There I was, a toddler in the company of three other local lads, we were just crossing the canal bridge on Wilford Street, and one or two of the lads stopped to watch a boat going through the lock.

A gang of youths approached, and without delay they picked us up and threw us into the canal! Damned  delinquents!

Now you must be aware, to fully comprehend this story that I was, and always have been scared to death of two things – women and deep water. Some would question if there is any difference?)

I somehow came up from the depths of the canal, and managed to grab hold of some thick rope hanging from one of the British Waterway barges, and there I stayed, scared I’d lose my grip, unable to utter any sound or word – through shear fear and panic – and watched as passers-by fished out the other lads. Convinced if I shouted out, I’d lose me grip on the rope for some reason?

An ambulance and police arrived and they took me mates away – me, confused as to why I wasn’t rescued, still hanging on for grim life to the rope, getting colder, weaker and more and more scared than I ever thought possible!

Eventually, someone did spot me, and came across on a rowing boat (Still don’t know where the boat came from, but I thanked the man and God for it), and dragged me ashore. He even took me home in his pushbike-sidecar. I couldn’t thank him properly as I was still struggling to find my voice, and shaking like a leaf throughout the sheer terrifying ordeal, that has left me a phobia, if that is the right word, a dread, trepidation, and panic of deep water, that prevented my ever having learnt to swim – natural really, as before I could learn to swim, I had to conquer my fear of water, but could never do that, despite several periodic attacks of bravery and visits to the baths in an effort to master my fear, all failing miserably I’m still afraid of deep water. (Tsk!)

You’d have to understand the meaning of real fear, anxiety, dismay horror panic… call it what you will, that was my deepest sense of distress in my life.

Still it got me ready in a way for what was to follow I suppose?

They say everyone has their Achilles Heel – in that dirty canal on that fateful day I confirmed mine, definitely deep water!

When I eventually arrived home, thanks to the Good Samaritan, I was so pleased – that was until the Samaritan left, and daddy was kind enough to belt me about a bit for coming home late and with wet muddy clothes.

That night I went to bed bewildered, confused, dysphonic, sad, shivering and bruised, but the bruises caused by my falling into the canal were the least of my pain!

Getting another, good belting for getting my clothes wet, did not help my future sanity.

To Follow: A Nottingham Lad’s True Tale of Woe – Part Seven

The Anxious Trip to the Empire Theatre

 The first Christmas I can remember after dearest Mother had skedaddled, leaving me and Dad in peace.

Dad being Dad, and not inclined to spend money unless it was absolutely vital, did get me a few Christmas presents though – a packet of the new fire-lighters (Tik-Tac, remember them?), a second hand pair of gloves, a screwdriver, half a roll of lino, and a colander to strain the potatoes for his dinner.

He departed to the local Cricketer’s Arms (Davenports Ale) to support the brewing industry, and left me to get his dinner ready for 1300hrs.

By the time I’d got the fire lit and ‘going’, the meal cooking, and the radio set to the light programme for him to listen to the Queens Christmas speech, it left me just enough time to cut up some toilet squares out of the Nottingham Evening News, before he returned.

We ate the meal with little conversation, then as I was ‘washing the pots’, not an easy task without washing up liquid, getting hot water from the boiled kettle and pans, and the top of the sink about level with me chin!

(Cooking on the stove involved me having to stand on an upturned biscuit tin to reach everything – and as for heating the iron on the rings…) 

Dad listened to his ‘Family Favourites’ on the radio. By the time I’d cleared up, he was fast asleep, snoring gently. So much for his wanting to hear the Queens speech!

I delved into the larder under the stairs, in search of fodder to get ready for our tea, and found the Corned Beef had ‘gone off’, so opened a tin of Spam instead.

I nipped out to the Chapel, but must have got the times wrong, as no one was there.

I returned home.

Dad stirred about 1700hrs, and demanded his ‘cuppa’. I duly obliged.

After eating our tea, I again ‘washed up’, and Dad went off to sleep again. Safe I thought to go out to see a neighbour and mate… or should I say ‘go out to play?

As I approached number ten, I heard confusing sounds emanating from within – later confirmed as laughter and sounds from a TV.

I was admitted, and they had a Christmas tree with decorations all over the place. I found so many people in the front room it scared me, these fears were alleviated after I was informed they were members of the family. They fed me real turkey, sprouts, the pudding, biscuits, and something called mulled wine?

The TV fascinated me! (Never saw one before)

I swayed unsteadily on me feet back to number 4, with a minced pie.

Dad was still asleep.

I joined him in the other chair.

Dad woke up, ate the minced pie, and returned to his brewery supporting activities at the Cricketer’s Arms.

I listened to the Navy Lark, and Hancock’s Half-Hour on the radio.

Dad returned with a bottle of lemonade for me, and gave me a shilling for Christmas (5p)!

Dad retired.

I retired, despite everything, happy and content.

Funny how easily pleased I was in those days.

Coming soon:

A Nottingham Lad’s True Tales of Woe – Part Five

Fire in the Backyard

 Created by once Britain’s highest EQ content of any other applicant for a job with UPS – he didn’t get the job, and is still wondering what exactly is EQ?

