Honour of the Line

by Brian Darley

  On a bright summers day I got my first taste of adventure as my bike was finally finished and it made me feel like a million dollars. At first I had to be restrained by my Dad with a rope he had wound around the saddle stem and we went round the four sides of our block and through the series of alleys behind the houses which gave access to the back gardens. After a few days I was told I could go out on my own on the promise that I only went up and down the footpath at the front of our house, which meant my parents could keep an eye on me. This was great for the first day or two but boys will be boys so every once in a while I would go just around the corner a few yards and eventually ventured into the alleys which seemed like a Grand Prix circuit. Naively I assumed nobody had noticed but unfortunately one of our neighbours said to Mum “your Billy is really good on his bike, he tears up and downs the alleys like a racing driver”. Poor Mrs Evans, she had no idea she was dropping me in deep shit. My Mum told me I was grounded until further notice and my Dad rubber stamped this when he arrived home from work. So naturally the only thing left for me to do was to crawl around Grandad and see if he could make them change their minds. It all seemed to no avail but after a couple of days the ban was lifted but I had to promise to play by the rules. But rules were made to be broken so once again I cycled out of bounds but unbeknown to me my parents were on the lookout. Mum stood on one corner with Dad on the other but I headed for the complex of alleys and had the time of my life dodging them until eventually they sent for reinforcements, namely two Aunts and Uncles who lived on the next block. When I was eventually captured I got the mother of all bollockings from my Dad but I noticed my Mum, trying for all her worth, not to laugh. It must have been obvious to all and sundry that I would be destined for a life of mischief and controversy. Poor old Mum and Dad, they took their choice and opened box 13, which contained me, the booby prize.

  By the time I started school I was allowed to play in the street with the other kids form our block and all of the boys and girls became and remained friends throughout out school days.

  The family next door had two boys, John and Bob and a daughter Georgina, who was in my class at school. She became my best pal throughout our school days.

  John and Bob were older than me and my parents used to blame them for leading me astray, but I took no persuasion whatsoever to get into mischief. We sometimes crossed into the next block, bashed on peoples doors and legged it or ran past the greengrocers and grab an apple or banana, not to eat them but for the sheer devilment. At the far end of our block there was the community hall where whist drives and dances were often held. The hall had seen better days and the grounds were totally overgrown. John and Bob, being that bit older, managed to get some matches and so we used to set light to anything we could find in the hall grounds, waste paper, wood etc. I was always being questioned about being near bonfires but denied it to the bitter end. I clearly remember one time after school when I was around 7 years old, that we went for the jackpot and broke pieces of the already rather distressed fencing and made the mother of all bonfires, but sadly it all went horribly wrong, as owing to the unusually dry weather, the fire spread like fury and caught first of all the shed and then the other out buildings on fire. A passer-by rushed to the phone box, which was just opposite by the gas works entrance, and obviously they were extremely concerned that the fire would get totally out of control and cause devastation. For lads of our age this was an adventure beyond belief. The Police evacuated the gas works as the Fire Brigade battled to bring the fire under control. We just watched with all of the other passers-by and tried to show our innocence but probably failed miserably. Eventually Mum, Dad, Grandad and my Aunts and Uncles joined the throng and I was petrified but for some reason or another I was never questioned, although I was fairly certain my parents suspected something. The fire was brought under control and again normal service was resumed and everybody returned home.

  After tea I sat in the back room with Grandad trying to bury my head in the sand. That night I hardly slept a wink. The next morning at school Georgina came up to me and said “whatever you do deny it. John and Bob will never split on you so stay strong”. During assembly Miss Morgan, our Head Mistress, asked if anybody knew anything about the fire as children had been seen in the grounds but nobody said a word. Silence was the order of the day.

  Our school was divided into two playgrounds, the upper one for senior boys, the lower one for senior girls and infant boys and girls. Each playground had a large covered cycle shed with bench seats. At morning break one of our footballs was kicked into the girls playground and when I went to retrieve it a couple of the senior girls called me over. One of them said to me “Billy you bring trouble wherever you go, you must know something about the fire”. For the first time in my life I felt totally ashamed.

  I somehow managed to steer clear of trouble for a while except for one minor blip. Quite a few of the lads had this money making idea. A group of the lads would go to the back of the pub and pick two of the lads to go over the back gate into the yard. These two unfortunate lads would then hand two pint bottles of brown ale to the other lads waiting by the gate. We would all then go to the recreation ground, unscrew the tops of the bottles and pour the brown ale into the sandpit. It mixed nicely with the dog shit that was a feature of the sand pit.

  It never really mattered as nobody ever played in the sand, it was far too disgusting for words. We saved the bottles in my friend Brian’s shed and when we collected a lot we took them to the Off Licence in another part of town to get the deposit back from the bottles. The proceeds were spent on stuffing ourselves senseless with bars of chocolate and sticks of liquorice. Needless to say we all suffered from overeating and had a bad nights sleep.

