The smell of privet blossom on Preston Way meant summer was here. Almost every house on that walkway was fronted by privets, producing an intoxicating scent that brightened the trudge to and from school.
(The well trodden
path they made is clearly visible in this aerial photo)
It was on Sturry Way that I first spotted a ‘Vote for ML’ slogan chalked on the
pavement.
‘What does it
mean?’ I asked nobody in particular when I saw it again on Milsted Road.
‘Vote for Magnus;
Labour’ I was kindly informed by a passing girl.
Though my
curiosity was satisfied, the answer was disappointing.
Of greater
interest to me were the Fred Flintstone pavement drawings that appeared around
that same time. They weren’t just good, they were brilliant and I was delighted
to happen upon the artist in action, again on Milsted Road. Robert Heath’s big brother,
a giant of a kid, was someone I knew only by sight but the
speed at which he chalked a perfect Fred Flintstone was highly impressive.
Some of the older
boys were alright. One such character was Stanley Ledger who, despite having a
couple of years on me, was much smaller. Stick thin, he wore a matching tweed
jacket and short pants that further undermined his age. Stanley – or Popeye as
he was often called – was someone I occasionally walked home with and it wasn’t
unusual for me to give my feather light companion a piggy back ride down Sturry Way.
At school…
Sunny
days meant it was time for outdoor PE lessons and access to the field. Poor Linda Webb didn’t know where to put her
hands when the girls lined up near the boys for a PE lesson in the playground.
Customary as it was for the girls to do PE in their underwear, it hadn’t gone
unnoticed by the male half of the class that on this particular day, Linda was wearing see through
knickers. Of course there was much nudging and sniggering, and though it was hard
not to have some sympathy for her, I gawped nonetheless. Whether we had a mixed
lesson I don’t recall, but I do remember William Hollands, Kim Erswell and Paul
Parker always left the rest of us trailing when we boys were instructed to race
to the other side of the field and back.
I made a new friend of another older kid, by the railings one lunchtime
when – with the help of our Flags of the World cards – we quizzed each other on
capital cities. We were then joined by Dave Franks, a friend of my new friend
and someone, I presumed, who had just returned to school after going home for
dinner. ‘Alright Oslo,’
Dave said as he joined us. As that was the only name I had for my new friend, I
never knew him as anything else but Oslo.
Fourth year Malcolm Aitkin was someone I looked up to but a fight on the field between him and third year Clive Skinner was disturbing to watch. Malcolm, to his credit, showed a lot of restraint as he repeatedly overpowered and threw his younger opponent to the ground, but Clive just wouldn’t quit and kept going back for more. The longer it went on –without teacher intervention – the more I admired Clive’s guts.
Zulu, a film that captured everyone’s imagination, was the inspiration behind a playground game that escalated beyond anything previously seen. What began with a few boys lining up in two ranks by the railings snowballed when scores of boys then flocked to the top of the playground to form a Zulu army.
‘Ooo-ooo-ooo’ the Zulus bayed, in ceremonial short pants and snake belts, before charging at the hopelessly outnumbered British.
As popular as the game was, the craze had no longevity as the Zulu army had no interest in falling dead on the playground’s abrasive surface, and every interest in giving someone a good stabbing, meaning the British Redcoats were on a hiding to nothing.
‘Argh! Pack it in! I’ve been stabbed four times already.’
Happy days indeed and in class, my second year ended on a high when Miss Bayes awarded me a three shilling book token for the work I’d put into a project on Denmark. Good old Miss Bayes: And good old Arthur Mee’s Children’s Encyclopaedia.
No comments:
Post a Comment