77 Pocket Money

Other kids went to Saturday morning pictures. Other kids went on holiday. Other kids got ice creams from the Tonibell, Mister Softee and the Mister Whippy van. My brothers and I weren’t so lucky but when Mam could afford it, she treated us to Oyster Delights.

And sometimes, on Saturday mornings, Dad gave us pocket money.

‘You ask him.’

‘I asked last week, you ask him.’

Dad recognising the custom of pocket money was one miracle. Getting it needed another.

‘Have you asked him?’

‘No, he’s in a bad mood.’

Dad in a bad mood was a man to be avoided. It was best to leave it until later, or try again on Sunday.

‘Have you asked him yet?’

‘Yes’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said he’s got no change.’

‘Blast!’

As the eldest I was supposed to get 2s/6d, Dave 2s/3d and Mike two bob, but as the weekend slipped by our hopes faded. Come Sunday night, we wrote it off. Even when we struck lucky there was still a snag.

Dad worked long hours and regular overtime for his family, fags and his nightly visit to the Rainham Mark Social Club. Each night he’d disappear at around half past eight but occasionally, if he was feeling the pinch before payday, he’d enter the living room in his cap and coat, showing a rare grin.  

‘Right men, we’re having a whip round,’ he’d say. Then he’d come to each of us, in turn, and hold his hand out for what remained of our pocket money. The greater our generosity, the bigger Dad’s smile, with scathing condemnation reserved for anyone who had had nothing to declare.

We never went to Saturday morning pictures. We didn’t have family holidays, other than Dad taking one or two of us to visit distant relations. A treat for us was a pound of broken biscuits or a bag of chocolate misshapes from Woolworths.

But we were happy. What you never had you never miss they say, and most of the time that was true. Besides, I was too busy playing football to care about much else.