling up to get warm but, no, I was wrong; he was putting himself in position to fart on my leg. Silly, I know, but it was times like this that we would laugh so much that we forgot the cold and the itchy blankets and would fall asleep, cuddled up together as only two young brothers could.


One of the great things about sleeping in the back bedroom of the house was the exit door leading from the bedroom to a set of outside wooden steps which led down to the back garden. You may say, ?What?s great about that?? Well let me tell you: we had a neighbour, Jim, he lived in Heber Road and his garden backed onto ours. Jim grew prize winning apple trees. I know I said the gardens were very small and they were, but Jim managed, through pure determination, to grow these apple trees in the smallest of spaces, I think there were about 3 in total. He would spend hours pruning, spraying and generally looking after these trees. With the exception of Christmas, apples and fruit were rare things in my house and fruit at the bottom of the garden was just too tempting to resist. You?ve probably guessed by now why those steps leading to the garden were so important.

Every autumn, when the apples were ripe, Fred and me would get up in the middle of the night go down the steps and rob the trees, rob Jim too in a roundabout way, of half of those apples. We would climb the trees and fill our shirts up so much we looked ten months pregnant. It was so exciting being out there in the silence of the night with just the moon and stars for company. When we returned to our bedroom we would eat and eat until we couldn?t eat any more. To make sure our mum didn?t find out we would hide the apple cores behind a great big iron fireplace that was in our bedroom; those cores are probably still there to this day.

Every year after pinching the apples the procedure would be the same. The following day Jim would come out into his garden to view his apples only to find many of them gone. He would call out over the fence and ask us if we had taken them. Every year we would say - ?No Jim, we wouldn?t do that Jim.?

We would then suggest that it was the girl next door, Linda. Linda lived with her mum, Violet at number 27, and both were never known to work for a living. Jim would always swallow our story and set about having an argument with Linda and her mum. It?s ####ing terrible when you think about it, poor old Linda never tasted one of those apples, but she got the blame for pinching them year after year. Wouldn?t it be a coincidence if she was writing a similar book to this one; she would probably say, when writing about the apple trees - ?Every year that old bastard Jim blamed me for taking his ####ing apples. Why?? Well Linda, wherever you are now, read this book and you will find out why.


Not having an inside toilet could sometimes be a big problem. I say no inside toilet, there was one upstairs but unfortunately it never ever worked, dad was a builder but repairing his own house was never a priority. I can remember on many occasions during the night lifting the sash window in the bedroom and pissing down into the garden. How crude you may say but, imagine it?s February, its 1am in the morning, there?s snow on the ground outside and the temperature is way below zero. You?re tucked up in your army blanket and wearing all the clothes possible to keep yourself warm. Suddenly you wake up from a deep sleep, dying for a wee. What do you do? Well I suppose the proper thing to do is to get up, wrap yourself up warm, toddle off down the stairs, go out into the dark, cold and windy night, trample through the thick snow with your feet freezing, find the outside toilet in the pitch dark, drop your bottoms, exposing your bits to the elements and pee. On the other hand, if you were like me and Fred, not too fussy, survivors of life and not particularly wanting to freeze any more th an necessary, you would get up, look out the window, see the snow and say, ?#### that,?

open the window and go, quick, simple and a lot more comfortable. Yes, I?m afraid to say that happened on many occasions during the winter months when I was a child.


I didn?t start writing this book with any particular type of plan in mind, probably because that?s how my life has always been, no particular plane. However, it appears to me that when remembering my childhood at home I seem to remember different events by the room I was in at the time. So, having reminisced about my first bedroom, I now find myself in the kitchen. This was a place of action where most events happened or were talked about.


First let me describe the kitchen; it wasn?t like you know kitchens today with work tops, self-closing cupboard doors and high-level ovens. Our kitchen didn?t have these things or fancy equipment, but it did have a dilapidated pine table, an old black gas cooker that had seen better days, a couple of rickety chairs, a coal fire and a wireless. Yes, you heard me correctly: a wireless. Let me try to explain what I mean by ?wireless?.

Wireless in today?s terms means communicating without wires, the creation of words and pictures which can be sent to anyone, anywhere in the world in seconds. The wireless I refer to was a large polished wooden cabinet full of valves and lights, knobs on the front and an electric cable running to a fifteen-amp socket. It was one of the first types of mass-produced radios ordinary people had in their homes. These were installed by a company, I think they were called Radio Rentals, who would come to where you lived, fit the wireless, normally on top of a cupboard, and fit the control box, which was separate to the wireless, to the wall. The control box had three settings. Each setting was a radio station, yes, just three radio stations. Each month a representative from Radio Rentals would call at the house and collect the rental money. If you didn?t have the money the wireless was taken away.

In the early fifties we didn?t have a TV. Not many people did, we just had the wireless. To me it was like the internet is to today. I would sit on the cold kitchen floor, there weren?t enough seats for everyone, and listen to the wireless hour after hour: Mrs Dale?s Diary, the Archers and endless songs such as ?There was an old women who swallowed a fly? I can remember the words to this day. But the wireless wasn?t always the best entertainment in the kitchen.


The kitchen was the most used and most important room in the house. It was here that we ate, talked, cooked, argued and ironed our clothes, and what a performance ironing was.

When I was very young, like many, we weren?t wealthy enough to have an electric iron. Instead, we had an iron that was heated up by placing it on the coal fire, or one of the rings of the gas cooker. The shape and the look of these irons were very much like irons today, except they had no electric cable or plug. When you wanted to iron some clothing, you simply put the iron face-down on the fire or gas ring to heat it up. Whilst waiting for this to happen you laid a towel or blanket on the table, yes, you guessed it; we didn?t have an ironing board. When the iron was hot you picked it up and started to iron in the usual way. However, the big difference was, when the iron got cold, which didn?t take too long, you had to put it back on the fire and wait for it to get hot all over again. This was done time after time until all the ironing was complete.

A clear memory involving ironing in the kitchen was one Sunday morning when mum was ironing a shirt for dad to wear to the pub. It was traditional in those days for most working-class men to go for a pint on a Sunday morning, while the ?little woman? I say that with tongue in cheek, cooked the Sunday roast. On this particular day she finished his shirt and placed it on the back of a chair ready for him to put on. Dad came into the kitchen wearing his smart trousers and highly polished shoes, picked up his shirt and noticed a crease in the collar. All hell let loose; dad shouted at mum in a raging temper, and then ripped the shirt to pieces. I remember this so well probably because it was my first experience of violence in the house, but it wasn?t going to be my last.


The only heat in the house was a coal fire in the kitchen. It was by the fire that we got warm before going to bed, dried our wet clothes, and warmed our bums when coming in from the cold, but most importantly it was the fire that toasted our bread before dad bought the toaster.


My dad wasn?t by any means the perfect father or husband; he went to work, but made sure he had the lion?s share of his wage. Part of his share was spent on going dog racing at Catford Stadium, ?The dogs? as it was known, nearly every Thursday night and the procedure would always be the same.