  We took it in turns to scale the gate and it was just my luck that Paddy, who was aware of his beer being stolen, caught me red handed. He promptly marched me home and told my parents what had happened and they asked who else was involved but I would never grass on anybody. It was agreed if my parents gave Paddy fifteen bob, which is 75 pence in today’s money, then he wouldn’t contact the Police.

  For my punishment I was docked eight weeks pocket money and given a two week grounding. One week for getting caught and a further week for not bringing the beer home for Dad to drink. My lesson was finally learned but through all those misdemeanour’s Mum and Dad stood by me solid as rocks.

  They seemed to think an addition to the family might help and so the question of a brother and sister arose.

  CHAPTER 5

  Babies from Stations

  Early in 1959 Mum and Dad, who had been on the council housing list for ages, were told they could have a brand new council house which was on the very southern perimeter of the Arches. Bless them, they were so excited, it was right near fields where I could play and was regarded as the somewhat better part of the Arches estate. I became really very upset. Firstly leaving my friends on our block but, more importantly, leaving Grandad. After many tantrums it was decided we would all move but I would be able to spend a lot of my free time at Grandad’s i.e. evenings and weekends, but would always come home to sleep.

  By this time adopting children had become far more difficult. The new parents health was a stumbling block and unfortunately poor old Mum had a heart problem. From Dad’s point of view the fact he had gained a criminal record for stealing four bags of coal didn’t help. It had also cost him his job but he managed to get another with a different coal merchant but for less money. It seemed children being adopted would need a more stable upbringing than somebody with a criminal record could offer.

  Amid these difficult times a relative by marriage was just starting work in the Adoption Service in the Liverpool area so my parents contacted her. At this point in my life they explained to me about my past but it made no difference to me, I had no idea where babies came from.

  After two months of exchanging letters between our town and the one near Merseyside, Mum and Dad were told they would be able to adopt a seven week
old girl but would have to travel to Crewe to pick her up. I had a smile as wide as the Mersey, not because I was getting a sister but because of all the train numbers I could get at Crewe. I would be the envy of all my friends. Around this time of my life I had started collecting train numbers, as had nearly all of the boys around the Arches. We were spoilt for choice as the main line still boasted the odd steam train and the cross country route was all still steam hauled. Another real bonus was we were able to sneak to the engine sheds and fill our books up with numbers. I told all of the other kids of the news but although the lads were suitably impressed a couple of the girls said that our new addition would not be a proper sister. Georgina overheard them and told them not to be so unkind and hurtful so they both apologised. Such was the close knit community of the Arches these two lasses, Susan and Patricia, put their pocket money together and bought a cuddly toy for my new sister who was still only three weeks old. I explained it would be four more weeks before we would go to collect her. They asked what her new name was going to be but I didn’t have a clue so I just said Miss McFirley.

  On the big day we were up at the crack of dawn and caught the workmen’s train to London and from there a never ending journey on a red bus across town to Euston. We seemed to stop at every single traffic light in London. It was so boring, stop start stop start, but there was no other choice as Mum would not use the Underground. She still had terrible memories of air raid shelters and felt claustrophobic in any form of confined space.

  Once we arrived at Euston Dad let me race off up the long platform so I could see what loco was going to pull our train and it was a Royal Scot Class named Royal Army Service Corps, another gem of a spot for my rapidly increasing collection of numbers. Never before had I been on a train where people could walk from one end to the other through the corridors, it was all so exciting, it felt like Christmas Day. Upon departure the loco slipped a little as it tried to gain traction as it struggled to haul the twelve coach train up the incline out of Euston. We were still going slowly as we passed Camden engine sheds to our left and so my book became filled with numbers very quickly. They must surely all be new to me as this was unknown territory. Mum got out the grated cheese and cucumber sandwiches she had made and we all tucked into them and washed them down with the awful stewed tea from our vacuum flask that had already been brewed for approaching four hours.

  Our first and only stop before Crewe was Rugby where we seemed to wait an eternity as the loco refilled with water. Speed was very soon gained and I could just about depict the station sign as we hammered through Nuneaton at what seemed like the speed of sound. My Dad had been sound asleep for ages and was snoring like a pig, which made me laugh, but there was only us in the compartment so it didn’t really matter. He was the type of chap who wouldn’t really have cared if the Queen Mother was present. His attitude would be ‘let her pay for a first class ticket then she could sit amongst her own’.

  Eventually we slowed down as the train rounded the Stafford curves, I had read about them in railway magazines, they were quite severe and had a speed limit on them. Mum asked me what the station was called and when I told her she gave Dad a few more minutes beauty sleep before calling him to say we were nearly there. Dad seemed calm but Mum’s voice was extremely tense. I remember asking her what my sister’s name was going to be and she got really choked up as she said Daisy, after her Mum who had died giving birth to her.

