Granny Ada’s displeasure in my parents’ relationship, her feeling that her son had married below his station, was strange considering that Granny Gilbert was wealthy. Maybe Granny Ada thought anybody from a Gypsy background associated with racehorses and gambling must be a coarse, rough type.
On fewer occasions I’d be invited to Granny Gilbert’s. As I was too small to find my own way there, mum would take me all the way to her house in Ancoats. There was always tension because of their estrangement. Granny Gilbert would fall over herself to speak to me yet go to great lengths not to speak to mum. It embarrassed me. The extent of their conversation was ‘yes’ and `no’. Sad because my mum was really very fond of her mother, and vice-versa. Both were too proud and stubborn to break the impasse.
Granny Gilbert was one of only two surviving children from 22 born to her Gypsy parents. She was raised in strict Quaker fashion and taught to be extremely self-sufficient. She had a real temper, was terribly strict and clean to a fault. She had a broadish nose, a most determined jaw, cold black eyes and very long grey hair tightly secured in a bun. Her long hair had once been jet black. She used `thee’ and ‘thou’ and I never heard her curse or swear. When I’d complain, ‘Oh, that rotten rain again,’ she’d respond, ‘God forgive thee for cursing the weather.’
Hovering in the background was her husband Skenning Anthony. `Skenning’ in Lancashire means somebody who is cross-eyed or cannot see properly. He’d go to bed every night with a bottle of whisky and fall asleep with one eye open. I got a fright when I crept into his bedroom, lulled by grunts and snores, to find him staring at me with one wide, glazed eye.
I loved the cinema, which cost something like a penny. The films were silent and bathed in a greenish hue. Underneath the stage a lady played piano. The seats were all broken and sloping forward so you were sliding off all the time and you’d have to re-adjust yourself.
Sometimes I’d go to the cinema with Granny Gilbert. She’d wear high leather boots, a dark dress and an expensive shawl. She smoked a clay pipe stuffed with thick-twisted tobacco I called ‘mustard gas’. As she puffed great clouds of smoke would enshroud us and those close by. When she exhaled the person in front would sometimes start coughing and spluttering. People in the cinema eating fish and chips with salt and vinegar invariably moved further away. In a film where the villain was attacking the maid, my grandmother became so excited she stood up and yelled, ‘By God, I know what I’d do to him if that was a lass of mine!’ The woman playing the piano and many patrons turned round. I was acutely embarrassed.
Granny Gilbert loved fairground side-show attractions. She revelled in throwing balls at coconuts or shooting contests. She couldn’t resist boxing booths, of which there were many during the 1930s. She liked to show off the side of the family which included celebrated knuckle fighters.
Once Granny Gilbert took Sylvia and me to a fairground boxing booth as if she had an inbuilt awareness of where it was located. There was a lot of Dutch courage downed by boxers who never knew who they were going to fight next and were often fairly drunk. With great panache Granny stepped into the ring and—challenged the fairground champion. Sylvia and I were too young to realise the full extent of her gall, but the crowd reacted with great enthusiasm. Granny bathed in their response as she put on the gloves. The champion was clearly under a bit of strain but felt obliged to actually go ahead and box a round with her. It was mainly playacting on his part but Granny took it seriously and swung some hefty punches. After the fight she received some kind of monetary reward, which pleased her.
Mum’s children from her first marriage often visited us.
There was Diana, an attractive teenager who, like Mary, openly disliked us. I much preferred the rarer visits from my half-brother John or my other half-sisters, Janie and Nancy, who had far more friendly dispositions.
Nancy, an attractive 20 year old, worked as a chorus girl. She was in love with a German, Leon Mailof. He once took me to a shop in Brunswick Street and asked me which kind of toy gun I wanted as a present, the 2 shilling or the shilling one. The shilling one looked more authentic so I settled for that, much to his surprise.
Frequent visitors were Bill and Tony. They were both typical bad characters from a Charlie Chaplin film. I looked up to them because they were adults, Bill in his mid twenties and Tony a couple of years older. Neither set a very good example during this impressionable stage of my life. I foolishly thought age represented wisdom and therefore held them in high esteem. Unfortunately.