Dad would return home from work on the Thursday evening, send me or Fred up to the shop on the corner of Rodwell and Cyrena Road, it was run by Hilda and Dolly Wheeler; there weren?t any supermarkets, just corner shops in those days. Our task would be to purchase a Seven O?clock razor blade, just one blade, not a packet, you didn?t buy packets of anything in those days, and a single sachet of Vosene shampoo; I don?t suppose you can buy sachets today. The razor blade would last dad all week. The shampoo was used first by dad;

he would have about half on the Thursday night before going out, then my mum followed by my sister Margaret, then Fred, and finally me, usually on the Sunday night. I suppose my share of the shampoo was about 1%, which I?d top up with cold tap water. Anyway, the point being, this was dad?s dog night; on this night he shaved, shampooed and put on his best suit, and went to the dogs ready to have that big win. Unfortunately the big win never came about, but there were little wins and sometimes we all shared in those.


One Thursday night, probably about 11pm, I was sitting listening to the wireless with my mum, Fred and Margaret. Suddenly the front door opened

abruptly with a loud crash. We all looked up knowing it was dad back from the dogs, and drunk. We were right, but on this occasion it was different, dad had had a win and we were about to share in the proceeds of that win.

Dad stumbled down the passageway to the kitchen, almost falling through the door. In his hand he was clutching a large box. He put the box on the table, sat on a chair and gave one of his unmistakable smiles while lighting up a Woodbine, that?s a brand of cigarette. Someone said- ?What?s in the box, Dad?? ?It?s a bread toaster.?He replied

Well, you had never seen such excited faces. We had never seen a toaster before. We had heard of people who had toasters and we had seen them in posh shops, but to have one in our house in those days was like winning the lottery today, okay, probably not quite like winning the lottery, but close. Dad, who at this moment was our hero, pulled a ten-shilling note from his pocket, that?s about fifty pence and was commonly called ?ten-bob?, and told Fred to run up to the corner shop and get a couple of loaves of bread and some butter.

If you think twenty-four-hour shopping at Tesco is a modern phenomenon, think again, we had twenty-four-hour shopping decades ago. When closed we just knocked on the side door of the corner shop at any time of the night seven days a week.

Fred ran off and returned with a couple of loaves and a slab of butter. The box was opened and the toaster revealed. I can remember the gasp from everyone as they laid sight on this magnificent piece of machinery for the very first time. A bloody toaster, how pathetic this must sound, but that?s the way it was. Anyway, the instructions were read aloud by mum, the toaster plugged into the only fifteen-amp socket in the house, which meant the wireless was turned off, the bread placed in the toaster, the handle pushed down, and two minutes later, bingo! - Up jumped two slices of toast. What a bloody miracle! I had never heard such a sound of laughter and cheers.

It?s probably hard for you to imagine how two pieces of ###### toast could bring such joy and excitement into a family, but it did and no gadgets since has given me such feeling of joy.

We sat up until the early hours, toasting bread, laughing and just having fun with that toaster. It was a great night and one I will never ever forget.


Not long after the arrival of the toaster we had another exciting event: mum and dad bought a coal-effect three-bar electric fire. I don?t know why they bought it; I would imagine they were probably going through a gadget phase, rather like we do today with mobile phones, iPods and computer games. The only difference being, their gadgets were needs rather than wants and contributed to a better lifestyle for all the family rather than an individual. I was always fascinated by the glow of the electric fire and even more fascinated when dad lit his cigarette by placing it on the glowing electric bar. One day, when no one was in the kitchen, I decided to investigate the electric fire and its mechanics. I obviously didn?t have any knowledge of electricity, but I could understand how it travelled down a cable to a switch and then on to the electric bar. Using this remarkable knowledge, I decided it would be safe to touch the bars when the switch was off. I knelt down beside the fire and squeezed my finger through the safety guard, slowly edging my fingers towards the bars. On touching the bars I immediately discovered that my well-thought-out theory of electricity was completely wrong. I was catapulted across the room by the force of the electric current passing through my body, a bit like a human cannonball. Needless to say, I never told this story to my mum or dad, and you are probably the first to know.


Bath time was always on a Sunday evening. We had one bath every week; the rest of the week we washed in the scullery sink, the scullery was next to the kitchen. Our bath, unlike modern baths today, was kept in the garden suspended on a brick wall by a six-inch nail. The bath was made of galvanised tin and was about five feet long. The bath was brought into the kitchen and placed in front of the fire. Following this, numerous pots were filled with water and placed on the gas-cooker rings to boil. The boiling water was then poured into the bath followed by cold water until the temperature and depth were just right.

You can probably understand now why people didn?t bath as much then as they do today. The whole performance was exhausting, but things didn?t stop there.

Once you had your bath you were then in the situation of having a five-foot bathtub full of water in the middle of your kitchen. Remember, this was a portable bath so there was no waste plug. The only way of emptying the bath was to sweat your balls off pulling this dead

weight across the kitchen to the back door. You then had to lift one end and tip the bath up so that the water emptied out of the back door, leaving the back garden flooded with two inches of soapy water. The whole process was a bloody nightmare and completely #### up any enjoyment of having a relaxing bath in front of the fire.


Another great entertainment that took place in the kitchen was the game of darts. Like many kitchens in those days there was a built-in cupboard, known as a larder. The larder had a door; it was on the back of this door that we hung our dart board. You don?t have to use your imagination very much at this point to visualise the scene. Here we have a room, probably no more than 16 meters square, being used for cooking, ironing, bathing listening to the wireless, keeping warm and dart matches. Yes, the kitchen, without doubt, was the most interesting, most used and most alive room in the whole house. But like most good things there was also a dark side.


Saturday afternoons in the kitchen, for me, were full of fear, tears and sometimes terror. Most Saturdays dad would spend the best part of the afternoon in the pub, arriving there at about 12.30pm after finishing work, and returning home at about 3.30pm, usually pissed and usually skint after having a bet on the horses.

For many years mum suffered from a very bad hernia. Now I don?t know if it was coincidence, but this hernia flared up every Saturday afternoon. There I would be at home with mum when she would start to feel unwell, go white in the face and eventually lay on the kitchen floor in extreme pain. She would cry, moan and scream out in pain. I witnessed this from the age of about five until she eventually had an operation some years later.

Like any child, my mum was my world. To see her lying in pain while my dad sat in the pub was just too much for me to describe. Yes, my memories of Saturday afternoons were of me lying beside my mum on the floor, stroking her head and asking her to get better, whilst at the same time dreading the return of my dad from the pub. When he did return, there would be little sympathy or compassion for mum. Instead he would fall in the chair and start to argue with her lying there. There were times when I hated my dad; I hated him so much I wanted him to be dead. Why couldn?t he be like other dads, come home, take me out, play in the garden, but most of all look after my mum?

After the usual Saturday-afternoon argument, dad would go to bed, mum?s pain would eventually go and I would dry my tears. I prayed so many times for them to make up and never argue again. The make-up would always come true eventually, but the never-do-it-

again, well - that never came true.


It goes without saying, if it wasn?t Christmas, when we used the front room; almost every happening in the house took place in the kitchen, including police investigations.


One Saturday afternoon, two police detectives came to our house making enquiries into some vandalism at the golf club in the posh part of Dulwich Village. Apparently, all the windows in the club house had been smashed by vandals using catapults and my brother Fred was in the frame. The police spoke to my mum; Fred was out at the time. She consistently said that her boy wouldn?t do such a thing, that he wasn?t the kind of boy to have a catapult. I listened with great interest, but every time I wanted to say something mum would give me a nudge and say - ?Be quiet, I?m talking.? Like all kids, when mum said ?be quiet? it made me more determined to have my say. I left the kitchen and went upstairs. Being too young to understand the seriousness of the situation, I didn?t realise that there was no way my mum was going to tell these men that me and my big brother were good catapulters; we had hit every window in that club house, and I was going to prove it.

