This Boy: A Memoir of a Childhood (18 page)

Stephen Kirk was humiliated in front of his peers. He wasn’t cut or bleeding but he’d been made to crawl around on all fours, he’d been slapped and pushed repeatedly, held in a head-lock, kicked and finally held upside down by his ankles while the coins were shaken from his trouser pockets.

Raymond gave me back my kroner and, still smiling, told the children present how much he and his friends looked forward to repeating this process every evening if any of us bullied, robbed or interfered in any way with another child. Seven o’clock would be punishment time in the lounge, and anyone called before them should be aware that the ordeal would increase in severity every time they were obliged to administer it.

In an age when disputes were resolved with fists and
corporal punishment was synonymous with discipline in homes and schools across the class divide, this behaviour was less shocking than it sounds from the vantage point of the twenty-first century. And in the case of my nemesis, it certainly did the trick. He never so much as looked at me for the remainder of the holiday and while even at the time I felt his punishment was a bit excessive, I couldn’t help thinking it was a shame Raymond hadn’t been around when I first met Stephen Kirk.

The remainder of the holiday was a pure Enid Blyton idyll. Just as in the book I’d read and re-read, the sun shone every day, there was plenty of good, fresh food and for once my stomach was full. The Brothers Ozorowitz and I formed our own Famous Three and Lily wrote to me with all the news from West London. She added that she was going into hospital for a couple of days and told me that Linda would meet me off the train on my return. Her letter was sent in reply to mine – on our first day, all the children had been instructed to write home to let their parents know they had arrived safely. Mail travelled faster in those days and the fact that none of our families had phones didn’t make them any less anxious to hear how we were faring.

I hadn’t told Lily about Stephen Kirk in my letter, and I didn’t when I arrived home, for that matter. Neither did I tell her something else that happened on that trip to Denmark. I met a girl. Her name was Edna, and she lived in the Whitechapel Road in the East End. She was pretty in a tomboyish kind of way, with short, curly hair, nice teeth and bright blue eyes. And she told me that she loved me.

I’m not sure how it all started. After the Stephen Kirk
incident, the Russian brothers and I played a lot of football. The Danish boy whose parents ran the college brought in a crowd of his friends and we played Denmark versus England internationals, over and over again.

I was very impressed by how polite and friendly these big, blond Danish boys were and how perfectly they spoke our language. They won practically every match as well, and we had to mix the teams to even up the contest. Edna and some of the other girls would watch us play. I encouraged her interest. Having failed in my attempts to impress Linda Kirby at Bevington (not to mention Jennifer Shepherd and Maureen Langton, two more girls for whom I harboured affections I was too shy to reveal), this was the perfect opportunity to pursue my burgeoning interest in the opposite sex.

By the end of the holiday, I barely saw the Ozorowitzes except on the organized trips and at night in our room. I was devoting almost all of my time to Edna. She was the same age as me, had never known her father and lived with her mum and four siblings in a council flat. Whitechapel was as much of a mystery to me as North Kensington was to her, but we were both well aware that neither side of London, East or West, was anything like the paradise in which we found ourselves now.

Edna and I would go for long walks in the Danish countryside, holding hands, and I would inflict my songs on her, along with my interpretations of recent hits, the lyrics of which I’d memorized from the
Record Song Book
: ‘Picture of You’ by Joe Brown, ‘Hey Baby’ by Bruce Chanel, ‘Things’ by Bobby Darin.

This will sound like a case of the rose-coloured spectacles, but it’s absolutely true. On one of our many strolls through the quiet country lanes that weaved through the green fields, we
came across an open barn. We took a peek inside. Beside the farm equipment stored there, lit by the sunbeam shining in through the open door, we saw three kittens frolicking in some straw. We were sitting there playing with them when the farmer walked in. Startled, our first thought was that he’d be angry with us for trespassing, but he immediately put us at our ease with his wide smile and fetched some milk so that Edna could pour it into an empty saucer to feed the kittens.

We explained where we came from. He knew the college well and was pleased that it was being used to show children from London the glories of the Danish countryside. He told us how much respect the Danes had for the British. This was only seventeen years after the end of the Second World War and its horrors were still fresh in the minds of adults across Europe. He asked us if we were hungry. We politely demurred but he insisted we followed him into the farmhouse, where Edna and I were astonished to find a sturdy kitchen table groaning with ham, cheese, pickles, pies, herrings and a freshly baked loaf. His wife had prepared lunch for her sons, who worked on the farm, but was pleased to welcome two unexpected guests. The warm breeze fluttered through the open window as we feasted.

It was on one of these country walks that Edna and I kissed, and that’s when she told me she loved me. Addresses were exchanged and promises made to write and meet again; promises that were never kept.

The voyage back from Esjberg seemed just as choppy as the incoming one, but I reckoned I knew now the best way to ride the waves – al fresco, huddled under my blankets and gazing at the stars – and passed on this seafaring tip to the Ozorowitzes. Since the girls and boys were, of course, in
separate sleeping quarters I couldn’t sing to Edna (much to her relief, no doubt). So instead the brothers and I spent a while talking and laughing with the crew below deck before retiring to our deckchairs for the night.

When I stepped off the train from Harwich at Liverpool Street the following day, Linda was waiting for me. She wanted to know why every kid except me was carrying a Lego set. I confirmed that we had visited the factory and yes, we had all been given a box of Lego as a present when we left. I was obliged to confess that I’d traded mine with a sailor on the ship – for forty Senior Service untipped.

