Honour of the Line

by Brian Darley

  Sports Day arrived and it was all very exciting. There was bunting right along the whole length of the straight running track. There was a stage for the prizes to be presented and several teachers had megaphones. It was like the Olympic Games in miniature.

  Mine was to be the second race of the day over a distance of 70 yards. The girls 70 yards was the first race. The big event of the day was the 150 yards in which the winners, and runners up of all the age groups faced each other in the golden finale. Although I would have to face much older lads in this event most of my friends thought I would win it. Georgina ran in the girls 70 yards and ran the race of her life to finish 4th. She had expected to finish last. She was by far the quickest of her house team, the yellows, but the other colour teams all had runners that could always beat her easily.

  Nerves were non existent as we were called to our marks and as the start whistle sounded and the crowd began to cheer I gave it all I had got. After about 40 yards it became all to apparent that two other lads, both from the other side of town, were getting well away from me. Sadly, for me, I finished a well beaten 3rd and only just hung onto that. Not only did I get well beaten, but I would not get my chance in the 150 yards, the highlight of the day. I was distraught as one of the teachers, Mr Ellis, gave the 1st and 2nd in the race a card which would entitle them to their prizes at the end of the day presentation. Both of the other lads, Derek and Tim, came over to shake hands but rather petulantly I refused. Losing was awful, not getting my book was even worse. When Grandad came home from work that night I told him of my failure and he asked if I would be interested in sport, perhaps even learning to play football as I was now old enough to learn the game. Without really thinking I agreed, and unbeknown to me at the time, that snap decision could have eventually changed my life forever.

  The morning after Sports Day I went to school feeling rather sheepish. The indignity of defeat was still weighing heavy on my shoulders but everybody was great and carried on as usual. Mid-way through our first lesson, which was arithmetic, one of the senior monitors came to our teacher with a note. Our teacher, Mr Redwood, looked rather stern as he told me I had to report to the Head Master’s office. It seemed I was standing there for an eternity wondering what was going on but I wasn’t frightened as I didn’t think I had offended in any way. Our Head Master’s name was Mr Boddingford and he had the reputation for strict discipline. I found him almost a bully even when he spoke and really didn’t like him very much. That opinion was about to change. He called me in and told me I had let the good name of the school down by my total lack of grace in defeat. Mr Ellis had obviously reported me for not shaking hands. Boddingford ordered me to bend over his table and he thrashed me senseless with the slipper, so severely I was unable to stop shaking and could not begin to eat my school dinner, which earned me 25 lines. As if one punishment wasn’t enough. ‘I must eat the dinner my parents had paid for’ was the line. I felt like adding … ‘I would have eaten it if that bastard of a Head Master hadn’t nearly killed me for such a petty offence’. God only knows what happened for something more serious. I can only assume he beheaded children who were really naughty.

  As time went by other lads also told of the terrible beatings they had taken at the hands of Boddingford but none of us dared to tell our parents. We all then realised he only ever thrashed the boys from the Arches, which seemed very unfair. Eventually one lad, who had taken the most severest of beatings, told his father who had gone to the Police and informed them of the names of the other lads who had been abused.

  That October, when we returned to school after half-term, we learned we had a new Head Teacher, a lady called Miss Baker. Boddingford had lost his job and had been taken to court and put on probation for dishing out corporal punishment. He was also banned from ever working with children again. Three weeks later he committed suicide and when those who he had abused found out where he was buried we all went along one night after school, when it was dark, and pissed on his grave. If nothing else it made us feel we had gained some revenge. I am sure I would be speaking for all of us from the Arches when I say we hated him with a vengeance.

  CHAPTER 7

  Sporting Beginnings

  Grandad and I started kicking a proper leather football around at the local rec. I had no idea whatsoever how to play the game and wondered why the bigger kids kicked the hell out of each other trying to get the ball. I was told this was called tackling. I didn’t like the look of it at all, it seemed far easier if everybody just let you kick the ball and try to score a goal.