I came back to the kitchen, where mum was still protesting Fred?s innocence. This time I interrupted with vigour and tapped one of the detectives on the arm. Looking up at him I said, ?Mister, I?ve got a catapult and my brother is the best shot in the world.?

From my back pocket I produced my pride and joy, a catapult made with my own young hands. I felt so proud that I had proved my mum wrong and proved me and Fred to be the dog?s knackers in catapulting.

I don?t remember much after that, I do remember being the biggest shit in the family for a long time. I learnt a lesson from that experience: keep your mouth shut. It?s a lesson I have never forgotten.


Before we finally leave the kitchen there is one other thing I can clearly remember.

Dad would sit every night in his chair, smoking cigarette after cigarette. An ashtray would be in front of him, which he used for putting out his fag However, he never used the ashtray for ash; this was flicked on the floor. At the end of the evening there would be a pile of ash almost up to his ankles. I remember mum having a go at him, time after time for not using the ashtray. His reply - ?It?s good for the carpet, it helps hold the threads together.?

Now that may be true, I don?t know, but the thing was, we didn?t have a ###### carpet in the kitchen, just lino. I once asked him if what he said was true. ?Yes,? he replied, ?my

Mum always flicked her ash on the carpet and that?s what she told me, so it must be true.?

I do know something of his childhood and I would be surprised if his mum had a carpet; in fact, I know they didn?t.

Strange when you think about it, two generations, not having carpets, flicking cigarette ash on the floor to help hold the carpet threads together, incredible.


In the 1950s all houses had a lounge, known as the front room, and my house was no exception. The front room was always kept clean, decorated, smelling of polish and full of ornaments and pictures, mostly of relatives long since dead. The front room was used at Christmas, special occasions, such as weddings, and when special relatives paid a visit, which was not very often in our house. Once a visitor entered the front room they were rarely

allowed to venture into any other room; the idea being to make them believe that all the other rooms in the house were like the front room, immaculately kept, carpeted and full of precious ornaments. The thing was, everyone lived in similar conditions, we all knew, regardless of whose front room we sat in, that the rest of the house would be a shit hole.

If I think about it seriously, the front room brings memories of joy mixed with a little sadness, joy, because it was here that Christmas was celebrated,

parties were given and friends would visit and when leaving, usually, reached into their pocket to give mea couple of bob. ?Bob? being the name for a shilling. And sadness, you see, this was also the room we would return to after attending a funeral of a friend or neighbour.

There?s not a lot more to say about the front room. After all, I was only allowed in there once or twice a year. Having said that, there is one incident that comes to mind that maybe I should tell you about.


I had sneaked into the front room to have a poke around to see what I could find. I remember opening the sideboard draw and discovering a small dark brown bottle. Being curious, I unscrewed the top, lent forward and smelt the contents. I have never had such a nasal shock in all my life. The smell was so strong it made me fall to the floor with a bang. This was heard by my mum who was in the kitchen at the time. She came rushing in to the front room to find me lying on the floor semi-conscious, clutching the brown bottle - What have you done?? she cried ?I only smelt this, Mum,? I mumbled ?Serve you right for coming in this room without asking me first.? ?That?s a bottle is smelling salts, they are meant to give you a shock.?

I have never understood why we had smelling salts in a draw in a room that was never

used. I think they were probably there in case someone visiting the posh front room managed to find their way into another room, and fainted with shock at seeing the state of the ####ing place. I don?t suppose I will ever know the truth.


Like most houses, our house had a hallway or ?passage? as we called it, leading from the front

door, with doors going off into the various rooms and a staircase leading to the first floor. It?s strange, but I can remember this passage vividly. It was here that I kept my bike up against the wall. I can still remember all the marks and chips along that wall where bikes had stood for years and years, the old greasy appearance of the wallpaper that looked like it had been on those walls since time began, the fancy decorated coving around the edges of the ceiling and the Victorian plaster cast around the ceiling light. Those casts would cost a fortune today.

Probably my best memory of the passage was when my dad decided to have an electric socket put by the front door. I don?t know why he had a socket put there: maybe it was his way of modernising the place. However, the decision was made and he made arrangements for a mate from the pub to come to our house on a Saturday morning to fit the new socket.

Now, the electric supply from the fuse box was at the far end of the passage, next to the kitchen, and the point was needed by the front door, which was at the other end. Consequently an electric cable needed to be run under the floor boards for the full length of

the passage. Well, I don?t know who had the bright idea on how to do this, but someone suggested that dad took up a single floorboard from either end of the passage, tie one end of the electric cable around Charlie the family cat, place the cat through the opening in the floor at one end of the passage and place a plate of cat meat in the opening of the floor at

the other end. The plan was for Charlie to walk the full length of the passage under the floor taking the cable with him as he went towards the plate of meat. Unfortunately, no one told Charlie the plan, which was a big mistake. Instead of going straight, Charlie decided to go right and then left and then right again and carried on like this until, eventually, he, and a fifty yard reel of cable had disappeared completely and Charlie was nowhere to be seen.

I still have a vivid picture in my mind to this day. Dad was lying on the floor with his head down the hole crying - ?Here Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.? At the same time, his pub mate was at the other end of the passage; he had his head down the hole, whilst tapping the plate of cat meat with a screwdriver and calling - ?Here puss, puss, puss - Here puss, puss, puss.?

It took them hours to get Charlie out from under those floorboards, but thanks to him, it was one of the few Saturdays that dad didn?t get pissed.


The room I hated the most was my mum and dad?s bedroom. I can see and smell this room to this very day. It was the downstairs back room, in-between the kitchen and the front room, the room where I was born. It was always semi-dark and had a lingering smell of pee.

I mentioned before that the toilet was outside in the yard; there was no way that dad would venture out there when he was in bed. Instead, he had a bucket under the bed, a ?piss pot? as it was known. This bucket would not only contain the contents of his bladder, but also the odd fag end and matchstick from where he smoked in bed. It?s probably easy to think of this kind of behaviour as being disgusting and unacceptable, and this would be the case today. However, you need to remember that my dad was born in 1910 into a large family; he had gone through two world wars, fought in one, been through the great depression and spent

most of his life fighting for survival. The rights and wrongs of pissing in a bucket would have never entered his head.

While I?m talking about disgusting things, I would like to return to the kitchen for a moment.

Somewhere in the mid 1950?s mum and dad rented their first television. It was a huge TV with a miniature screen and, of course, it was a black-and white picture, with just one channel, BBC. We were one of only a few, if not the first, families in our street to have a TV.

In those days you always watched the picture with the room lights turned off, mainly because the picture was so bad it was hard to see it with the light on. On many occasions, neighbours would come into our house just to watch TV; some nights there would be standing-room only. Dad would sit in an old worn-out armchair right in front of the TV, mum would be beside him in a similar chair, I would sit on the floor between mum and dad and the neighbours would stand or sit behind us. We watched all manner of crap; endless football results on a Saturday, piano players, boring people talking about things we didn?t understand and live shows where the scenery would be made of cardboard and very often fell over, all in black and white. I?m rambling on now like an old person; I need to get back to my original dialogue about disgusting things.

