King's Cross Kid

by Victor Gregg

  Then all the new boys lined up, and by now we didn’t know if we were coming or going. Our names were read out along with the name of the house we were being assigned to.

  The Shaftesbury was divided by age. The first group was boys like me aged between six and nine, the next group was for the nine- to eleven-year-olds and finally the eleven- to fourteen-year-olds. At the age of fourteen most of the boys were sent to join the dormitories of British naval establishments like Devonport.

  Some of the bigger boys were called prefects and one of these had the job of walking up and down the corridors at first light clanging away with a big brass hand bell until all the boys were out of their beds and waiting to be marched to the wash-houses, where a gang of the prefects waited to see that every boy carried out his ablutions to the letter.

  Each boy had his own washing kit and it was impressed upon us that the most important piece of the kit was the toothbrush, which was made of wood with hard black bristles sticking out on the end. We were each issued with a measured amount of white powder which we kept in a special tin. What the powder consisted of is anyone’s guess but it certainly kept our teeth shiny white.

  After we had washed, the prefects marched us back to the dormitories where we had to make our beds, folding the blankets and sheets and piling them on the end of the bed with our washing kit all neatly laid out. The unfortunate boys who were bed-wetters had to put all their sheets and anything else that might have got wet into a big storage bin. When we went back to the dormitories after breakfast they found a fresh issue had been placed upon their beds.

  Next in the day we were marched from the dormitory to the dining room where the first thing was prayers and a morning hymn. Then we had ‘morning orders’ which were read out by one of the teachers who told us of anything out of the ordinary that was scheduled for the day. Finally, we had to sing the school hymn and then the teacher who had led the singing signalled to us all to sit down and the kitchen staff at last presented us with whatever evil concoction they had dreamed up in the early hours. This was nearly always a bowl of porridge, salted not sweetened, then we had a boiled egg or a kipper.

  We all liked the kippers the best; the eggs usually turned out to be rock-hard and, of course, the porridge wasn’t nearly as good as our mum’s. Bread, already spread with margarine, was doled out from large tureens. On Sundays, as a special treat we got small pots of marmalade to spread on the bread.

  To us boys that breakfast consisted of more edible food in one meal than we were used to in a single day at home. And as a bonus we got hot food on the table three times a day, breakfast, dinner and the evening supper. And for the first time in my young life I was wearing clothes that hadn’t been patched up and darned.

  After breakfast we were marched from the dining hall back to the dormitories.

  On the first morning those boys who had come into the home on the same day as myself were taught the mysteries of ‘getting dressed in a proper manner’.

  Then it was off to the classroom, just like school at home except in this place the teachers didn’t walk about with a cane permanently at the ready. Everything in the Shaftesbury Home seemed to me quieter and more ordered than the schooling I had been used to.

  If someone broke the rules, the offender was paraded before the rest of the boys as a sort of traitor to the good name of the class. But instead of the boy being punished, the whole class had some of its privileges withdrawn. This was really clever stuff and much more effective than the canings I was used to.

  Like the rooms in the rest of the institution the classrooms were huge, high and wide. The lessons concentrated on the importance of the British Empire, big maps of which hung from the walls. Where there was available space between the maps, pictures of huge sailing ships were hung, or, in the jargon of the school, British men o’ war.

  We were taught to feel proud of being part of the biggest empire in the world, and were drilled to remember the important days like Trafalgar Day, Empire Day, the King’s Birthday. I remember that on one of these great anniversaries a band arrived and we spent the day marching up and down, bugles blowing. Different flags were hoisted on the big flag pole that stood in the centre of the parade ground. I can’t remember what day we were celebrating but I do remember the noise and excitement and the grand carry-on.

  At first I thought I was on some form of strange holiday; it never crossed my mind that it might be a permanent arrangement. But, as the days passed and the holiday did not come to an end I began to feel more and more depressed. I was in a sort of limbo and I found that very hard.

  After a few days I was taken up to a room by one of the prefects who knocked on the door and a voice called ‘Come in’. Inside was an old man with long grey hair. He told me to sit down beside him and told the prefect that he could go. He offered me a large saucer of sweets and said: ‘Have a sweetie, Victor, nobody here is going to bite you.’ Then he told me that it had been reported to him that I appeared to be very unhappy and he asked if I understood why I was there. I was only seven and was now a bit frightened. I did not know how to answer, but I tried. ‘My gran said I was going on a holiday. When can I go home to my mum?’ This was one of the few times that I shed tears. ‘Dry your eyes, Victor, big boys don’t cry and you are a big boy now, aren’t you?’ He said this in such a way that I had no option but to nod my head. Then he offered me another sweet and explained why it had been necessary to take me in, how hard it was for my mother. He said he was certain that everyone at home loved me very much and if I needed to talk to someone I only had to ask one of the teachers. He gave me no indication of how long I might stay but I must have felt a lot better after the interview as I apparently knuckled down and got into the swing of things. So much so that after some weeks I was again taken to the office and presented with a star that I was told to sew on to my going-out shirt. I remember being very proud of the star although I never understood what it stood for.