  We started playing ‘three and in’, meaning we took turns in goal until we let three goals in and we would then swap around.

  On Saturday afternoons I started going with Grandad to watch our towns team play, which was great because they won more games than they lost. We also travelled on the coach to most of the away games, some of which were the other side of London, which was great for me as from time to time I might see a new train number as we passed railway locations from different regions. Although this was great I probably missed a lot of Daisy growing up, but then you can’t have it all.

  Over a period of time I realised that Grandad was striking the ball so much harder. Apparently he had been a really decent player in his younger days. Without realising, I was getting better, fitter and stronger and my spells in goal were getting longer by the day.

  It was the early summer of ’61 when four of the much older lads banged on Grandad’s door and asked him if I wanted to play footie with them. Apparently they had watched me practising with Grandad and thought I would be good enough to make the numbers up. I suddenly felt I had arrived and really loved it. I was the first of my age group to get invited and I felt very proud although it was quite hard going at first.

  By the time the next School Sports arrived I was far stronger than the previous year and I won the 80 yards easily, that’s inflation for you I suppose, beating Derek and Tim, my conquerors from last year. This left the mountain to climb in the final event of the day, the boys 150 yards where I had to face others up to 4 years older than myself, but I surprised everybody by taking 2nd place. With 10 yards to go I was in front but just got collared close home by a senior boy from the other side of town. All in all I was pleased with my efforts.

  This was my first break-through in sport yet, unbeknown to me, far greater was to follow. As a result of my success I went onto the Area and then the County Sports against boys of my own age and won them both, but it was football I had fallen in love with.

  CHAPTER 8

  Mine Host Retires

  September 1962 and all of the kids from the Arches had returned to our local school. It was like coming home. The girls shared the bottom playground with the infants, whilst the boys were confined to the top playground and were allowed into the bottom one only to retrieve footballs should they go over the dividing wall. Plastic Frido footballs were now all the rage and it was all too easy to miscue your shot and send it high over the wall. These balls were great but punctured easily on the hard surface so much of our time was unfortunately spent playing with an flat ball. But a flat plastic ball was still a whole lot better than playing with an old leather ball where the laces could cut your forehead to shreds if you headed them incorrectly.

  On weekday evenings I would have tea at Grandad’s and then go to the rec to play footie. Most members of our year at school would be there. The girls all sitting round chatting and the boys slowly but surely, one by one, getting the nod to join in football with the bigger lads. It was all a very age group related type of thing when it became too dark to play football. The older boys seemed to disappear on to the street corner by the parade of shops and our lot just sat by the swings talking and messing around. At our new school each year was divided into A and B streams. I was in the A stream, which was designed for the better students but the mind boggles just how hopeless the B stream were. Most of them seemed to struggle to write their names or get the concept of money. Nevertheless we were all pa
ls and spent lots of our free time together. Homework was still a million miles away for the boys and girls from the Arches.

  A major change also took place around this time. Dad told me that Paddy was leaving the Honour of the Line in order to retire back to Wiltshire. He was now approaching 70 but still had extremely good health so it seemed the right time for him to call it a day. The new Landlord was from Lancashire, although a Southerner born and bred. His name was Den and he had run a pub near Nelson in Lancashire for the past 5 years but was anxious to return to his Southern roots. He had stayed on in the Army after the war and eventually used his Army pension to set up in the licensed trade. His wife was called Diane and they had three children, two girls and a boy.

  One Monday, midway through the morning, the first of the children was introduced to us. The Head Girl called Yvonne escorted her to our class and our form teacher, Miss Page, asked her to stand out the front and tell us a little about herself. Her name was Angela and she had moved into the pub from Nelson in Lancs. She spoke with a very correct English accent with a hint of American as she delivered some of her words. Catterick, in North Yorkshire, was her birth place but she had lived in many places, including South Africa, America and India, as her father’s time in the Forces had destined where their home should be. Her own private tutor had escorted her during her early years but she had returned to state schooling after her father left the Army for civvy street. Peter, her brother, was at the same time being introduced to 4A and they also had an older sister who had just left school.