Sometimes on a week night dad would send me to the corner shop to get a bottle of R. Whites lemonade. After giving me a very small glass he would sit in front of the TV, with the lights off and the bottle of lemonade beside him, occasionally reaching down and replenishing his glass. One night I ran to the corner shop to get dad?s lemonade. I was given my usual small glass and then I went to my bedroom to play. I returned an hour later to the kitchen where dad was still sitting in the dark watching TV with mum. I went to the back of dad?s chair and sat on the floor to watch with them. After a while I started to fancy another glass

of lemonade but, knew dad would only say no. In the darkened room I could see the reflection of the lemonade bottle beside his chair; the temptation was too great. I slowly edged my way closer to the bottle until I was within reaching distance. Making sure dad was looking at the TV; I cautiously picked up the bottle, unscrewed the top and had a huge swig. It was

####ing horrible; it was bitter and sweet at the same time and left a dry taste in my mouth. I couldn?t understand why it didn?t taste like the first drop I?d had earlier, I felt sick. I screwed the top back on and put the bottle back beside the chair. After a couple of minutes dad called to me - ?Nip up the shop and get me another bottle of lemonade, Son.??You?ve already got some Dad.? ?No, I finished that,? he replied, ?I used the empty bottle to piss in; it?s too cold to go outside.? There?s must be a lesson to be learnt there somewhere.


Last but not least I mustn?t forget the back garden or yard. It?s hard to remember just how big the yard was, but it was small, very small, like most city gardens. It was probably about 20 feet long with neighbouring gardens to all three sides.

I loved my garden; here I could do anything and be anyone. On one particular occasion I was a pirate; I put a plank of wood on the ground, tied a knife to a broom stick and made out I was sailing across the sea. I was in my dream world, when my brother Fred came out of the kitchen door and started to take the piss. Well, there?s one thing you don?t do to a pirate, take the piss. I drew back my make-believe sword, the knife on a broom sticks, and plunged it forward, like a spear, aiming at Fred. Fortunately for him he managed to get out of the way. Unfortunately for me the spear carried on travelling and went straight through the kitchen window. Mum came running out of the kitchen door into the garden. She was ready to kill me. There was only one thing for me to do in these situations, run.

At the back of the house there was a drainpipe which went straight up to the roof. This drainpipe saved my bacon on many occasions and this day was no exception. Seeing mum?s face, I ran towards the drainpipe and clambered to the top. Once there I pulled myself onto the roof and climbed the slates right up to the ridge. I was safe; she couldn?t get me up here. Mum looked up at me sitting on the roof and shouted all the usual obscenities - ?Get down here you little bath-bun,? ?Get down here you little cow-son,? And her favourite ?I?ll put my toe up your arse when I get hold of you.? And so the shouting continued. I never questioned mum?s words, but I did often wonder what they meant. What was a ?bath-bun? or a ?cow-son?? How could you get a toe up someone?s arse? Swearing was common in my house and I wasn?t afraid to shout obscenities back - ?#### off you silly old cow,? and, ?B######s!? In fact, the fouler the language I used the more mum got angry and the more fun I had.

I suppose you could say that swearing in this way, mother to child, child to mother, was like an early form of child therapy, minus the psychologists and social workers. These events always ended up with mum saying the same old thing - ?You wait until your father gets home?

Dad always got home eventually, but good old mum never told him what I had been up to. I don?t know how she explained the broken window without dropping me in the shit, but she did and that broken window stayed broken for many years.


Next chapters Wednesday at 3pm

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I'm glad people are enjoying my story, we all need some enjoyment in this lockdown. There are several chapters, so should take us through February. These chapters will tell of some of the characters that lived in East Dulwich and the long forgotten shops, plus the ups and downs of my family. If you know of anyone who may find this interesting please let them know. The next chapters will be on Wednesday at 3pm. Thanks again - Wardy
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CHAPTER 3

My Earliest Memory

People have told me that they can remember when they were as young as two years old. As far as I?m concerned, the years prior to four have little place in my memory. I say four, but I was a little older when remembering my first Christmas.


It was Christmas 1954. I had woken up to a pillow case containing an apple, an orange, some nuts and a bright coloured package - ?Is this what I think it is?? I hurriedly ripped the paper apart. ?Yes!? It was a cowboy suit, all I had ever dreamed of for months. But wait, there was something more, a small package at the bottom of the pillow case - ?What could this be??

I eagerly opened the package. I couldn?t believe my eyes; it was a Roy Rogers penknife, now I was a real cowboy. I was now fully equipped to face anything.

Having eaten my fruit and cracked my nuts, mainly to find most of them were bad, I made my way to the adventure playground. When I say adventure playground, I don?t mean a park with purpose-made climbing frames and tidy little picnic seats for mums and dads to sit on and supervise. My adventure playground was far more adventurous, far more realistic; my adventure playground was the street. Here anything could happen. In just one day, playing in the street, you could find yourself in charge of a battalion fighting the Germans in the war; you could be a champion footballer or even a champion racing-car driver. When I was a lad you didn?t need a racing car to be a champion, as long as you could run fast and make a brrrmm noise like a racing car, you could be a world champion. Okay, you were only a champion in your own head but, if you believed it, that?s all that mattered. I walked onto the street dressed as a cowboy and carrying my precious penknife. I looked up and down to see who was about. In my little mind, I had just arrived in town and I was looking for trouble, just like the real cowboys I had seen so many times at the Saturday-morning pictures. At the top of the road I spotted two friends, Johnny Anderson and Barry. Johnny, who lived at number 12 on the street, was dressed as a cowboy, but Barry, who I think lived in Bawdale Road, was not; he was dressed as a Red Indian, I think that term is outlawed today. This could only mean trouble. I walked towards them slowly with my hat pulled forward just above my eyes, my arms slightly away from my hips and my eyes coldly focused on them. Finally we came face-to-face -?What ya get for Christmas then, Wardy??they said. Wardy was my nick name. ?I got this cowboy suite and this penknife, ?We compared presents and began to argue about who got the best and what cost the most, probably like kids do today.

We played happily for some time, running and chasing each other, firing our pretend guns and making all sorts of weird noises. However, it wasn?t long before Barry suggested that we have a real fight. Fighting was a big part of my childhood; if you couldn?t fight you were in for a very tough time, growing up would almost certainly be a long and painful process. What happened next stays with me to this day.

Barry was a tough kid; his father was serving ten years in prison for armed robbery. Because of this Barry had something to prove. Even at this early age he was showing signs of following in his father?s footsteps. He pulled out his prized Christmas present: a six-inch sheaf knife. I can see it now, bright and shiny, sharp and pointed. He told me to fight him using my penknife. It seems silly now, why didn?t I just say ?No? and walk away? The truth is, it?s hard to do that when you?re a young boy growing up in a tough environment and needing to prove yourself, for whatever reason. Don?t suppose much has changed today.