Tony had a long criminal record for violence and stealing going back to when he was seven, walking down the street near to where some kids were playing soccer. The ball bounced in front of him and he nonchalantly kicked it. A policeman walking down the street saw this. All the other children took off and Tony kept on walking. The policeman arrested him for theft because the ball had been stolen. That was the first offence for which he was convicted. They sent him to an approved school. The experience soured him and consequently he became a chronic re-offender.
Tony once featured in the Police Gazette, where they had a drawing of him as an adolescent standing on top of a moving train. He was being escorted back by two detectives after escaping from borstal, a detention centre for young criminals in Portland. While he was on the train under police guard, he asked if he could go to the toilet. Inside the cubicle he broke the window and climbed on the roof. This was not a good strategy; to his horror he found the train was speeding towards a low tunnel. Tony’s fear of impending decapitation gave him the courage to jump off the roof. He tumbled straight down a stone quarry and lay there unconscious for two hours before someone found him.
Tony had now grown into a five-foot-eleven thickset man with blond hair and blue eyes, a real thug’s face: well-battered ears, a few scars on his cheeks and a semi-crooked nose. He was slow, uneducated and illiterate.
What Tony lacked in verbal skills, he made up for in experience. He’d enthral me and my sisters with his criminal exploits. Tony was still always in and out of gaol for villainy and violence, often towards the police. As small children we’d look up to him with awe and admiration; when Tony related these experiences he’d get so excited he’d shriek with laughter. His enthusiasm for all those darker elements must have had some impact on my developing psyche, for I grew up accepting this sort of antisocial behaviour as a sign of strength and manliness.
Unfortunately there were a lot of family tragedies, often through accidents that could have been avoided. Almost every weekend Mary’s son, Laurence, spent time playing with me and my sisters. A very popular boy and an exceptionally bright scholar, he seemed to be a cut above the rest of us in almost everything he did.
Granny Gilbert was especially fond of Laurence and when he turned nine, she bought him a bike. He was cycling one day in the main street when he was struck by a double-decker bus. The doctor said if he lived for three days he’d be all right. Those days were long and agonising. We prayed and talked of little else. Laurence had been a close friend since we rode on our blue and red pedal cars.
Laurence managed to survive for three weeks, but then died. Granny Gilbert, consumed by self blame, was inconsolable. So was Mary; Laurence had been her pride and joy. (She couldn’t resist an acid comment that she wished I’d been killed instead; I became concerned that I’d done something wrong by staying alive!) I remember looking at the mangled bike—mum put it in the cellar—and at Laurence lying dead in his white coffin with a white bandage around his head.
Now that I was nearly nine and Sylvia seven, we felt sufficiently grown up to start contributing our services for the good of the family. We discovered Duncan & Foster, where we could get a big bag of stale cakes and bread for twopence. We’d go there twice a week and enter separately, pretending to be unrelated because one family could only have one bag. This food helped sustain us.
Sylvia and I went to the markets in the morning. Wearing our callipers in order to gain sympathy, we’d push our old pram around the vegeta
ble stalls. ‘Any old vegetables?’ I’d be given a few spuds here and a cabbage there. Then I’d go to the fishmonger and plead for a bit of fish. We’d proudly wheel our stuffed pram home to mum. She was always appreciative, although I suspect the food was sometimes a bit dubious.
We’d collect used orange boxes at the markets. I’d chop the wood up, a little bit before and a little bit after school, shape it into bundles, cut the inner tubes from bicycle tyres into the shape of elastic bands and bind the bundles. The bundles were transported in our pram, and sold as kindling to get extra money for mum. It was never a lot by today’s standards—maybe a shilling or two bob—but to a small boy this was a fortune. I had a tremendous loyalty to mum. She worked so hard to maintain a certain standard of living. I figured the more money I could give her, the better she could do her job. I’d sell the bundles of wood in various neighbourhood streets. Dodging the rival gangs was my major concern. They’d often be selling newspapers and would attack me if they saw me approaching one of their potential clients. I carried a big stick in the pram to defend myself. I often came home cut and bruised—but with the two bob.
