13 Wild Life

At school, class 1/2 learned about the Queen, the wedding of Angus Ogilvy and Princess Alexandra, and the importance of Prime Minister Harold MacMillan. We learned about the Houses of Parliament too, when Miss Frankland told us about the little picture on the HP sauce label.

An understanding of the monarchy and the government, on top of reading, writing, times tables and regular spelling tests seemed like a lot of hard work, something Ian Newman and I lamented as we gazed wistfully through the railings at the infants’ school one playtime.

‘They’re lucky they don’t have to work. Not like us.’

Though I wasn’t entirely free of tormentors, playtimes were a little happier, but to be called a funny talking kid in a playground full of funny talking kids was no fun at all. When a large outline drawing of British Isles appeared in the playground I found comfort, in moments of respite, to stand by the railings and stare at the approximate position of Bolton. There I stood and there I vowed that when I was big I’d go home.

As the end of the first year loomed I was spending less time in the clutches of older boys – and avoiding the kid I knew as Timmy Spiteful – and participating in regular playground pursuits, like flicking cards against one of the walls on the boys’ side of the playground.

Two boys, in turn, flicked tea cards at the wall until one card landed on another, allowing the victor to claim the cards flicked in that round. If a player ran out of cards during a game they were given a dog’s chance – a single card, to be used at will, as the other player carried on flicking. Of the kids in my year, few were a match for Alan Stewart, who was seldom seen without a wad of cards, secured with elastic bands, in each hand.

Asian Wild Life cards, the latest in the PG tips series, were very popular. They came free with packets of tea, with many of us buying the album, priced sixpence, at the International Stores or other Brooke Bond outlets.

Still in circulation were older cards from the African Wild Life series.

Older still were boring Freshwater Fish cards.

And boring Wildflower cards.

And sometimes, there’d be the odd card from a packet of sweet cigarettes.

At home, Mam decided the kitchen floor needed polishing. I thought she was kidding when she said she’d tie some rags around my feet and let me skate across the floor. But no, she was not. ‘Tomorrow when you come home from school,’ she said.

I was beside myself with excitement next day. The idea of skating across the kitchen floor like Yogi Bear on a frozen lake was too good to keep to myself and when I told John Conway about it, he was desperate to get in on the act. John, a classmate who lived in Wingham Close, regularly walked home with me and the two of us were ecstatic when Mam said John could join in. Alas, reality didn’t meet our expectation. For all the polish used, skidding six inches was no reward for the effort we put in, killing our enthusiasm and bringing a disappointing end to the exercise.

Light nights gave everyone a chance to play out after school. Richard Lloyd was another classmate and in the wilderness of his back garden, on Doddington Road, he gave me an education. ‘Don’t you know what it is? It’s chickweed. Take some home for your rabbits.’

Respectful of Richard’s knowledge I took a handful home for the two rabbits we kept in a hutch in our back garden. For better or worse, the rabbits ate the chickweed, yet their droppings still looked like Maltesers.

I can’t recall how I got to be taken under the wing of some big boys from the Hollingbourne Road/Doddington Road area. A couple of them had been amongst my early tormentors, yet that was all forgotten when I joined them on an expedition down Lower Pump Lane. We had a lot of fun, most of it harmless, till we came across some gypsy caravans. From a crouched position behind a hedge it was suggested we all gather a handful of gravel and on the count of three, let them have it. I played my part but in the milliseconds it took for the hail of gravel to clatter the caravans, I was already up and running. 

Writing ‘bollocks,’ in yellow crayon on the staircase at home was not a good idea. Only my innocence spared me from a hiding. When I told Dad I’d heard friends using the word in much the same way as ‘blast!’ or damn!’ he let me off with a dire warning and gave me a cloth to scrub it clean. 

If Dad had any concerns about the company I was keeping, he didn’t say. I had none, until I made a terrifying discovery. Robert Kyle had never been anything but good to me but when I learned his older brother, Timmy, was the kid I’d known as Timmy Spiteful, I almost wet myself. From thereon and for a long time afterwards, I stayed well clear of Doddington Road.

Playing football with Ian Newman had to be safer. I had no great interest in football at that time, but I had an old pair of boots and I gladly accepted Ian’s invitation to join him and his dad one Saturday morning. From the Newman home on Beechings Way, just around the corner from Milsted Road, we took the short walk to Beechings playing field for a kick about. Impressive in his red shirt and white shorts, Mister Newman easily evaded my clumsy tackles. Not so Ian, who fell in a wailing heap when I missed the ball and kicked his ankle.

‘Get up and don’t be soft!’ said Mister Newman, much to my relief.

So on we went, with Ian and Mister Newman showing their skills, and me showing  my enthusiasm. Since I was unable to appreciate that there was more to tackling than taking a hefty swipe at the ball, it wasn’t long before Ian was howling again. Enough was enough. Mister Newman, quite wisely, decided it was time to pack it in.