I opened my knife and pointed it at him. He came towards me. I knew he meant business; I could see it in his face. I knew without doubt that he would cut me with that knife. He came closer and closer, too close for comfort. Suddenly his arm went back and he plunged the knife down towards me. His intention, I?m sure, was to push that knife into my chest like he had seen on the cowboy and Indian films. I honestly don?t know what happened next but, somehow, I avoided his blade and managed to slice my blade across his hand. The blood ran quickly down his fingers and dripped on the floor. I know now that it wasn?t that bad, just a small cut but, as a little kid, it was a big cut and I was scared and my heart was pumping so loud. Barry burst into tears, clenching his arm, shouting at me and saying I had stabbed him. As for Johnny, well he ran away. Eventually, Barry went home to his mum, probably to tell her I was the bad guy. After a few minutes of standing alone I looked up and down the street. I can remember it being very quiet. There was no one about; the sun was shining but it was cold. I felt a strange feeling inside me, a feeling I hadn?t experienced before, a feeling of pride and satisfaction. I had done it; I had knocked Barry off of his bully?s pedestal and won my first real fight. However, unbeknown to me at the time, the real fight was just about to begin, a fight I would surely lose when my mum found out what I had done.

After that day I don?t really remember seeing Barry very much I guess he decided to play somewhere else with kids who didn?t know about his lost battle I often wonder if he followed

in his dad?s footsteps, hopefully not.

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CHAPTER 4

My First School

One memory embedded in my mind and will be forever, was my first day at school. I think it must have been on this day that I decided school wasn?t for me and that teachers were only interested in kids who came from the posh part of town, kids that had dads who wore suits to work and spoke proper English. My dad was a builder and we spoke a language called Cockney, not very popular with some teachers in those days, even though; just a few years previously; builders, teachers and dads who wore suits were fighting side by side in a long and bloody world war, World War 2. It seemed to me that the working classes were not particularly well thought of by some teachers and teaching them was something they had to do, not what they wanted to do. Yes, even at the early age of five my thoughts on this subject were being formed. Maybe those thoughts were not particularly focused or mature but those thoughts would stay with me for many years and mould me into a rebel throughout my school

days, and beyond.


It was 8am, sometime in September 1955; I was up, dressed and ready for my first day at school. The school I was attending was Heber Road Infants, situated in the next road to where I lived. A school uniform was mandatory at Heber Road and I had the complete kit, grey shirt, black shoes and grey short trousers. I felt very proud of myself as I looked in the mirror -

?Come on,? said mum, ?it?s time to go? I hurried towards the front door; I couldn?t wait. We walked along the road and up the hill, and after a couple of minutes we reached the school gates. I think there was some sort of registration process, mum had to sign forms and was given some official paperwork. When all the paperwork was completed I was parted from my mum and escorted to my classroom. It was here that I was to meet, for the first time, a most frightening creature known as a ?Form Teacher.? Her name was Miss Hussey, a name that will stay with me for evermore. All teachers in those days seem to be a ?Miss? and they all looked a hundred years old, but this woman, I am sure, was a hundred years old. I will never forget her. On meeting, she looked down at me and stared me straight in the face. I can remember thinking that she looked like my cat, Charlie. She had grey whiskers, just like him, and a round-shaped cat face with green penetrating eyes. I feel so ashamed for saying that; after all, there is no good reason for insulting my old and faithful cat Charlie, he was lovely.

I instinctively knew that this woman didn?t like me and being in this class wasn?t going to

be a picnic- ?Right, Ward?, she said, ?Sit in that chair and don?t move.? She had a very posh voice. There was no introduction, no words of comfort and not a sign of a smile. I don?t know exactly what I thought at the time. What I do know is, my dreams of going to school, learning to read, doing sums and finding out about the world were completely shattered within the first few moments of meeting this horrible woman. Miss Hussey had a way of ensuring this, and ensuring that any child who came from a working-class family would be reminded of their background on a daily basis. She wasn?t going to let them forget there were other children in the class who were better, better because their parents were professional people, had their own business and lived in a better part of Dulwich. I hated this woman from day one, and she leaves a bitter taste in my mouth to this day.

Slightly off the subject. I can remember Miss Hussy had a chauffeur driven hired car bring her to school each morning, take her home for lunch, bring her back and take her home at night. When I say chauffer I mean just that. Grey suite, black shoes, black tie and peak cap. What that must of cost I don?t know.

I quickly got to know the rules of survival at school, which teachers not to talk to, the kids to steer clear of and the areas where not to play. Although I didn?t learn very much academically, I did learn a lot about people and their peculiar ways and opinions. As an example, every morning without fail Miss Hussey would walk around the class holding a perfume spray bottle. The bottle would be filled with a flower-smelling substance; you couldn?t buy a can of air freshener in those days, such things didn?t exist. She would point the spray at each individual child whom she considered not to be worthy of attending the school. She would spray that child with the substance and say the words, ?Dirty child, smelly child?

Needless to say, I was one of those children who were sprayed regularly; actually, I was sprayed every day. So what was the lesson I learned from this mindless act? Well, I was different. I was different because I lived in the rough end of my street, my parents didn?t have fancy clothes and we had very little money, I would go nowhere in life and have nothing. As for the opinion I gained from this experience, people like Miss Hussey were sad, cruel and deserved a painful exit from this world for treating children in such a way. I probably didn?t think exactly like that at the time, but I certainly remember wishing that woman dead on many occasions.

I remember on one occasion when Miss Hussey was talking to some of her favourite kids about Illnesses, I don?t know why she was having this conversation, she just was. Desperately wanting to prove myself in some way I joined in the conversation, saying that I believed that

there was a plant to cure every illness, such as eating a daffodil could cure a cold. Now I probably gave my opinion in more childish terms, I was only about seven years old at the time, having been in her class for a couple of years but, Miss Hussey reaction was out of all proportion. She threw her hand to the back of my neck and, bending me forward, she slapped the back of my legs over and over again. I can remember each blow of her hand like it was yesterday. I had never been smacked before; it wasn?t a nice experience and it hurt. After pounding my legs several times she pushed me out the classroom where I remained for the rest of the day, in Miss Hussey?s words ?for being stupid?. I stood outside that classroom trembling with a horrible burning pain in the back of my legs, but the real pain wasn?t in my legs, it was in my heart. All my expectations of what I was going to achieve and do at school had vanished. I hated school, I just wanted my mum.

I often think about that day and what I said. I think it showed an intelligent child, a child that had an opinion probably beyond his years. Needless to say, here we are, years later, trying to save our rain forests because, amongst other things, there are plants and trees in that forest that may cure all sorts of diseases, including the common cold. So, ?Up yours, Miss Hussey, I was right.?


Not all teachers were like Miss Hussey; some were almost normal and some I believe may have actually liked me. I had one favourite teacher whose name I believe was Miss Allen. She stood out from the other teachers because she was very young and always had a smile and time to listen. I can remember having music lessons with her and enjoying every moment. We would sing songs like ?Ba Ba Black Sheep? and ?Simple Simon?, songs that if sung today would bring the race discrimination board and the disability discrimination people down on you like a ton of bricks. Miss Allen had her own child attending the school; I think his name was Paul. I can remember wishing that I was Paul and that his

mum was my mum. There wasn?t anything wrong with the mum I had, I loved her very much, but I was conscious that she was somewhat older than most other parents. You see, my mum gave birth to me at the age of forty. This may not seem unusual in today?s modern world with career-minded working mums giving birth in later years but, back in the early fifties most mums had finished giving birth in their early thirties, having started in their teens or very early twenties. My parents? ages would prove to be a big factor in my growing-up years, one that would give me many embarrassing moments. Perhaps I should explain.

