Ambitions and Directions

Trevor Hickson suggested we continue a serious chat about the future at his house after school. Over a cup of tea at the Hickson home on St. John’s Road, near the top of Canterbury Street, Trevor elaborated on his plans to join the navy. As surprised as I was, a bigger surprise came when, after a glance at the clock, Trevor jumped up to switch the telly on.

‘Crossroads is on,’ he said.

‘You don’t watch that rubbish, do you?’

‘Never miss it.’

My mind was still on the future as I walked home to Twydall via the top road. I’d only wanted to be a footballer. Since the day I’d read that Brian Kidd – the young Manchester United star – had cleaned Denis Law’s boots whilst serving his time as an apprentice at the club, I’d daydreamed of following in his footsteps. And when I’d broken into the Manchester United first team and become famous, people would laugh when they heard teen sensation Gerard Lynch used to clean Brian Kidd’s boots. But the dream had all but gone and at fourteen, I had no idea what the future held for me.

A trip to the Trustee Savings Bank, opposite Gillingham train station, brought another surprise. Lesley Ring was behind the counter, a girl I’d known by sight as someone in the year above me at Upbury, yet there she was, looking ever so grown up and professional as she attended to me, a mere schoolboy. It brought home how close I was getting to the adult world. Life got really serious when the Navy came into the school and gave us a careers talk, followed closely the Army, both taking up occupation in the room behind the stage. I had no interest in either.

Other kids, the girls in particular, seemed to have a focus, a direction, and were diligently working towards something. Some already knew they’d be staying on for a fifth year and taking exams. Even Trevor was looking ahead and making plans. Me, I was still distracted by the career headings displayed on the wall to the left of the blackboard in the Technical Drawing room. In three years Mister Elsgood had made no reference to it and I still wondered what Commerce was.

With no idea what I wanted to do, or where I was going, I asked my dad.

‘You’re leaving school at the first chance,’ said Dad. ‘I want you out earning a wage.’

A big stink in the papers about a sex education film caught my eye. Helga, the most sexually explicit film ever seen on British screens, had been granted an A certificate on the grounds that it was educational. And it was showing at the Classic (formerly the Odeon).

Wahay!

For someone who didn’t have the nerve to try sneaking into X films, as some of lads at school had done, this was a chance not to be missed. Brother Dave thought so too, though he wasn’t convinced it was a good idea to tell Dad before we set off. I talked him into it. ‘It’ll be alright, we’re old enough. Telling him will show we’re being mature and sensible about it.’

I should have listened to my brother. ‘Oh are you now?’ said Dad, with great suspicion, when we told him where we were going.

Dad was standing in the hall in his cap and coat, about to go for his nightly pint when my brother and I arrived home.

‘Well,’ said Dad. ‘Are you any wiser now… than you were before you left?’