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STORIES FROM ALAN DURY
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Memories
Place..... Alfred Street South. Time..... Late 1940s. I was about twelve years old when I first sought employment. I took over from Johnny F. who worked as a butchers delivery boy. The butcher was an ex World War Two pilot who had been heavily scarred about the face during his experiences in the war. This gave him the air of a true hero and I admired him greatly. I settled down to the life of a delivery boy and stayed with until leaving school. I worked five days a week, four of them before going to school. For this, I was paid the princely sum of twelve shillings and sixpence per week. This was further enhanced by a goodly amount of tips from my customers. One of my favourite duties was obtaining fresh supplies of sawdust. Butch would supply me with a sack and one shilling and sixpence and send me to a joinery and carpentry firm on Lamartine Street. After handing over the money, a man took me to the rear of the workshop and opened a huge trapdoor in the floor. A ladder led down from the trapdoor, its lower end disappearing into a sea of sawdust. Leaving me to fill the sack, the man returned to his duties. As soon as he had left the room a silent “Geronimo” left my lips as I launched myself and my sack into the void and the welcoming bed of sawdust. Filling the sack with as much sawdust as it could hold, I struggled my way back to the top of the ladder. With no one still around, I placed my sack against a wall and did another leap ( just for luck ) before returning back to the butchers. ..... to be continued. Edgar W. was our local barber. He had a shop on Alfred Street South. From here, he would offer you (according to your age) a short back and sides, a penny parting, and a rather mysterious ‘a little something for the weekend sir’. School children would pop in every morning for a penny parting and emerge with a sleek Brillcreamed head of hair. My first visit to this shop is one that I shall never forget. I went with my father and brother as we were all in need of a haircut. I was not particularly looking forward to the experience and adopted a ‘the sooner I go, the sooner it’s over attitude’. After my father and brother had received their haircuts, they waited for me to have mine. Edgar beckoned to me and I was in his chair like a flash, looking at a sulking image in the mirror before me. Edgar, sensing my unease, smiled with good humour and asked me if I’d mind standing up. He then placed a short plank of wood across the arms of the chair and it was on this I had to sit. Whilst I was having my hair cut, Edgar chatted to my dad. I recall this chat very well. It related to a young lad, “not much different to this one here” said Edgar. Apparently, this young lad would just not sit still on the plank of wood making it very difficult for Edgar to give him his short back and sides. Towards the end of his haircut, just as Edgar was tidying up his neckline with his razor, the lad gave one fidget too many and Edgar accidentally sliced off his ear. Edgar held up the actual razor and I caught a glimpse of it in the mirror. According to Edgar, he then bent to pick up the lad’s ear and because it was covered with hair, he had to blow on it and waft it a few times before popping it into a matchbox and sending it and the lad to hospital to have it sewn back on. I never moved as much as a muscle nor batted an eyelid till it was all over.
....... to be continued. Memories
Place..... Alfred Street South. Time..... Late 1940s. Saturday’s were very busy. The shop would be full of customers as Butch went around supplying their requirements. He would also regale them with numerous risqué jokes that always caused raucous laughter to ring throughout the shop. Of course, I was far to young to understand any of his jokes. I did once commit one to memory and relayed it to my mum when I got home. Mum must have done a good job of smothering her mirth before telling me she didn’t understand it either. I hated doing this, in fact, it was very scary. Every Saturday, without fail, Butch would send me round to Mrs.? address with instructions to ask her to pay something off of the account that was owed. This sounded simple enough but Mrs ? was the kind of woman who did not take kindly to butcher’s boys asking her for money. It was with some trepidation that I tapped upon her door. The outcome was always the same. The door would swing open and she’d stand there, arms folded, glaring malevolently as the cowering debt collector delivered his message. After hearing me out, she then told me where to go and ordered me to take the butcher along also. Mrs ? was not a pleasant woman. ...... to be continued. Memories
Place..... Alfred Street South. Time..... Late 1940s. (continued) Saturday’s were the days that I had to collect cash from the customers. I was supplied with a cash bag and notebook containing names and the amounts that I was to collect. At the end of my busy morning, I returned with my bag of cash and upended it on my bosses counter. Butch then carried out a cross check between the note book and my cash returns. These were always tense times for me as the conditions of my employment clearly stated that any discrepancy between book and cash returns would be taken from my wages, and twelve shillings and sixpence a week did not leave much room for error. Fortunately, I never did get it wrong although a near miss occasionally occurred. At these times Butch followed a strict procedure. Informing me of the amount of discrepancy, he would always end with the words... “Where is it?” Not knowing what to say, I remained silent and as an afterthought I would pick up the cash bag and closely inspect the interior. Nothing forthcoming from me wold cause Butch to do a re-check of the accounts in which ‘his’ error then became apparent. On this occasion, I received a large pork pie on top of my twelve and six. ...... to be continued. Memories