When I say ?embarrassment? I mean just that; I don?t mean I was ashamed, just the opposite, I was proud of them both. I was embarrassed because in my immature mind I felt

that my mum and dad were old compared to my friends? parents, who all seemed a lot younger. You see, in the fifties people really did look their age; there weren?t the clothes or makeup to make them look any different.

Another teacher I must mention is Miss Bromley. She was a spinster who lived with her mum in Dulwich Village. Miss Bromley never actually took me for any lessons, but she would always talk to me. I have often thought that she seemed like a lady who should have been married with children of her own and not looking after an aged mother. I suppose she must have lost her way somewhere in life or got caught in a conscience trap where she felt she couldn?t leave mum.

Silly, I know, but I remember Miss Bromley almost every time I button my shirt. I could never button my shirt; I always got the wrong button in the wrong hole. Consequently, one side of my shirt collar would always be two inches higher then the other, making me look like I had a deformity of the spine. In other words I always looked completely lop-sided. Miss Bromley was forever re-doing the buttons on my shirt. One day she said - ?Eric, come here.?

She was probably the only teacher to call me Eric, all the others called me Ward. She took me to one side and explained that if I started from the bottom of my shirt, putting the bottom button in the bottom hole, then all the others would fall in line. I remember her words to this day; hence, I?m reminded of Miss Bromley almost every morning.


One of the good things about going to school was the free school milk. Every child, every day, got free milk that we drank straight from the bottle, no fancy paper cups or plastic containers. However, I do seem to remember being given a paper straw. Could you imagine, today, giving five-year-olds glass bottles to drink from? Not only glass bottles but milk that was full fat and non-organic. Modern mums and dads would go completely barmy.

The lady who gave out the milk was Miss Wellington. She was a stout lady, about sixty years old or more, that?s very old when you?re little. Miss Wellington had red rosy cheeks, grey hair and a very firm voice, but somehow you knew she was kindly Looking back, I think she probably had a dry sense of. humour and enjoyed the company of small children.

Miss Wellington was also responsible for dishing out cod liver oil. This horrible-tasting substance was given each morning to children who were considered malnourished in some way. They were usually children who came from large families; I?m talking large, upwards of ten kids in one family. One girl, let?s call her Susan, who lived in Barry Road, had sixteen brothers and sisters. Smelly Susan was her nickname, cruel I know, but she did smell. Kids from large families usually did smell in those days and always had dirty necks, but the big

giveaway when it came to being dirty was when we had physical education or PE as it was called then. PE required you to change clothes and come out of the dressing room wearing only a pair of shorts and a vest, no trainers, or plimsolls as they were called then. It was here that you got a glimpse of real dirty kids, long toe nails full of dirt, heels that were caked with grime and black between their toes, all of them had a strange musty dry smell. You need to understand that it wasn?t the fault of the children or the parents but, with such large families and no bath in the house, there was little chance of them ever seeing a bar of soap or clean water. Just imagine trying to wash all those children every night before going to bed. You would need to start at tea time and you probably wouldn?t be finished until midnight. No, it was a lot easier to let the grime stay where it was and let the kids take the rude comments once a week at PE.

It?s horrible of me to say this, but I was glad there were kids like that; it gave me a feeling of not being quite at the bottom of the pile. After all, I didn?t need the cod liver oil and my feet were usually reasonably clean.


Talking of kids from large families reminds me of my old school friend Doug. It didn?t matter to me that his neck was dirty and some days he was a bit high. I don?t mean high on drugs, I mean high from various body odours that every so often, would whiff up from some part of his body. He came from a family of fourteen, not including his mum and dad. I will always remember the somewhat adventurous times when visiting Doug?s house in Landells Road. In addition to having all these kids in the house there were also dozens of cats, and I mean dozens. Everywhere you looked there were cats, under the chairs, in the cupboards even in the outside toilet. One of the things that brought me endless enjoyment was to rattle a spoon on a plate and to see all these cats come running from every direction imaginable looking for food, the room would be full to the brim with cats of all colours and sizes. Needless to say there was no such thing as cat litter in those days or cat trays; you can imagine the state of that house with all those cats crapping in every corner of every room, it made Doug smell almost sweet. On a brighter note, he was a good mate and his mum and dad always had time to talk. On reflection, I suppose his dad had time because he never ever went to work; he just sat in an old worn-out chair reading his news paper moaning about the word.


A friend who stayed with me throughout my school days was Ronny, ?Pacey? as he was known. He started school on the same day as me and we both had the pleasure of having Miss Hussey as our teacher. Pacey lived a couple of streets down from me in Bawdale Road, he lived in an airy. Pacey?s mum and dad were very strange. His mum was always poorly dressed but his dad was reasonably smart. Their house still had blackout blinds. These were blinds that were used during the war to block out the light when German aircraft were overhead but, the war had been over for ten years or more. His dad propagated cacti, he had hundreds.

The thing I remember most about Pacey and his family is that for many years they lived like church mice. Then, one day, they suddenly packed up and moved to a house, which they bought for cash, in a very expensive part of Dulwich SE21. I never did find out where the money came from.

During our early days at school Pacey bonded with me, and wherever you saw me in school you would see Pacey. We would walk to school together and walk home together, but you would never see us together outside of school time. Pacey was never allowed to play in the street like other kids. It may seem normal nowadays to keep your kids in, but in those days it wasn?t normal; kids always played in the street.


One of the great things about school was the girls. Yes, even at that very early age I was interested in girls. I?m sure it wasn?t anything sexual; I just knew they were different and sometimes I felt something inside me that said, ?One day you will appreciate girls.?

My first love was Elsa Marion. Elsa was adopted and lived in a very neat and tidy house in the bottom end of Crystal Palace Road. She was an only child. I can remember being fascinated by her curly hair, glasses and clear skin. I loved Elsa so much that I let her hold my pet dog, Peter, a privilege only given to the few. I don?t remember much more about Elsa; I don?t think we kissed; in fact I?m sure we didn?t, after all, at the age of five kissing was only for sissies. I had a lot to learn.

Thinking about Peter, he was my pet black and white mongrel dog. I only had him for a short time. I came home one day from school and he was gone. Mum told me he had gone to a big farm in the country. I obviously know now that he was taken to the pet shop, ?Ascombes? in Crystal Palace Road, near to Whately Road, and sold. As a child I believed my mum and dreamed of Peter running across open fields and playing with the lambs. The truth is he was probably sold by the pet shop for medical research as many animals were in those days.


My early memories of school are somewhat bitty. I remember some things and other things I can?t. I suppose this is because at such an early age one only remembers the things that are funny, frightening, hurtful or different and believe me; things were different in those days. As an example, physical punishment was a daily event.

There was a teacher, Mr Ibbitson who would regularly punish boys by hitting them, very hard, several times across the back side with a plimsoll. We called it ?getting the slipper.? On occasions, if two boys were caught fighting, Mr Ibbitson would take them into the bottom hall, give them a pair of boxing gloves and make them box each other. Imagine doing that today, it would make the 10 o/clock evening news headlines.


I had been at school for about a year; it must have been about 1956. Now, I want you to imagine that you are about six years old, you live in Dulwich, London, and you attend a very large Infant/Junior school in Heber Road. Now this is the part where you really need to use your imagination, there are no black children in the school. In fact you have never seen a black person in real life. The only black people you saw were in films; normally films about African tribes presented by a couple called ?Armand & Michaela Denis, you can still see these films today on YouTube.? You may consider my comments as racist; sorry, but that?s how it was. Black people had no part in my life or that of the people who lived in my community. Remember it was a bigger world then and integration wasn?t invented.