  Why the hell Paddy hadn’t retired earlier was my first thought. Angela was so good looking with a really friendly face, long legs and her chest also stuck out, although not as much as some of the other lasses who were beginning to grow tits. Angela’s hair was in a ponytail with a fringe at the front but because she spoke so correctly most of the lads were put off her, she seemed far too posh for us lot. Georgina straight away became Angela’s friend and after a couple of nights, as we were talking at the rec, Georgina told us Angela was really okay but she wasn’t allowed to join us as she had to help her Mum behind the scenes in the pub preparing food for the visiting teams to eat during the break in their darts or whatever match. This food was known as ‘the spread’ and according to locals was considerably better than the dry, often stale offerings, of Paddy’s reign, which were made in the morning and were not at all fresh by the time evening came around. Most of the lads thought Angela was a good looker but thought she was rather snooty because of her correct use of the Queen’s English, unlike the other girls who, once in a while, could be known to let the odd swear word slip out.

  Although our lot were very working class, most of us only used bad words if the need arose, say if we dropped something or fell over and hurt ourselves. I really wanted to get to know Angela and wanted her as my girlfriend and often thought I would love to kiss her and put my arm around her. Probably I said more to her than any of the other boys did but it didn’t amount to much more than the occasional hello as we entered the classroom or passed in the hall.

  Having separate playgrounds and the fact that Angela never came to the rec were a problem I felt I would never be able to solve. All the rest of us still met in the rec, even when the nights drew in. With the help of a scaffold pole we somehow managed to bend the railings and so we were able to get in after hours, so as to speak. Mr Peters, the Groundsman, always locked up as darkness descended and made us all get out but as soon as he was gone we were back there in a flash. Really all we did was chat and lark about but this was now our patch, the class of 62 had arrived on the scene.

  CHAPTER 9

  Play Me a Song

  Music had just started to become a major part of everybody’s lives, although getting to hear your favourite tunes was something quite different. Radio 1 was still years away so the best any of us kids could hope for was Radio Luxembourg, which played songs from the Hit Parade but the reception was poor and the sound always seemed to fade as your favourite tune was being played. Popular songs of this time were I Remember You by Frank Ifield. I Can’t Stop Loving you by Ray Charles and Speedy Gonzales by Pat Boone.

  During the summer of 62 Woollies, the biggest shop in town, had been extended with a side entrance added, which opened onto a street that faced a large car park which also served as the market place on Saturdays. When the new part of the shop was opened it had a music counter right next to the new side entrance. Sheet music was available as were small musical instruments and record players. The record players seemed way ahead of their time. Most were like carry cases where the speaker was part of the outer case. They also could be loaded to play up to ten records although, without fail, one would always slide and sound totally distorted. Further problems would be that some records got stuck on the spindle and failed to drop so the same song got repeated time and time again. Needless to say, at this time, us children of the Arches were in no position to buy the records, let alone a record player, which would cost upwards of £10, which was over a weeks wages for a manual male worker of that era.

  Woollies only sold records on their own label. They were the songs from the Hit Parade but sung by some tinpot artist, many of whom were worse than karaoke singers or modern tribute artists. Why they are called tribute artists I can never really fathom out. Many are so bad they should be called Insult Artists. Getting back to the records. They were played virtually non-stop so it was possible to stand just outside on the street and listen to them. I became really hooked and often spent quite a bit of time straight after school biking into town just to stroll around the shop without a penny in my pocket just to listen to the music. I would often stop at the music counter, especially if one of my favourites were playing.