Place..... Alfred Street South. Time..... Late 1940s. One of my deliveries took me to a Doctors residence on Shakespeare Street in the heart of town. Mum was never too happy about this and made me promise not to ride my bike in heavy traffic. This was ok by me as I never did that anyway, preferring to walk alongside my bike to make the delivery. I was well versed with all the short cuts the town had to offer so it never took too long. I was instructed to always deliver the Doctor’s order by the back entrance which meant navigating my bike down a narrow alleyway containing the back gates to many properties. At the rear of the property opposite the doctors was a large glass lean to. The insides of the glass was lined with chicken coop wire and this was the home of three small monkeys. They looked very lively as they swung this way and that in their strange surroundings. I would often spend a few moments observing them across the alleyway. It was on Manor Street when my bike came to a sudden stop. Looking down, I was appalled to see that the rear inner tube had come adrift and wrapped itself around the hub. There being nothing else I could do, I placed my left arm through the crossbar and hoisted the whole rear end onto my shoulder before making the half mile trek back to the butchers. With the day being very hot and my bike being very heavy, it was necessary to make several stops before arriving at the shop in a state of near collapse. Fortunately, it was my last delivery of the day and Butch had my bike repaired and ready for my next shift. Memories
Place....... Trentside Time...... 1940s. We were all imbued with a pioneering spirit when it came to the outdoor life. Living under the stars suited our lifestyles perfectly. We were expert in all aspects of living under canvas, even down to the finer details of building campfires. This could be quite inconvenient on wet nights, as finding enough dry tinder with which to start your fire could prove somewhat of a problem. We would take a supply of newspaper with us of course, but if for some reason this was unsuccessful, there was always an alternative. Little known survival techniques learned in Cadet School taught us that most of us carry a supply of tinder that could be harvested at appropriate times in the form of belly button fuzz. I feel I must report however, that occasional inspections of our own, and on occasion, each other’s belly buttons produced no such combustible material. ....... to be continued. Memories
Place....... Forest Recreation Ground. Time....... Late 1940s. Football practice took place on the Forest. Buses would turn up outside the school we’d jump aboard and off we’d go. Each class supported enough pupils to form two teams. According to ability, you were considered suitable for the A team, the B team, or the Dogs and Bones. I made up one of the latter. The A and B teams were pitted against their equivalents of the other classes. The dogs and bones were given a ball and left to their own devices. Cricket practice took place on a field beside the River Trent. I never really qualified for this either, despite giving it my best shot. I was always super sensitive at the wicket, either striking at the ball long before it had reached the crease or long after it had crashed into the stumps. Memories
Place....... Robin Hood Street. (Updated) Time....... Around mid 1940s. I was still quite young when we moved from Carlton to Nottingham. My parents went into the Greengrocery trade and moved into a shop situated at no. 29 Robin Hood Street. This was quite a culture shock for me as life suddenly changed from one of peace and quiet, to one hectic but exciting. I attended Bath Street School of which I shall write shortly. Robin Hood Street, in those days was a vey busy thoroughfare containing shops, factories, an illegal bookies, three storied dwellings and a pub on every corner. We would occasionally earn the odd shilling by ‘keeping conk’ for the bookies and run in warning them of patrolling police. It was also heavily populated with kids my own age so I was not long in making new friends. There was also an open air market at the bottom of the street and this reminds me of my first story. There was myself, Johnny H and Pat H. We were hanging out on a very busy Robin Hood Street when we saw a couple of interesting youngsters and stopped to have a chat. They told us they were on the way to the market to sell the items they were carrying. They also gave out some very interesting information which we decided to check out later. Now although this brief meeting was all very natural to our eyes, I have often wondered how it must have appeared to any passing adult to witness five youngsters having a chat. One of whom was giving a shoulder ride to a full sized stuffed Chimpanzee and of another carrying a stringless Balalaika. The other information they