If returning to unlovely North Kensington and the dreaded autumn term at Sloane was dispiriting after the glories of Denmark, I had the new football season to cheer me up. In 1962–63, QPR decided to relocate to the larger White City Stadium, and I was among the thousands of supporters who flocked there on a wet Wednesday evening in anticipation of their first match at their new home. It was cancelled due to a waterlogged pitch – an outcome that set a trend for that ambitious, if ultimately disastrous move. Cheering on the team amid a crowd of 4,000 at cosy Loftus Road was exciting; with those 4,000 dedicated souls transplanted to an Olympic-sized, 70,000-capacity stadium it was like crying in the wilderness. Rangers moved back to their old ground at the end of the season.

And I had missed Lily and Linda, of course. I’d arrived home to find them in a state of high excitement: Lily had finally prepared
her advertisement for the lonely hearts column of the
Kensington Post
. For one reason or another Lily hadn’t got round to it all year. But now, with Linda’s help, the advert had been placed, pared down to its shortest possible form because it had to be paid for by the word. I never actually saw it, but it should have read something like this: ‘Divorced woman, early forties, petite, dark-haired, 5ft tall, seeks dependable man of similar age or older for companionship. Good sense of humour essential.’

Lily received five replies, which she and Linda sifted and inspected as if they were precious vellum scrolls. The one that most appealed to Lily was from Ron, a builder from Romford, who’d picked up the
Kensington Post
while working in the area. Lily liked that. It chimed with her interest in what was written in the stars. She felt that destiny was bringing her and Ron together.

Ron’s letter explained that he was divorced, his wife having left and taken their two children with her. He’d kept the family house and was a man of means; he was keen to enjoy Lily’s company; he had a car and he could drive over to meet her as soon as she liked. He had provided his telephone number. This man not only had his own house and car, he had a telephone as well. We were impressed. We didn’t, however, have a clue where Romford was. Somewhere near Southend, Lily thought. After writing back to tell him more about her situation, she walked to a telephone kiosk one evening with Linda to speak to him directly. The conversation went well and arrangements were made for a meeting. There followed at least two cinema dates before he was allowed to visit 6 Walmer Road.

Lily was rejuvenated. The money was found for a perm. She
rarely visited a hairdresser, usually styling her collar-length hair herself with grips and clips and curlers. Mostly it remained hidden under her turban anyway. Now the turban came off more often and the pink Bri-nylon overall she’d taken to wearing was consigned to working hours only.

If things worked out with Ron, there was a chance of escaping all the drudgery and poverty. She certainly seemed to like him, and when he eventually came to meet us, we could see why. He was very personable: about fifty, of medium height with a wiry frame and a shock of greying hair. There were deep lines on his face, tanned by constant exposure to the elements. His two daughters, he told us, were teenagers, the younger one the same age as Linda.

Lily revealed that Ron was appalled by the conditions we lived in. Although we weren’t that over the moon about them ourselves, Linda and I took offence. We felt this smacked of snobbery. Lily assured us that Ron wasn’t looking down on us; he was just appalled by what we had to put up with and wanted to make our lives more comfortable. Perhaps we were being unfair in privately labelling him ‘flash’, but it had to be said that he was for ever going on about his lovely house, his car and how successful his business was. Although we didn’t tell Lily what we thought about him, she sensed we weren’t enthusiastic.

Poor Ron. I don’t think we were receptive to being captivated by him. Linda and Jimmy Carter took against him early on and I would have been sceptical about any man courting Lily. However, we didn’t have to see Ron very often, Lily loved being taken out and it was good to see her happy. The relationship flourished throughout the latter part of 1962 and Lily, Linda, Jimmy and I were all invited to Ron’s house to spend Christmas
with him and his fifteen-year-old daughter, Sheila. We were to stay from Christmas Eve until Boxing Day, travelling by bus and train to Romford station, where Ron would pick us up in his Vauxhall Velox.

It had been decided that Ron would supply the food if Lily agreed to cook it. This arrangement worried Linda, given Lily’s limitations in the culinary arts. Her present from Lily that Christmas was to be a cookery book, already ordered from Maynard’s and unwrapped by Linda a few weeks before the day itself. The plan was for Linda to take this with her to Romford and help Lily to prepare a Christmas feast that would cement the relationship.

Ron’s house was everything he’d led us to expect. It was on a smart new estate in Harold Hill, rather than Romford itself: a large four-bedroomed, detached bungalow with a substantial lounge separated from the well-equipped kitchen by a glass partition. Lily and Linda were to have one bedroom and I was to share with Jimmy, with Ron and Sheila occupying the other two.

Jimmy, with his six siblings, was used to big family gatherings at Christmas (although he’d never spent one anywhere this spacious). For us, though, it was a novel and exciting experience. Christmas Eve went well. Lily was pleased to be with Ron, Linda was pleased because Jimmy was there and I was – well, I was enjoying what promised to be a proper Christmas. And I liked having Jimmy around. His cheeky good humour and his fags were dispensed generously. He didn’t like Ron and Ron didn’t like him, that much was obvious, but with the help of a few beers the two of them mellowed and the prospects for the next day looked good.

Ron’s daughter, Sheila, may have been the same age as Linda but she lacked her maturity. That was hardly surprising, considering how fast Linda had had to grow up. In fairness, Sheila was a normal fifteen-year-old whereas Linda was already more of a woman than a girl. Blonde and annoyingly coquettish, Sheila seemed to me to consider herself the bee’s knees. I caught her eye as she glanced meaningfully at me on several occasions that evening, whereupon I blushed and she smiled.

Jimmy and I got up the next morning to a fried breakfast prepared by Lily and Linda. Ron was very satisfied. He rather tactlessly told us what a great cook his wife had been and how important good food was to a man’s happiness. He’d already presented Lily with a challenge. When we arrived the previous day, he had shown her the Christmas fare he’d provided. For Christmas dinner there was a goose, complete with head and feathers and so fresh it might have flown into the kitchen that afternoon.