Aged Approx. 5:
* Learning from the midwife that Mother said “Throw it in the Trent (river)” when she delivered me, brushed away the cigarette ash, and handed me to her.
* Realising it is not nice to get thrown in a canal.
Being looked after by a fictional Auntie, who used to take hours to give me a bath, and threw in massages and tuition for free. (Ah… memories)
* The head (and the smell) of the escaped elephant as it rampaged past my open bedroom window.
Aged Approx. 6
* Mother popping out to the bookies, not to return for 4 years.
Aged Approx. 7
* Seeing the neighbours first toilet roll (Izal), but still preferring to cut up the Evening Post, (or Evening News if I could get it as it was softer) into squares to use.
Aged Approx. 8
* Seeing the neighbours massive, wood encased television set.
* Seeing the neighbours daughter Jane’s (name changed) nether regions.
Aged Approx. 9
* Finding out that the hot ashes and soot from the trains above the back yard on the viaduct at the station, could set fire to my hair.
Aged Approx. 9
* Going scrumping can get you locked in a police station cell for the day, then taken home by the bobby, then belted all over the place by your father.
Aged Approx. 10
* The first washing-up liquid (Squeezy) made great bubbles.
* Getting six of the best from the headmaster for fighting in the school playground – when all I did was to get beat up!
Aged Approx. 12
* Hearing of the Manchester United F.C. team plane crashing on take-off, and 21 of the 44 people on board are killed.
Aged Approx. 13
* Mother coming home again!
Aged 14
* Starting work – what a shock!

Coming soon – Part Four – Christmas 1955 

Mothers Endearing Qualities

When she lost her son…

Ah, dear mother… occasionally she went home from wherever she happened to be at the time, often leaving me behind in my pram. I was forgotten and abandoned in the recreation park, at the tobacconists, at school and on the bus station. The most memorable occasion being in, of all places, Mablethorpe, Lincolnshire. 

She and I went on day trips to the seaside resort of Mablethorpe (Dad worked for the Railway and got free rail tickets).

Once there, Mother was in her element, smoking away and playing at the bingo stall to her heart’s content. I was usually left on the beach in all weathers and – if she’d had a win or two – I’d get a thruppence (1¼p) or a sixpence (2½p) from her when I eventually tracked her down to whichever bingo stall she’d camped at. She played with at least five cards; she could multi-task when it suited her. I’d then be told to get lost for three or four hours in the amusement arcade, so I had to play the halfpenny machines in an effort to make my vast fortune last.

On this occasion she actually caught the train home, getting as far as Lincoln before she realised I wasn’t with her.

She rang the Lincolnshire constabulary, who sent a massive, scary policeman to find me. I was still in the seafront arcade, on the only winning streak I’d ever known, having amassed an unimaginable fortune of over three shillings (15p) from the ha’penny machines.

So when the big bobby found me, I was not very pleased, and went begrudgingly with him to Station Road Police Station. From there I was given a lift in the back of a ‘Black Maria’ into Lincoln. I thought I’d been arrested.

We arrived at the Railway Station, where dear Mummy blew cigarette smoke into my face and promptly relieved me of my three bob (shillings=15p) winnings.

An Education in Nub-Ending, Roll-ups and ‘Homework’

She would regularly have me going around the streets picking up cigarette nub ends, taking them home, and rolling up her reconstituted cigarettes. I just thought everyone did it. With so much practice I became an expert ‘Rizla’ roller-upper of her fags.

She used to take in home work for a while, which meant that while she was out playing cards or bingo, I would have to occupy myself in putting fifty hairnets onto circular cards, slot 20 hairpins each into countless cut-away cards and assemble comb kits and the like for hours on end. Every night.

Mind you, she did give me a shilling (5p) a week for doing it.

Thank heavens she kept on disappearing and I had a bit of a rest from the constant worry.

As soon as I was old enough, dear old Dad made sure I took a morning and evening newspaper round on, got me a Saturday job at the hardware store and a night job at the Grove cinema, lighting the gaslights in the auditorium at the beginning of the shows, then going back late night to extinguish them. Child-labour sweatshops? Tell me about it…

Avoiding the Law

Even as a child, I thought my mother’s ability to keep out of court and avoid the attentions of police and debt collectors for so long was simply amazing.

I lost count of the number of times I was suddenly instructed to answer the door to a caller and deny all knowledge of her – as she hid in the larder, under the stairs, the outside toilet or coal-house in the yard.

Fast-forward about 40 years or so. She was eventually taken to court – by then I didn’t want to know, but my sister Jane (who was farmed out to rich relatives at a young age) did go to court with her. This is what Jane said about it:

“I was so embarrassed when they read out the charges. It took the usher about 15 minutes to read them all out, by which time everyone in the court was either nodding off or looking at each other in amazement!”

Mother even had some of the people she had conned over the years give her glowing character references during her day in court. On conclusion of the trial, I wondered why they bothered. She emerged from the court with a new, rent-free fully furnished flat, 50% of gas and electricity bills paid and only 12 months probatio

Mother and ‘Our Kid’

Mother’s antics drove my older step brother Pete into the forces. He got married to a Chinese gal while he was stationed in Hong Kong, where he lived for a few months. The time came when he had to decide whether to stay out there or return to England. Dear mother wrote them a begging letter, asking how much he had been earning in Hong Kong; which was enough for our kid to decide to stay there.

I missed and still miss him so much, but couldn’t question his wisdom in keeping away from her.

A Nottingham Lads True Tale of Woe – Part Three to follow ASAP…