imparted concerned a shelter further up the street which according to our informants, carried a rifle on its roof. We took off for the shelter at a dead run, but no one was faster than me in those days. Gaining access to the roof presented no problem, without breaking step, I threw myself at the wall foot foremost, and centrifugal force sort of took care of the rest. Reaching the roof, my hair stood on end. There before me lay a Kentucky rifle. I’d seen many cowboy films so it was easy to identify. It stood taller than myself and had a trigger and trigger guard and something that I took to be a flintlock mechanism. I held it over my head to show my friends waiting below and they were very envious as I made my way home carrying it in the crook of my arm in true mountain man style. My dad told me later it was the handle of a vacuum cleaner. Memories
Place....... Robin Hood Street. Time....... 1946 to 1958 approx. Paddy was a childhood pet. He was a Heinz Variety Terrier. He was small, nondescript, of uncertain colouring and parentage, with one bent ear and one straight. Paddy was loved by all who knew him and was a valued member of the gang. Paddy was purchased as a pup for five shillings and I still recall the night he entered our lives. You are, no doubt, aware of the views of dogs and bonfire nights, well Paddy wasn’t. Paddy loved bonfire nights as much as anyone. We did keep him indoors fearing for his safety but he kept up such a constant howling and scratching at the door until my mother got the message and let him rejoin the gang. Paddy would closely observe a dropped banger until the explosion, after which, he’d run off to closely observe another one. Paddy accompanied the gang wherever they went and always took part in their adventures. He would often follow us to school, without our knowledge, and upon detection I would order him to go back home, emphasising the command with a pointed finger. He would then dejectedly go in that direction. I would then spend the rest of the day wondering if he was alright, but I needn’t have worried. He would still be sitting on the step of the shop when I got home. Walking up the street, I’d give the call “here Paddy” and he’d leave the step at something like forty miles per hour, not stopping until he crashed into me. He would often accompany my dad when he went to his allotment and it was on one of these occasions that it happened. We were out playing and were amazed at the speed at which he was coming up the street. Ignoring us completely, he shot straight into the shop. I followed him in and found my mum doing her best to console him. He was bleeding heavily from his rear quarter, a patch of skin having been entirely removed. I immediately took him to the PDSA at the bottom of Carlton Road to have him checked over and repaired. Dad came home from the allotment and told us what happened. It appeared that Paddy had got into an altercation with an Alsatian at the allotment. According to dad, the Alsatian picked up Paddy and shook him like a rat. Paddy recovered from his experience however and was soon back with the gang, almost non the worse for wear. I say almost, because forever after, whether running or trotting his rear left leg would frequently miss fire causing him to give a little hop. Memories
Place..... Bath Street School. Time........ Mid 1940s. As with all schools of the day, a nit nurse would occasionally visit. The lesson would be interrupted whilst she went down rows of children inspecting their hair for any unwanted visitors. Worse still, was the visits of a school medical officer who would give a brief examination to the entire school. On these occasions, our Mothers had to be in attendance. Being a newcomer, I had heard what took place at these medicals but dismissed them as playground propaganda. With my mother sitting beside me, I allowed the doctor to look into my ears. Neither did I object to her putting a spatula into my mouth and telling me to say aaahh. I didn’t even mind her sounding my chest with her stethoscope. I drew the line however when she told me to remove my trousers. I remember as if it was only yesterday, when I said ‘Oh dear mam, I’ve had it now’. Mum found this very funny and burst out laughing. The medical officer however, did not and attempted to remove my trousers by saying I was being a silly boy. My mum then came to the doctors assistance and also telling me not to be silly, tried to help the doctor with the removal of my trousers. I was having none of it and grimly held on to them as the doctor and my mum staggered this way and that trying to remove them. Finally, her patience having run out, the doctor told my still laughing mum to “get him out of here” Memories
