I was a young boy in Bolton when my father accepted an offer of redeployment to Kent. I had some grasp of the situation - if not its finality - and when a taxi pulled up on our cobbled street in the autumn of 1961, I cheerfully kissed my tearful granny goodbye before hopping into the taxi with my two little brothers, Mam and the baby, and Dad with the family dog.
At Bolton’s Victorian railway station the
family boarded an old steam train to Manchester for the first leg of our
journey. The sun shone brightly that morning and sitting by a window, I felt my
head burning as soon as the train chugged out of the station.
As eager as I’d been to read the antics of Popeye and Mighty Moth in a comic bought to keep me amused, it was quickly discarded when a queasy feeling rose in my stomach. Thus began one of the longest, most miserable days of my life. I don’t know how many counties there are between Bolton and Gillingham, but I puked my guts up in almost every one of them.
~
After an overnight stay in a hotel near the top of Canterbury Street, we completed our journey with a short bus ride along the top road next morning. Once again, it was a fine sunny day.
‘There’s my new works,’ said Dad, when we got off the bus near the top of Twydall Lane.
‘Where?’
‘There, where that big blue ball is. See?'
We couldn’t miss it, but all we wanted to know was the whereabouts of our new home. Twydall Lane isn’t particularly long, but on that morning, it ran a lot longer than our patience.
‘Is this our house, Dad?’
‘No’
‘Is this it?’
‘No’
‘Is it this one?’
‘No, it’s not on this road.’
At the bottom of Twydall Lane an impressive selection of shops ringed Twydall Green. Of greater fascination though, was a large circular manhole cover where the pavement bends into Waltham Road. I’d never seen one so big.
On Waltham Road the game began again. ‘Is this our road, Dad?’
‘No.’
Disappointment turned to joy when we came to Crundale Road. From the moment Dad confirmed this was our road, three little boys took it in turn to ask the same burning question. ‘Is this our house?’
At long last we arrived at 43 Crundale Road. Wow! It was much bigger than our pavement terraced house in Bolton and it had an inside toilet… and a bathroom… and a garden instead of a back yard. It even had a garden at the front. Dead posh, but our excitement was soon snuffed out. Before we had the chance to explore thoroughly, Dad marched me, Dave and Mike to the home of Johnny Gregory, a workmate who lived in Kennington Close off Littlebourne Road. Johnny and his wife had taken the Bolton to Gillingham path some months earlier, and they’d agreed to mind us while Dad went home for the arrival of the removal van.
Though the Gregory’s maintained a plentiful supply of orange juice, they played safe and restricted us to the confines of their back garden. Not that we cared, we were happy to play in the sunshine all day, but the idea wasn’t without consequence.
When Dad came for us late in the afternoon he found every inch of the Gregory’s garden path covered in scrawl and doodles. He shook his head and apologised. ‘I’m sorry Johnny, but they’ve never seen chalk in the ground before.’
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