I gained a lot of respect over the years by defending myself in this way. As I grew older I had to justify myself a little bit more in the area of violence and stealing by showing those fellows what I could do. I gained respect from the gutter because the gutter was my environment and I had to live by its rules.
8 Schooling and Fooling
Tis education forms the common mind
Just as the twig is bent, the tree’s inclin’d.
Alexander Pope, Moral Essays 1
I never learned to read or write a single word in school. I was slow to learn. Many teachers became frustrated with me, losing their tempers.
I do not remember Ducie Avenue School but remember Mansfield Street well. About 30 or 40 children of both sexes would sit before Miss Abrahamson who had an ugly bulbous nose, a chip on her shoulder and was never seen to smile. She’d thwhack my knuckles painfully with a wooden duster for the slightest misdemeanour and I eventually retaliated by heaving a large stone jar of ink at her, splashing her dress. Miss A pointed a trembling finger at the door. I hated the three-tailed strap more than the cane or the duster. A single lash left three stinging weals.
The strap was symbolically placed on a Bible in the hallway. When another teacher sent me to fetch it I remembered Miss A wielding the vicious weapon and went to jelly. More than once I hid the thing behind radiators and reported I couldn’t find it. I would be sent round classrooms—someone must have it—but I’d faithfully report no one I spoke to did. So I was caned or rapped with the duster. In time they tumbled to what I was doing, so I flushed it down the toilet but it blocked the plumbing and returned. Eventually it was banned.
Sylvia and I wore callipers, making me self-conscious and restricted at school. At night my legs ached when they came off. But they pulled sympathy selling firewood or begging. Bow-legged and small I was, but I had leadership ambitions. I did not consider myself a bully but when aggressive boys picked on me I had to fight, prove I was tougher, though the stronger boys terrified me. This was not easy wearing callipers but I developed a technique of holding my opponents tight, then grabbing, scratching, biting his ears or nose, taking fearsome punishment. Pain I could withstand.
The caretaker’s boy Herbert Trelfer was big, fit, the school’s junior boxing champion and had a pug’s ugly face from beltings. He scared everyone, me included. At the 11 am playtime he’d choose a victim and demand money or sweets. If you had none, he’d beat you up. In my eighth year he chose me. I had twopence from selling firewood, mum’s normal residual commission. ‘What have you got?’ Trelfer demanded. ‘Nothing.’ He came closer, legs apart. ‘You’re lying.’ Luckily my callipers were off. I ducked down, pushed my head between his legs and lifted myself erect. Trelfer flew over me and landed head-first on the gravel behind me. His face was grazed, nose bleeding and crying. He ran in to Mr Sharp, of whom Trelfer was a favourite.
I hated that teacher. His backside repulsed me—his bottom wriggled when he sat down and his pants developed an ugly sheen. Ugh. Sharp grabbed me, said I was a terrible child, took me to his room, made me pull my pants down and lashed me with his cane till my bottom burned. Then he went off for a cup of tea. I watched his greasy backside depart, consumed with revengeful thoughts. I sneaked into his room and used his matches to start a fire of papers in his drawers. But Sharp found me, shook me, shouted abuse and hit me across the ear with his open palm. When I got home I winced when I sat. Mum noticed: ‘And what’s up wi’ thee?’ Me bum’s sore.’ I showed her the weals and told her the story. She knocked on the neighbour’s and Eunice Dukes came to inspect my wounds. ‘Oh, that’s not on, is it?’ she said.
Next morning, my enraged mother walked into the headmaster’s office, pulled my strides down and asked for the teacher who did it. When Sharp came in he saw us and had a sudden desire to leave. Too late. Mum punched him in the mouth and sent him sprawling over the wastepaper basket, horrifying the headmaster and delighting me. On the way back home she stopped about 10 people to brag.