Place....... Bath Street School. Time....... Mid 1940s. I never liked school so life at Bath Street was tolerated rather than enjoyed. We used to have dancing lessons and had to pick our partners before the lesson began. Being a new comer to the area and rather shy, I tended to hang back until there was only Elsie left. I would like to have asked Betty or Ann, both of whom I greatly admired but this was not to be. Elsie and I took an instant dislike to each other, probably caused by the fact that we were the ‘last chickens in the shop’. It was an intolerable situation. One I could not possibly allow to continue. The following week (with some excellent bandaging supplied by my mother) I limped my way into the class with my left knee heavily bandaged. For added effect, I even supplied evidence of blood seeping through the wrappings, courtesy of Watermans Ink. The ruse worked however and I was excused dancing. It was playtime and having nothing better to do, I wandered over to see what was the commotion was about. A group of kids was standing around another who had a pastille tin in his hand. Before letting us privy to the contents of the tin, the holder warned us that we were about to witness, was not for the faint hearted. He then went on to inform us when and where he’d discovered the mutilated finger that had a piece of wire running through it. Holding it forth for all to see, he carefully removed the lid and a series of oooh’s escaped us. There before us resting on a bed of cotton wool was the finger. It lay in stark contrast to its surroundings being deathly white in colour with tinges of green at the entrance and exit points of the wire. With our stomachs in turmoil, we closed in for a closer look and shrank back in horror when the finger stood upright in the tin and began waving at us. Memories
Place....... Colwick Woods. (midnight) Time....... 1949/50ish. We went on midnight manoeuvres once. We were marched to Colwick Woods where the manoeuvres were about to take place. We came to a halt on a piece of open ground that had an open shelter at its centre, where visitors could sit on sunny days. By the light of the moon and a very large torch, the Lt. explained what was about to happen. He, and the Corporal were going to man the “outpost” and we were to scatter into the surrounding darkness. Given three flashes with the torch as a signal, we were then to return by stealth and recapture the outpost without the searchlight falling upon us. Dead easy, I thought. In my haste to be swallowed up by the darkness, I soon realised I was totally alone. I put out a few whispered requests to left and right in the hopes of hearing a familiar voice, but to no avail. Fear took hold of me. Fortunately, this did not last long as I saw the signal and dropped to the ground to begin my return. Taking advantage of all the hollows that the ground had to offer, I began to crawl towards the outpost. The searchlight swung slowly back and forth across the open ground, picking out attackers who were immediately pounced on by the Corporal. I waited some minutes before setting off again. I continued my return and the searchlight continued its journey across the ground. The Corporals voice rang out again and more attackers were taken prisoners to join those in the shelter. This happened a couple of more times with the Corporals voice getting ever louder, and ever closer. By now, I was feeling quite excited for I was getting the impression that I would be taking the outpost single handed. I waited a few more minutes before setting off again and it was when I was crawling the last few yards that I heard the sound of marching along Greenwood Road. |
Memories
Place....... Manvers Secondary Modern School for Boys. Time....... Late 40s / Early 50s. The only school writing material (pre ball point pens) was by pen and ink. Each desk carried an inkwell and a pen. The annual cost of the pens must have been astronomical on account of the fact that a vast number of the pens were attached to the classrooms ceilings. They were put there by bored pupils as soon as sir’s back was turned. There was a knack of turning a school pen into an efficient javelin and this was how it was achieved. With teacher busily writing something on the blackboard, those with acute hearing would hear a series of soft clicks emanating from different parts of the classroom. These were the sounds of pen nibs being pressed to breaking point on various desk tops. After this was achieved, the nib was then reduced to two viscous points. With sir’s back still facing the class, the pens were then propelled in an upward direction with enough force to ensure that they penetrated the ceiling. This was no mean feat given that Manvers was of Victorian architecture whose ceilings were a good fifteen feet above our heads. Obtaining a new pen was a simple matter of informing sir that there was no pen on the desk and suggesting that the previous occupant must have contributed to the ever growing population on the ceiling. Of course, this could occasionally be hazardous as a pen could detach itself from the ceiling and begin the return journey to earth. Memories
Place....... Manvers Secondary Modern School for Boys. Time....... Late 40s / Early 50s. It was an art lesson. Sir was making the rounds handing something out to everyone. Reaching my desk, he handed me a piece of wire. Returning to the front of the class, he told us to turn this wire into ‘something’ I hated orders like this. I turned it over a few times trying to visualise what this could become. I gave up trying to produce a lion’s head, a tiger’s head, the head of a hippopotamus and straightened the wire out again. Meanwhile, teacher was on his way round again, making a suggestion here, handing out a compliment there. I looked at my piece of wire again and for some reason, held it up to the light as if to seek inspiration there. As teacher drew closer, the wire suddenly took on a life of its own as it bent this way and coiled that way. I was practically exhausted when he removed it from my hand asking me what I had created. I looked at the misshapen mess he was holding and gave him a hastily considered reply. His voice boomed. “A MOUSE !!!!!” he boomed. “A MOUSE ??????” Had there been a mouse hole anywhere at hand, I would have willingly occupied it. Memories