  When the weather was fine the prefects took us outside to show us how to march in lines four abreast swinging our arms level with our shoulders. On rainy days, instead of the marching drill the class was taken to the gym, a huge hall with all manner of equipment, including vaulting horses which we were encouraged to run at and somehow leap right over. Not many of my class could get anywhere near jumping them, but the teacher who led us was quite a jolly sort of man, always laughing and joking. I know that I looked forward to these gym periods.

  I wanted to prove to the others that where I came from the boys were braver than anybody else. Hanging from the ceiling on the end of these thick ropes were big iron rings covered in leather. I discovered that when I stood on one of the benches the rings came down to within an inch of the top of my head.

  A couple of weeks later, back in the gym, I decided that now was the chance to prove that I was not to be messed with. I shouted to the boys, ‘Oy, you lot, watch this.’ Then I dragged a bench under one of the rings, stood on it, grabbed the ring which seemed to weigh a ton, and swung it as hard as I could towards the ceiling. Up it went . . . and down it came like a thunderbolt. It didn’t stop an inch above my head but bounced squarely off my forehead and knocked me cold.

  I came to in the matron’s room with a bandage round my head and a massive bruise and swelling. As soon as I had regained consciousness, Matron called the headmaster and I was grilled as to why I had behaved in such an irresponsible manner, told how lucky I was to be alive, and that if anything had happened to me I would have brought disgrace to the school. I found out afterwards that the reason things had gone so wrong was because the benches were different heights. I had picked a bench that was higher than the one I had originally stood on, hence the whack. Instead of impressing the rest of the boys with my daredevil stunt I was now looked upon as something of a nutcase.

  Another piece of training gear which we were all encouraged to become good on was a structure in the shape of a ship’s mast complete with crossbars and rope ladders. We were taught to shin up the la
dders, walk along the crossbars and then take up positions where we could work on imaginary sails. Each boy had a rope harness attached to his body, but as soon as a boy could climb without the safety harness he was awarded a badge with a picture of the mast on it, which he had to sew on to his best church parade uniform. I was in the youngest class so we were only allowed to climb up to the first beam, but we thought it was very high. I never heard of any boy falling off though.

  Another sport we did was boxing. There was a full-size ring in the corner of the gymnasium. The same master who trained us on the vaulting horse taught us to box, how to keep our guard up, how to put the full weight of the body behind the shoulder when aiming a punch, that sort of thing. He drilled it into us that it was no use getting into the ring unless you intended to hurt someone. During my stay at the home I took some painful knocks. The sports teacher never let things get out of hand, and I used to enjoy those sessions in the ring even when I came off second best.

  Once two of the boys did something wrong (I don’t remember what), and we were told that we could not go to the gym. Instead we would polish the floors. We were all marched down to the cellars where the caretaker issued us with huge, heavy ‘bumpers’, iron plates with stout handles to which a polishing cloth was fixed. The rest of the boys got on their hands and knees to apply the wax polish. Those with the bumpers pushed them up and down, buffing the boards. The exercise ended when the prefects deemed that the floor had the necessary shine from corner to corner. Then we marched off to the showers to clean off all the sweat and grime accumulated in the exercise. I was surprised the boys took all this without a murmur of dissent; back home at school at Prospect Terrace there would have been a wholesale bundle.

  After I had been there some few weeks I and some of the other boys were paraded in the main hall and told that we were to be moved to the next class. To mark this new status we were to be issued with new hats, to be worn whenever we were outside the walls of the school. These turned out to be like the hats worn by the sailors of the Royal Navy – ‘and always to be worn straight across the forehead with the bow of the ribbon dead centre at the rear of the head’.

  Once we had this new ‘outside gear’, the class was allowed to take part in the weekly Sunday morning march to the local church. To attend the service we formed up in columns of four, about fifty or sixty boys, with the prefects marching outside the ranks shouting ‘left, right, left, right’. All us boys enjoyed playing at soldiers and we made sure our hats were on dead straight. It must have been a fair-sized town as I remember that we had some competition from the local Scout Group and a company of the Boys’ Brigade who had a band and so always led the parade. I was already familiar with the Boys’ Brigade as they had a company in Wakefield Street back home. Seeing them next to me on those Sundays got me to thinking about my mum and John and little Emmy. It made me very unhappy.

  Sunday afternoon was visiting day and the boys used to gather at the windows waiting to see if their parents were going to appear with a bag of goodies. If the day was fine they waited at the gates. It doesn’t need a big brain to imagine the sense of loneliness when the visitors failed to appear, which often happened, because it was impossible for most of the families to afford the fare to travel to and from the home.

  Although I missed my mum, at the same time I felt a strange sense of security and wellbeing. Then, one day, I was called to the front of the class and told to report to the headmaster’s room. One of the older boys escorted me to his office and left me alone there, wondering what fate had in store for me. The head came in and told me that the next morning I had to hand in all my washing and cleaning kit because my parents were coming to collect me. As a parting shot he said: ‘We’re sorry to lose you, Victor. We think you would have been a pride to the British navy.’ That’s what the man said. I remember it as if it was yesterday.