Now imagine my surprise and absolute astonishment when one day my Form Teacher brought into the classroom two black boys, John and Patrick. Both were to attend our school. Everyone in the classroom was amazed to see black people in real life; you could hear a pin drop. I can say with all honesty that there was no question of racism, just pure fascination. I was, as was every other child in the class, truly intrigued by their colour. However, there was a downside to all this. As children we were told that if you ever saw a black person you should rub their hair for good luck. Consequently, John and Patrick spent most of their time running away or locked in the school bogs. Eventually kids got tired of chasing good luck and left them alone. They were to become my very good friends for many years.

If I remember correctly, John and Patrick were cousins, born in Brazil, where, apparently, both their parents were killed in a car crash. As a result they were sent off to England to live with their Nan. My earliest memory of meeting her was one Friday afternoon after school.

They invited me to their house, a large semi-detached property in Lordship Lane, just a five-minute walk from the school. Now remember, I was a white kid who until recently had never seen or mixed with black people. My diet was stews, bangers, fish and chips and liver and bacon. I had never heard of or seen boiled rice. My rice came as a creamy desert; I never knew it could be eaten as a main meal. Curry was a word I had never heard of and a smell

I had never experienced. As for chickens, they were bought from the local butcher, ?dead?. Note that I say local butcher, supermarkets were non-existent, and they weren?t to come about for many years.

I arrived at John and Patrick?s house, as they opened the door I was hit by a smell which made me want to run for my life: it was terrific. I didn?t know it at the time, but it was the smell of curry, my favourite food today, but back then it was a horrible smell. I walked into the hallway trying not to breath and desperately wanting to gag. Here I was greeted by their Nan, a very old lady, about five feet tall and very thin. Her smile intrigued me; the few teeth she had were so white against her black skin. She had a squeaky laugh, wore a pinny, head scarf and plimsolls. Going into that house, breathing in those smells and meeting their Nan was an experience of a lifetime. It was like going into a different world; nothing could be stranger or so I thought until we reached the kitchen. I could hardly believe my eyes. Under the sink, tied to a water pipe, was a live chicken. Being an inquisitive boy I said - ?Why have you got a chicken in the kitchen?? Their Nan gave a squeaky laugh and said in a very strong Caribbean-type accent - ?Dis is me dinnor for Sunday.? Or something like that. ?How can you eat the chicken? It?s alive.? I said She laughed again. ?Not for long,? she replied. ?Come with me.? We all, including the chicken, went into the garden. Nan went half way up the garden path, stopped, waved the chicken around whilst chanting a few strange words and then calmly and without warning cut off the poor ####er?s head with a rusty razor blade. It may seem strange, but I wasn?t shocked at seeing the decapitation of the chicken, but I was mesmerised at seeing the chicken run round the garden minus a head. I remember looking at the chicken?s head lying on the floor with its eyes still open, looking at the chicken running around with no head, looking again at the head and then again at the chicken. I must have looked like one of those nodding dogs you see in the back of cars. I couldn?t believe what was happening. Can you imagine what would happen today if a small child was subjected to such a thing? Social services and animal rights people would have a field day; the media would undoubtedly broadcast it as a child caught up in a satanic ritual. Sunday lunch for me was never to be the same after that day; I would always look at my dinner plate and remember that poor old chicken running away from its head.


At the age of about seven I was becoming a bit of a sports fanatic. I liked boxing, wrestling, swimming and running. Being very tall I was always picked by teachers to run in school races on sports day. On one occasion, at the end of a school day, I was walking from the school across the playground to the school gate. A class mate, whose name I can?t remember,

asked if I wanted a race - ?Where to? I asked. ?To the corner shop at the bottom of the hill,?

He replied. Running to the bottom of the hill involved running to the bottom of the playground, through the school gate, across Heber Road down Cyrena Road to the corner of Pellatt Road. ?Okay,? I said, and off we went.

I remember in absolute detail the next few tragic seconds. I knew I could beat him but, in my little head I wanted to let him get in front and at the last moment, just as he thought he was going to win, I would push forward and beat him at the line. I had seen this done by professional runners like Roger Bannister and for this race, in my imagination, I was Roger Bannister.

Just before we came to the school gate I let him overtake me. He shot past, went through the gate and ran straight into the road. At that very moment there was a tremendous ? thud ? and a scream, he had been hit by a motorbike and sidecar. He was dragged yards along the road, his body bashing up and down on the tarmac as he was pulled along People were shouting and running about in panic. I stood for while looking and wondering what to do. I can remember hearing my heart pounding against my chest.

An ambulance eventually arrived and he was rushed to hospital. Nobody asked me what had happened and I never volunteered any information; I probably thought I would get into trouble. The injuries to his legs were so bad that he never returned to school and I never saw him again.

Looking back you could say his unluckiest day was my luckiest. If I hadn?t of decided to let him get in front I wouldn?t be writing this book today and you wouldn?t be reading it today, in a strange way it would have changed all of our lives completely.

I often wonder who I should thank for allowing me to be here today: him for suggesting the race, me for letting him get in front, or Roger Bannister for giving me the inspiration to let him get in front.


I can?t go through the process of thinking about my early school days without mentioning Mr. Heaster or ?Easter Egg? as he was known to all the kids. This was a man who used a cane on your backside or across the palm of your hand if he thought such a punishment was necessary. Mr. Heaster was, in my eyes, a very old man with grey hair, wrinkles and a very gruff voice. He was always smartly dressed with a handkerchief in his jacket top pocket and had very shiny shoes. He was the headmaster of Heber Road School and he ruled with a rod of iron.

Every morning there was a school assembly where we prayed and sang Christian songs. I suppose in today?s modern Britain, with our multi-cultural society, this would probably be

considered improper. Anyway, Mr Heaster would always stand right at the front of the assembly and sing as loud as possible while rigorously waving a musical conductor?s stick. It?s not very pleasant and undoubtedly not complimentary to him but, my only real memory of old Easter Egg was of one morning when he was in full song in front of the whole school. He was throwing his arms in the air, pacing up and down full of confidence. Suddenly a large lump of yellow phlegm popped out of his mouth faster than a lizard?s tongue. It slithered down his chin for a moment before he quickly sucked it back into his mouth. His face went red and we all giggled out loud. From that day on old Easter Egg never seemed to sing quite so loudly or be so prominent in front of the morning assembly ? poor old sod.


I spoke earlier about being tall and always being chosen for running races. Another sport I was always chosen for, mainly because of my height, was the hop, skip and jump. What a ####ing waste of time that sport was, no purpose, no meaning and certainly no enjoyment. Despite my protests, year after year I would be selected for this nonsense activity and year after year, by a teacher called Mr Regan, penalised for not winning. I could never understand why so-called educated teachers consistently chose a child to represent the school in an activity that the child clearly had no interest in or intention of winning.


One sport I loved and was extremely good at was swimming. I could swim at the age of four and was competent to swim in any depth of water and dive from diving boards at the age of just five, but I was never chosen to swim for the school. No, this activity was, in those days, considered a privilege and a privilege that was reserved for the chosen few, those children whose parents turned up for parents? evenings and helped at school bazaars or ran school committees. I know this may sound like I?m bitter, but it?s true, that?s the way it was and I, like other kids, accepted this as part of life. There was us and there was them; they had the cream and we had the scraps. Thinking about it, I don?t suppose things have really changed that much today, or have they?