Place....... Manvers Secondary Modern School for Boys. Time....... Late 40s / Early 50s. The School would hold swimming gala’s. Here we would pit our swimming skills against other classes. I was never much of a scholar but I was sought out at Gala times. Not so much because of my speed in the races but more because of my ability to enter the water from heights that others would balk at. Diving was my forte. Practice gala sessions would find teachers asking me to perform swallow dives, jacknives and back flips which I rarely refused. I was entered in the races but never achieved the correct coordination between arms and legs to be successful in this discipline. I would fare slightly better in the breaststroke events but even then, in my haste to win, I would often find myself wandering into a competitors lane whilst people on the sidelines were yelling at me to get back into my own. I was even disqualified in one event. The object of this was to see how many items could be retrieved from the floor of the pool whilst holding a single breath. Others before me surfaced from their dive and threw their items at the feet of the referee to be counted. Came my turn, I sucked in a lung full of air and launched myself at my first target. The collectible items covered a good proportion of the pool’s floor and I made my way from one to another until my hands were full. Still having much of my single breath at my disposal, I made up my mind and made my way to another item. After surfacing, I threw my items at the feet of the referee and carefully clambered out of the pool. Whilst he was doing the count, I removed the rest of the items from my bathers and dropped these at his feet to be included in the count. I was disqualified. I thought it most unfair. Memories
Place....... Manvers Secondary Modern School for Boys. Time....... Late 1940s. The school had a well stocked Gymnasium. P.T. days would find us leaping over upholstered boxes, hanging upside down from wall bars and doing press-ups and so on. Medicine Balls would be passed over the heads or between the legs of rows of pupils. These could also be thrown amongst each other where a badly thrown ball once resulted in my rolling around on the ground in abject agony with my hands clutching my crotch. Minor or major infractions were punishable by making you stand in a corner with your hands behind your back. The hands were so placed in order to cover as much bum as possible owing to the fact that your gym shorts had been pulled down around your ankles. I suffered this ignominy only once. Memories
Place..... Manvers Secondary Modern School for Boys. Time..... Late 1940s / Early 1950s. This was my third and final school and I still did not like school. The dark secrets that circulated regarding newcomers was well known making my first day one of fearful apprehension. This was a right of passage involving something known only as The Block. The block was a low projection in a wall that newcomers were bent over to be given a severe drubbing on the rump by whoever wanted to take part. I did not like the sound of this and stayed in my elder brothers shadow until the menace had passed. I would call for Dennis on the way to school and we’d make the trek together. Leaving Dennis’s house on Alfred Street South, we’d make our way up Flewitt Street and turn into a tunnel that was incorporated in between neighbouring houses. The acoustics of this tunnel were such that made it imperative that we traversed its length at a run while yelling our heads off. This brought us onto Paxton Street which in turn brought us to Gordon Road. From here, we’d turn into Pym Street which took us the rest of the way to school. ...... to be continued. Memories
Place....... Manvers Secondary Modern School for Boys. Time....... Late 1940s. It was a science lesson. Sir was making his way round handing something out to everyone. He reached our desk and to my surprise he handed each of us a caterpillar. There was an air of general amusement. Some pupils had their caterpillars in cupped in their hands and were shaking them like dice. Others had begun caterpillar races, whilst the classroom comedians were making a great show of popping theirs in their mouths and chewing contentedly. That wasn’t for me though. Being a bit of a Buddhist at heart, I had already christened mine Raymond. Making his way round again, sir informed us that with there not being enough to go round, we would have to share the scalpels. I looked at my half share of scalpel and then looked at Raymond who had already appeared to have made himself at home on my desktop. Returning to the front of the class again, sir instructed us to remove the head of the caterpillar and placing the flat of the scalpel at the tail end, we were to squeeze out the interior. Feigning interest, I scooped up Raymond in my right hand and rested my right elbow on the sill of the open window behind me. The head of my partners caterpillar had already been removed and I found myself staring in fascination at the shiny green and red blob that he had created. Leaning forward to get a better view of this, my right hand and Raymond passed out of the window. Opening my hand, I released my new found friend and returned my arm back into the room. I carefully divided half of my partners blob to my side of the desk and slept with a clear conscience that night. Memories