  The girl who was usually serving must have been around 17 years old and as time passed she would, from time to time, ask me what songs I would like her to play. Eventually I realised that I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was tall, kind faced, with shoulder length dark hair with a fringe. In fact a typical good looker from that era. Sometimes if it was raining this girl would say ‘stand in the corner to listen but go straight away if the Supervisor comes around’. She was way out of my league, in fact, she seemed a generation older but still I could dream.

  As I got a bit more confident I sometimes asked which days she was working. Her days off were officially Monday all day and Wednesday afternoons, which was the early closing day in our town, although she often did extra as she had just passed her driving test and was saving for a car. This confirmed my thoughts, she must be at least 17 and, although very friendly, that was it. Often I lay in bed and wondered if she was as friendly and helpful with everyone or did she just take sympathy on me and feel sorry that I couldn’t afford to buy the records. Although I really wasn’t that shy I was fairly quiet compared with most of the boys of my age but I didn’t need to make a noise to get myself noticed, I was starting to get good at sport and I knew it.

  CHAPTER 10

  Changes

  Our school football season didn’t start until mid October but we had practice in the upper playground once a week and our matches were to be played on a council pitch across town so every match would be like an away fixture. We had a junior team for years 1 and 2 and senior team for years 3 and 4. I was so hoping to be picked for the junior team but didn’t think I would get a chance in the first year as I would still be bottom of my age group. Mr Tindall, the games master, always made me play in goal but at break times I liked to play outfield. It was great to dribble around a player and perhaps score a goal from time to time.

  Just a few days before the first match I was called by Mr Tindall to see the Head Master who hit me with the biggest shock of my life so far. He told me that Mr Tindall wanted me to keep goal for both teams, junior and senior, and wanted to know my thoughts. This meant playing against every age group but I was now approaching six feet tall and was getting quite strong. Our Head Master, whom everybody was petrified of, was actually a right nice kind of ch
ap. He said ‘Billy, you should be so proud. In my 27 years here this has never happened before, but this offer comes with a price, which is you will have to do some homework in order not to fall behind with your school work’. He pointed out that junior games were on Mondays and senior games on Wednesdays, which meant missing the last lesson which was arithmetic on both days. Nowadays the two times table is regarded as maths, what a joke that is. I was told I would get my tuition for the lessons but would have to do the exercises at home. Agreement was instant, this chance at footie was too big to pass over, even if homework did take up some of my evenings.

  On the following morning the team for the opening junior match was displayed on the notice board in the hall and most of the boys were not a bit surprised I had made the team a year ahead of my time. Georgina had known my news from the previous day. I had told her in private as we left the rec and she could and always would keep a secret. She was a real diamond. Two other lads called Ron and Peter, from 1B had, like myself, managed to punch above their weight and were also included in the junior team. At the end of morning assembly the Head Master announced that school sporting history was going to be made the following Wednesday. There was a deadly hush, you could have heard a fly landing as he announced that Billy McFirley, from 1A, had been picked for the school senior football team which, incidentally, contained nobody from years 2 or 3. My embarrassment was there for all to see as I became really hot and flustered and must have been as red as a beetroot. The only downside to me was that in my first year at senior school I was the only poor sod to get homework but everything has a price. Somehow I coped with this …… just.

  Times were changing and so was everything else. On the dark nights I often left school and cycled straight into town, always without lights and quite often on the footpath, which earned me many tellings off from various members of the public and a couple of times by Mr Wing, the local Bobby. My reasons for going to town were firstly to stand on the bridge by St Jude’s and collect a few train numbers and perhaps hopefully get one I hadn’t spotted before and, secondly, to visit Woollies to listen to the records and eye up this pretty young lass who was way out of my division. Georgina often asked what I did between school time and Grandad coming home from work and I told her I liked hearing the badly recorded records which were sold in Woollies. She mentioned that Angela really liked pop music and had a record player of her own, plus a decent collection of records. This made me think I had something in common with Angela, but why was life so complicated? Three girls I liked the look of. One was my lifelong best mate, one was far too well off and posh and the other was older than me. A few years seems like a million years at that time of your life.