A very clear memory of my early school days was the build-up to a Christmas break. The school was putting on an evening fancy-dress party and all kids were instructed to turn up and to make sure they were in fancy dress. There was a prize for the best entrant, can?t remember what the prize was, but I wanted to win. Unfortunately, mum and dad didn?t place a lot of importance on the school?s request and on the evening of the party I was without a costume. I was only a little chap, probably about seven or eight, and I wanted to go and

I wanted to be dressed-up. After lots of tears and moaning my mum gave in - ?Okay you can go.? ?But what as, Mum I haven?t got a costume.? She thought for a while; ?I know, come over here,? She said, Beckoning me to the fireplace. I walked over to where she stood; she bent down to the fire grate, placed a damp cloth in some soot and proceeded to spread this soot all over my face. ?What are you doing, Mum?? ?Don?t worry,? she said, ?You will look fine.? After plastering my face with black soot she went into her bedroom and returned with an old frock and a head scarf. ?Put those on,? she said. ?Why? What am I going to be?? ?You are going to be a ?Cool Black Mamma?, that?s what you are going to be.?

To avoid any mistakes, mum hung a large Cardboard sign around my neck with the words

?Cool Black Mamma?. I walked into the school as proud as could be; I kept thinking how much I looked like John and Patrick?s nan. Everyone looked at me and the more they looked the more I smiled, smiled that is, until I looked at the judges.

I said earlier that in my part of London black people were relatively rare when I was a child. Unfortunately on this particular evening rarity had been excused; yes, you?ve guessed it, one of the judges was as black as black could be. I don?t know what my thoughts were at that particular moment, but I would imagine they were something like, ?Well #### my luck, on all the days to meet a black man, I have to go and pick this one.?

Fortunately I had no need to worry, I won the contest. The black judge told me my fancy dress was great and very original. I don?t think judges, black or white, would have the same opinion today but in the fifties things were very much different. The Black and White Minstrels were well known and loved by huge audiences across the world, black people were

always portrayed in cinema films as servants or piano players in bars, and Robinsons Jam had a picture of a ?Golly? on the jar. Kids would collect 10 Golly labels and trade them in for a metal Golly badge. Some kids at my school had rows of Golly badges on their blazers, worn like medals. The badges were never considered as racist, they were simply fictional characters. I?m sure the manufactures never had racism in mind; they were just collectables for kids, which no one gave any thought to until some years later. You never see things like that today, which is probably a good thing.


One of my great passions for many years as a child and as a teenager was Acting. Acting to me was so natural. When acting I could be anyone or anything. I had no fear of performing in front of the class or performing at home in front of visitors; I could stand up at anytime, anywhere and act, I loved it.

Whenever the class teacher asked for someone to come to the front and act out a character,

I would be there, and all the kids in the class would call out- ?Come on Wardy. Get up and act.? Unfortunately for me, although I had an acting talent, and believe me I really did have talent, I was never asked to perform in any of the school plays, parts in school plays were always reserved for the well-thought-of kids, regardless of their acting ability. I remember, year after year, watching the school plays and thinking how much better I could have played the part if given the chance. Year after year I saw the same old faces up on that stage; the school prefect, the deputy school prefect, teachers? children, kids from smart areas and kids whose parents were professional people. I never saw any kid from my street up on that stage or any kid that came from a large family, regardless of their acting ability.

After all these years I don?t want to believe that those teachers were selective or prejudiced in their choice of children for the school plays, but surely the ability to act doesn?t depend on one?s background. Sadly, I can only conclude that they were indeed selective and they were indeed prejudiced. School holidays were something that I longed for. In the holidays I could be free of those teachers and all their silly ways. Free that is, until one year when all children were called back to school because of a polio outbreak.

Polio was a horrible disease that could leave children paralysed from the waist down or at the very least crippled and having to wear an iron leg brace. The government of the time decided that there was to be a mass inoculation of all children, which would be carried out at local schools during the holidays. I was taken by a neighbour, Dolly, the lady who owned the corner shop, to the school for my inoculation. I can see it to this day; there was a long line of children stretching all the way from the school playground and along the pavement outside. I had never had an inoculation or injection as we called them, but I had a good idea what it was all about.

It seemed an endless queue and the more I waited the more fearful I became. As I got closer to the table, set up in the playground where the injections were being given, I could see the occasional child fainting as the needle was pushed into their arm. I remember thinking that I wanted to go home and take my chances with polio rather than have that done to me; even the thought of a leg iron seemed a better option than that injection.

The needles of the fifties were unlike the needles of today, they weren?t disposable and they were a lot thicker and were used over again until blunt. My only hope was to be lucky enough to get a really sharp one.

Finally it was my turn. I looked up at a rather fierce-looking lady; she made no eye contact as she concentrated on refilling the syringe. She grabbed my arm, plunged the needle in, there was a sudden buzzing noise in my head and the rest is just a blur. I can only guess I got a

blunt one. I woke up in the house of the lady who took me. I felt cold, sick and I promised myself I would never have another injection in my lifetime ; it?s a promise I kept until I was in my twenties.


If you were to ask me what I learnt in my early days at school, it would be hard for me to give an answer. It could be said that the things I learnt and never forgot have been of no use to me throughout my adult life. As an example, pissing up the toilet wall, yes, this was a great pastime and if you could become champion you were someone to be reckoned with.

The school toilets were situated outside in the playground. They were typical of school toilets in those days: smelly, always wet and never warm. However, there was a good side to this; teachers rarely entered, and the walls were painted matt black. ?Why is matt black good?? I can hear you say. Well, if you piss on matt black it shines so you can see where you have pissed. Let me explain.

When I was a child at school there were competitions between boys to see who could piss up the school toilet wall the highest. By having matt black paint you could see exactly where you had pissed without any argument from others. I?m somewhat ashamed to admit this but, I am still proud to this day of being one of the pissing up-the-wall champions of the 1950s. So proud in fact that, in later years my talent landed me in an Egyptian cell, but that?s another story.

I could gabble on for hours about my days at Heber Road School, after all, I was there for six years. However, I?m going to leave the school with one last memory, to me the most exciting memory of my days there. I say the most exciting, exciting only from the eyes of a child. I was about eight years old at the time; I hated school, hated teachers and hated the system, so imagine my delight when one day the school caught fire.


It was the evening before the start of a new summer term; I was indoors playing with my toy lead soldiers, yes I did say lead, when I heard the sound of a fire engine. Fire engines didn?t have sirens in those days; they had bells which were hand-operated by one of the fire crew pulling on a small rope. I ran outside to see people rushing towards Heber Road. ?The schools alight,? They cried, ? The schools alight.? I joined all the others and made my way quickly towards the school. It?s not something I am proud of but, I will remind you again, I was just a kid, and fire engines and fire were exciting enough, but to see the fire engines outside my school and to see my school ablaze was almost a dream come true.

Every window had flames billowing out from the broken panes of glass and thick black smoke pushed its way through the roof tiles. What a sight! Surely this would mean the end of school for evermore; it could never be rebuilt.

Unfortunately, or should I say in my more mature years, fortunately? The school was up and running within a couple of weeks. They never found the cause of the fire.

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