Place..... Manvers Secondary Modern School for Boys. Time..... Late 1940s / Early 1950s. Terry B. Was the school bully and I was one of his victims. He ran a sort of protection racket whose motto ran... “if you pay up, you will not be bashed up”. Not wanting to be bashed up, I paid up. I was fortunate in a sense in that the cost of my protection was one apple. Terry obviously knew my parents owned a fruit and veg shop and he’d adjust his fees accordingly. This presented no problem for me as my mum always told me to collect an apple on my way out of the shop, which I duly handed over to Terry. It was Raymond P who offered me a way out of this predicament. He told me that basically, Terry was a coward at heart who would cave in at the first sign of resistance. He’d tried this on Raymond, but Raymond said he stood his ground after which, Terry left him alone. Came the next day of payment, Terry advanced for his apple. I told him rather nervously, I hadn’t got one and furthermore, I told him was going to inform the school authorities. It wasn’t a bad bashing up as bashing up’s go. I did find myself suddenly sitting on the floor but strangely, feeling no pain whatsoever. Terry never bothered me again after at. ....... to be continued. Memories
Place....... Manvers Secondary Modern School for Boys. Time...... Late 1940s/ Early 1950s. Another Terry. Terry was a legend in his own playtime. Admirers used to nod in his direction as he passed by. Terry possessed a talent that outshone any other at the Manvers Secondary Modern School for Boys. He was proud of his ability and rightly so. It was his raison d’etre. Terry’s genitalia, it was rumoured, was within easy reach of his navel. He’d occasionally put on demonstrations to quell the doubts of the unbelievers. Trevor was another student of remarkable talent. Nothing like in the league of Terry mark you but enough to set him apart. Trevor would put on displays upon request. Trevor could make his eyeballs wobble. Playtimes became a hive of activity. A tennis ball was produced from somewhere and a fourteen a side football match would continue whose kick off began in the morning break. The players skilfully avoiding non players who were inevitable in so small a playground. Over in the corner created by the school wall and the wall of the gym would find a few pupils lighting up their first cigarette of the day after sending out sentries to warn of any patrolling teachers. A few youths would be dragging a protesting victim towards The Block. Terry would be going round collecting his protection fees. Over in the toilets, another display would be taking place, whilst Trevor wobbled his eyeballs to an appreciative audience. Memories
Place..... Manvers Secondary Modern School for Boys. Time....... Late 1940s / Early 1950s. It was a technical drawing lesson or something similar. I was sitting next to Dennis I. and on turning to talk to him, I noticed he was bleeding heavily from one of his nostrils. I asked him how this had come about and he replied that he had accidentally stuck the point of his compass set up his nose. Quite alarmed at the rate of flow, I notified sir of Dennis’s predicament. Sir came over enquiring how this had happened and Dennis said that he had done it drawing. Sir, then looking over Dennis’s shoulder at his drawing remarked that his ability for drawing blood far exceeded his ability for drawing technically. Everyone except Dennis and me found this very funny. Mr. W. was our religious knowledge teacher. He was black, a Jamaican. He always wore a Homburg hat, a raincoat and carried an umbrella. Summer or winter, wet or dry, you never found him in anything else. It was during one of his lessons that my trouble began. To my everlasting horror and eternal shame, I passed wind, loud and long. Uproar broke out in the classroom along with a few cheers. Mr. W. left his desk and stood before the class. “WHO HAS FOULED THE AIR”? he demanded. It was impossible to bluff my way out of this as half of the class were looking directly at me. I raised my hand and prepared an apology. “PUT IT IN A NUTSHELL BOY, he advised. That was all. Apology spared, he turned to other matters. Memories
Place..... King Edward Park / Dakeyne Street. Time..... Late 1940s. This was related to me by my brother but as the event passed into legend, I did recall it and find it suitable to mention here. It was during a woodwork lesson that the thief struck. He stole a half crown that someone had foolishly left lying around. The victim reported the theft and after a good search of the surrounding area, Mr C. Called the class together. He informed the class of what had just transpired and said that intervention by the police could be avoided if the money was returned to its rightful owner. To this end, he placed an empty cash tin on a woodwork bench and ordered the class to assemble outside. Once outside, he said that we were to enter, one at a time, and re-emerge. This would give the thief the opportunity to replace his ill gotten gains and retain his anonymity. My brother informed me that the cash box had gone by the time he entered the workshop. ........ to be continued. Memories