  The next morning everything carried on as normal – up, wash, breakfast, into the first class of the day, and then the second, and on into the dining room for lunch. By now I was almost in tears; my mum wasn’t coming after all. Finally, I was marched into the headmaster’s office where I found my gran and the ever faithful Uncle Joe sitting down, finishing some refreshments that the head had laid on.

  The head told me to go to Matron and put on the clothes I’d arrived in, which were all done up in a parcel. No matter how hard I tried, none of the clothes would fit me, they were all too small and tight. Eventually it was decided that I should keep the clothes I was wearing, all except the hats. My gran was pleased about my sailor’s outfit as it saved having to buy me new clothes.

  I remember being reunited with Mum. She was crying and laughing at the same time, hugging me to her and showing the love that only a mother can give. Later in life I learnt that my going away had driven Mum into a complete mental breakdown. Gran decided that things had gone too far and that she had to get me back. She and Granddad decided that they would have brother John to live with them, which took a load off my mum’s shoulders. When I arrived home and John was no longer there, the place seemed empty. My stay at the Shaftesbury Home was history. Mother never mentioned it and I sensed the hurt it must have caused her, and never raised the subject myself.

  8

  Mean Streets

  My time away from home must have done me some good. I had grown skywards and Mother decided that I was getting too big to sleep in the same room with two women, so she decided to move my bed into the kitchen. It finished up in a space between the gas cooker and the kitchen sink and, despite all Mum’s efforts to keep the place clean, as soon as darkness fell a cracking and rustling announced the arrival of an advance guard of cockroaches and our resident family of mice. Mother had a way of her own as far as the mice were concerned. She used to set a bucket half filled with water in the centre of the room. Then she fixed up a small length of wood to the side of the bucket, like a child’s seesaw. On the end of the strip of wood she put a lump of evil-smelling cheese. The unsuspecting rodents smelt the cheese and ran along the piece of wood, causing the wood to dip down, flinging the mouse and any of his mates who were with him into the water. Sometimes a dozen or so of the mice finished up in this watery grave. In the morning the bucket went straight down the toilet, and a good flush made sure we were mouse-free for at least a couple of days.

  We soon got back into a routine. After breakfast Mum took Emmy off to our gran’s, then went on her way to work leaving me to find my own way to school. All except Wednesday mornings when it was my job to take the ‘bag wash’ round to the Sunlight laundry. This meant cramming all our dirty clothes into a large canvas bag which was held closed with a big brass clasp complete with padlock. Each clasp had a number stamped into it as a means of identification. I had to struggle round to Cromer Street with it and then, after school on Thursday, collect the finished wash. The bag was big and heavy and I could only just manage it but I knew that I was saving our mum a lot of work.

  While I was at the home I had been upgraded to the boys’ school and brother John had been moved to a small infants’ school in Herbrand Street, much nearer to my gran in Kenton Street. Losing John affected me more than I expected: now I had no one to play with or take the mickey out of during the long winter nights. To our mum it was a life-saver, but to me our home had lost something. The saving grace was, being just over seven years old, I was now expected to find my amusements outside the walls of our home. This meant that I was beginning to mix full-time with the kids I went to school with.

  Although the walk to school only involved a stroll of about half a mile I soon learnt that even that short distance was fraught with danger. The school served three streets and each had enough young boys to constitute a medium-sized gang – Sidmouth Street, Harrison Street and our smaller Wakefield Street.

  The Sidmouth Street lot were more vicious than the other two, and it was reckoned that they were the top dogs. Their street was right next to the school. The Wakefield and Harrison Street gangs had to walk together and sort
out their differences as they went along. If a dispute arose in the morning and wasn’t settled by school time it would fire up on the short walk home, much to the annoyance of those mums who were still collecting their young from the infants’ school. Mr Reid the gardener used to set about us with a big broom made from the branches of trees. The boys met up in the evening and spent their time working out who had bashed who and looking forward to the next encounter. I had other problems. The semi-naval uniform that the home had provided me with, although much warmer and more comfortable than my old clothes, marked me out as different from all the other boys. While the other mums remarked how smart I looked, I had to suffer non-stop jeering and catcalls. ‘Oi tosher, where’s yer boat?’ was the most common. But I was big for my age and the food and the exercise had developed my body, so anyone taking the mickey had to risk having a fight with me. In time, as my clothes got scruffier, I became less and less a target and more one of the gang.

  At Prospect Terrace School the young girls aged between seven and eleven helped cook the school meals as part of their curriculum; they were also taught the arts of knitting and darning. After all, that’s what girls did. The meals cost twopence per child but even that was too much for some parents so the dining room was never overcrowded.

  If you looked into the playground you could see the difference between the girls and the boys. The girls would be skipping or playing hopscotch, with much screaming and laughing and playing around. A playful, happy scene.

  Not so the boys. By the time we were seven the gangs started to form. The boy with the best fighting ability would be the gang leader and any attempt to displace him could only be achieved by a bundle. These confrontations usually took place in a corner of the playground. The teachers seldom interfered unless it was obvious that real injury was on the cards; a loose tooth or a bloody nose was not considered to be anything to bother the headmaster with, and the boy who came out worse in the argument had the sense to accept the fact that he wasn’t leadership quality yet.