One afternoon I was going off for a free school meal—poor families could get a ticket for these—when Herbert Trelfer and his mates advanced on me in the street. To my surprise my fear dissipated and anger welled up in its place. He assumed a fighting stance. I went up to him, burning, and hit him full in the face, dropping him and bloodying his nose. His mates scarpered and I walked off to a safe distance. He stood there all alone and slowly walked off in the direction of his house. I learned a lot about human nature that day. But, a week later, someone told me to apologise and I reluctantly knocked on his door. His father opened it. ‘I’ve come to say I’m sorry … ‘ I found out where Herbert got his charm: ‘Get off my doorstep, you black pig!’
I had enemies but had friends too. Norman Pilkington became a friend after my half-brother Bill pasted his older brother for bullying me. There was also Billy Russell, class larrikin. His two attractive sisters ensured the Russells were well known. Rene married a drunkard who bashed her. She killed him with an axe and was sentenced to death but it was reduced to life, then four years. Julie was a blonde beauty who snogged in back alleys, kneeing suitors in the testicles if they got too fresh. Julie was the subject of much boasting, groaning and speculation among the young studs.
The headmaster announced all pupils would learn to swim. The deepest water I’d ever voluntarily entered was the bathtub. At the local public baths we would sit naked in a large’ communal male tub to scrub up with carbolic soap, while older men in g-strings perved on our white backsides. Then I was required to walk the width knee-deep at the shallow end holding a rope. The relief of standing on dry concrete was enormous, but no one understood my terror of its greeny depths. Once, walking poolside, I saw a shape in the depths and asked the attendant what it was. He tore off and dived in, returning with an unconscious boy, blue in the face and foam at his mouth. The attendant pressed the boy’s back rhythmically, water and white muck coming out of the boy’s nose until he spluttered and gasped. He lectured the assembled class on how pushing people and silly games were dangerous. ‘And keep your eyes open like Cecil Waters,’ he wound up, making me feel proud. But it did nothing to lessen my fear of water. I did get a certificate to prove I’d managed to splash a length of the pool. Mum took it round to all the neighbours to show how her son was a swimming champion!
Although I hated authority I did respect Churchill, who dad liked for his patriotism and leadership. Most of us liked waving the Union Jack and singing the national anthem. The royal family gave us a feeling of security and a place in history, and whenever anything royal happened we were given a holiday or tea party at school, coloured paper on our desks with cake and sweets and a printed memento of the royal historical occasion. When King George died in 1936 I was nine and felt upset. When Edward VIII took up with the American divorcee Mrs Simpson our neighbours buzzed with indignation and dad was furious
Edward should forsake duty for a woman, furious Churchill supported Edward. He never took to George VI because the king’s stutter made him unacceptable for leadership. No one was really interested in dad’s noisy opinions.
I hated school but returning to the cat-and-mouse life at home didn’t appeal either. Once, after school, mum asked me to run an errand to the Brunswick Street shop. I had been earlier and defiantly said Sylvia should go. At that precise moment dad walked in, his face dark. I felt panic. But he walked past me into the kitchen. I was relieved because he usually belted me straight away. This time he returned and whacked me over the head with a poker from the stove. I ran outside, wetness soaking through my fingers, sick from pain and terror. Dad acted as if nothing had happened.
Sunday mornings were best. Dad would go off to the stables to fight for the £2 prize that followed the clog-kicking contest. These brutal affairs ended with dad returning around 9 or 10 am, perhaps sporting one or two black eyes, sometimes with the £2. The pleasure and pride on his face gave me a warm feeling because I wanted to see dad smile and be happy. He never stopped to tell me of his victories though. He’d head off to you-know-where to boast to his mates. On Sundays there was a lot of street theatre. Singers, dancers, impersonators ‘doing’ Charlie Chaplin or someone, and circus performers. One Sunday a man called for the heaviest man in the audience to come forward and stand on the chest of a half-naked man lying on a bed of nails. Tony volunteered’. The prone man was less than impressed when Tony jumped up and down to liven things up a bit. Sunday afternoons often saw me and others hanging from the window ledges and drainpipes of the Ardwick Green Boxing and Wrestling Stadium to watch the Red Devil of France—real name Charlie Glover of Barnsley—wrestle Black Butcher Johnston. The crowd wanted to see the Red Devil’s mask torn off but the Butcher never managed it.
Hellbent: Ces Waters & Me Page 5