Place...... Salford Street. Time..... 1940s. Salford Street was the centre of our world. Most daytime and nocturnal activities began and ended here. On summer afternoons, the street would be packed with its young. Old ladies would stand at the end of Noble’s Entry arms folded over pinafore covered bosoms chatting to similarly attired ladies on the other side of the street. A game of rounders would be in progress. Another group of kids would be enquiring the time from a certain Mister Wolf and run away screaming should Mister Wolf reply “dinner time” and decide to give chase. A rope stretching the width of the street would be in full swing with two or three skippers nimbly keeping time with its rotations. A rope tied to the top of a gas lamp would be spiralling chair-a-plane style with a couple of youngsters clinging desperately on to its end. And finally, one could also find three or four youngsters sitting on top of the wall of the fruit shop owned by Mr. and Mrs. Dury. ....... to be continued. Memories
Place..... Salford Street. Time..... 1940s. Johnny H. had a nephew. He was about three years old. Occasionally Johnny had to look after his nephew for a while so we made him a temporary member of the gang. On this particular day, there were three of us, myself, PH and JH, and of course Johnny H’s nephew. To keep him amused, we had placed him in Johnny H’s dad’s allotment wheelbarrow and chased up and down the street with him. It was a blustery day and I think it was Pat who came up with the idea. We repaired to the headquarters to get the necessary tools and materials. Pretty soon, with the help of a few pieces of wood and two potato sacks, we fashioned a pretty fair facsimile of a working sail. This, we nailed to the rear of the wheelbarrow containing Johnny H’s nephew. We then went back out on to the street, turned the craft into the wind and gave it a push. We then stood back with hands on hips to observe the results. It worked like a dream, the sail picked up the wind and the barrow, sail, and Johnny H’s nephew rolled down the street picking up speed as it went. The panic gripped us simultaneously. We took off after the rapidly retreating craft and after a good chase managed to catch up with it before any damage was done. The nephew stood clutching the front of the craft. I think he enjoyed every minute of it. ....... to be continued. Memories
Place..... Salford Street. (Now Stonebridge Road.) Time..... 1940s. At the bottom end of Salford Street stood the Gospel Hall. This was a religious establishment and Sister F. was a member of the clergy. There were services held each Sunday evening and just prior to the service, Sister F. would emerge to round up lost souls to swell the congregations numbers. This of course, would include any member of the gang who caught her eye. Naturally, we were wise to her visits and always ensured that we were nowhere to be seen when she went on patrol. Sometimes though, we were not quick enough. There was an occasion when we were out playing and missed the emergence of Sister F. from the Gospel Hall. She was almost upon us before she was spotted. We all made a dash for our back yard and held our breath as she entered. She left after a few moments and we all breathed easier. Had she inspected the gangs headquarters, five converts would have increased the congregations numbers. A further inspection of the outside toilet would have produced four more. The Gospel Hall held an event each week with the intention of taking the young off the streets. I believe woodwork was promoted and other non threatening activities undertaken. One attendance by the gang was enough to convince us that it was not our cup of tea however, and we spent the rest of our one and only visit punching out power chords on the Gospel Hall’s harmonium. .....to be continued. Memories
Place..... Bulldog Entry. (Salford Street) Time..... 1940s. The residents of Bulldog Entry were our sworn enemies. Equal in numbers, we tolerated each other’s presence but occasionally hostilities would break out. Bulldog Entry was the given name to a very narrow passage that ran up from the end of Salford Street and terminated at Lamartine Street. The end of the passage opened out into a communal back yard shared by a number of families. There was a barn type of building forming part of this yard which served various purposes. One of these was for the storage of the annually collected bonfire rubbish. It was this rubbish that we used as an excuse to test our mettle for we would occasionally try to set fire to it before its due date. They, of course would often foray into our territory bent on the same purpose. This was the cause of the fracas that followed. The challenge came through and was accepted. The rules of engagement were kept very simple. The opposing forces would face each other from their respective ends of Salford Street and at a mutually agreed signal, the two sides would throw themselves upon each other and unleash hell. It was not uncommon for these events to draw spectators from their homes to witness the spectacle. We, the Salford Streeters faced our foe armed with clothes props and lariats. They were similarly armed. We formed a strategy in that we would send the clothes props in first and with these being used as pole vaults, a tactical advantage could be obtained for we were then able to strike the enemy from the rear as well as the front. It never quite worked of course but a scuffle certainly did take place. It must be said however, these were half hearted affairs with both sides withdrawing honourably at the first sign of blood. ....... to be continued. |