  On the approach to Crewe we were all getting really excited and I just hoped that my new little sis would be a lot less trouble for Mum and Dad than I was. I began to realise I had to change for the better, but how was the problem? We had arranged to meet our distant relative who we had never met or spoken to before, we had only seen photos of her.

  We had arranged to meet up with her at the Northern end of Platform 4. We hadn’t been there very long before we heard the station announcer say that the approaching train was for Bristol Temple Meads and it was the 11.35 from Liverpool Lime Street. Could they be on this train perhaps I wondered? We all waited as patiently as we could until finally this very smart lady, wearing a grey suit, walked towards us and introduced herself as Aunty Edie, which I assumed was short for Edith. Pleasantries were exchanged and she then took us to the waiting room which was empty except for a rather weary looking lady, who was probably only in her early twenties. She was accompanied by two young children and a baby in a carry-cot. The mother looked as though she had been to hell and back, it must have been torture for the poor lady. She simply handed Daisy to my Mum and left the waiting room with her other two kids, showing no emotion whatsoever, as neither did the children. To this day my little sister has no knowledge of any sort of her real brother and sister, wherever they are or whatever happened to them.

  Official forms were signed by Mum and Dad, we said our goodbyes and Dad carried Daisy as we made our way to the platform for Euston. By this time I had got into the big brother mode and sadly I probably missed many chances to increase my train number collection. There were steam trains everywhere, mostly filthy dirty and in the twilight of their life. When our train finally trundled in it was jam-packed and, to make things worse, the journey time was longer as we skirted the industrial Midlands on a different route which took us via the Black Country foundries of Wolverhampton and England’s second city Birmingham. The fact Daisy was screaming for Britain didn’t exactly make things comfortable, although she did eventually settle down with the pre-made bottle her biological mother had prepared for her.

  It was dark when we finally arrived back in Colwood, our home town, and for the one and only time in my childhood we took a taxi. The journey to the Arches only took two or three minutes but I felt so posh. It was a black car and the driver wore a smart suit, a peaked cap and held the door open for us to get out when we arrived at our home. Grandad and his sister were in our house, they had been left the spare key and Aunty Win had a stew on the go which was the first food we had seen for hours.

  Around the table everyone seemed so happy but things were quickly wound up as I had school the following day, plus Dad and Grandad had to be up early for work. Paternity Leave was another generation away yet. Work rules were simple those days, no work no pay and if a man were to let his employer down more than once it quite often resulted in him being awarded the DCM. Despite the grand sounding of this title it was an easy way for the boss to tell the worker he had been sacked. The DCM stood for ‘Don’t come Monday’ and all workers feared it.

  On Daisy’s first night in her new home she seemed contented and slept most of the night and only disturbed when Dad got up for work. Her early morning crying was a joy to hear and none of us really cared we had been woken up a shade earlier than normal.

  Daisy’s growing up was fairly straight-forward and I was kept totally in the picture during all the stages of her eventual adoption, which helped me come to terms with my early days, but at that time of my life I couldn’t have cared less. I had no idea how babies were made, I just wanted to play and have fun. Life was great.

  CHAPTER 6

  Bad Loser

  Life was beginning to change lightning fast and by June 1960, two months short of my tenth birthday, I accompanied my parents to the local Magistrates Court where they officially adopted Daisy. This would have been exactly the same procedure Mum and Dad had gone through to adopt me several years earlier when I was a baby. It was a total anti-climax as I was expecting loads of policemen and men with wigs but, in fact, we went into a large room, with massively long tables, where two women and one man sat. These were the Magistrates. Both of the women were old but the man seemed ancient and barely alive. It seemed like he was hovering in and out of consciousness. However, they signed the forms and Daisy was ours forever. Three weeks later she was christened Daisy Alice McFirley at the same church where I was christened.

  I was beginning to take an interest in sport and was really looking forward to our school sports day. I was now at middle school just across town and the nine year olds an
d upwards could take part in the school sports on its rather nice sports field.

  Sports Day was really something special for us kids from the Arches because we only got to try our luck twice before returning to senior school on our own patch. The ones from other areas stayed until leaving age was reached. During the evenings I had been practising running at the rec close to Grandad’s house and could easily beat the boys of my age and the majority of the older ones and so all the kids from the Arches thought I would win easily.

  Middle school was somewhat more up-market than the Arches school as school funds were collected each term towards outings etc., and also to provide prizes for Sports Day in the form of book tokens. The idea being that books had an educational theme. Prizes were awarded to the first two in each race. A ten shilling voucher for the winner and a five shilling voucher for second place. In my little world I had already spent my winning voucher before the race was run. The bookstall on our station had a book containing all of Britain’s train numbers, it was known as a combined volume and you underlined the numbers as you collected them. Up until this time I just checked them off in an exercise book and had firstly written them down on pages I had torn from the middle of various school books.