Early Years

I was a young boy in Bolton when my father accepted an offer of redeployment to Kent. Though I had some grasp of the implications, I didn't fully understand its finality and when a taxi pulled up on our cobbled street, in the autumn of 1961, I cheerfully kissed my tearful granny goodbye before hopping into the taxi with Mam, Dad, three little brothers and the family dog.

Thus began one of the longest, most miserable days of my life. I don’t know how many counties there are between Bolton and Gillingham, but I puked my guts up in almost every one of them.

After an overnight stay in a hotel near the top of Canterbury Street, we completed our journey with a short bus ride along the top road next morning. Once again, it was a fine sunny day.

‘There’s my new works,’ said Dad, when we got off the bus near the top of Twydall Lane.

‘Where?’

‘There, where that big blue ball is. See?’

We couldn’t miss it, but all we wanted to know was the whereabouts of our new home. Twydall Lane isn’t particularly long, but on that morning, it ran a lot longer than our patience.

‘Is this our house, Dad?’

‘No’

‘Is this it?’

‘No’

‘Is it this one?’

‘No, it’s not on this street.’

At the bottom of Twydall Lane we saw a load of shops but of greater interest was a circular manhole cover where the pavement bends into Waltham Road. I’d never seen one so big.

On Waltham Road the game began again. ‘Is this our road, Dad?’

‘No.’

Disappointment turned to joy when we turned down Crundale Road. From the moment it was confirmed this was our street, three little boys took it in turn to ask the same burning question. ‘Is this our house?’

At long last we arrived at 43 Crundale Road. Wow! Not only was it bigger that our old terraced house in Bolton, it had an inside toilet, a bathroom and a garden instead of a back yard. It even had a garden at the front. Dead posh.

The excitement didn’t last long. Before we had chance to explore properly, Dad marched me, Dave and Mike to the home of Johnny Gregory, a workmate who lived off Littlebourne Road. Johnny and his wife had taken the Bolton to Gillingham path some months earlier, and they’d agreed to mind us while Dad went home for the arrival of the removal van.

Though the Gregory’s maintained a plentiful supply of orange juice, they played safe and restricted us to the confines of their back garden. Not that we cared, we were happy to play in the sunshine all day, but the idea wasn’t without consequence.

When Dad came for us late in the afternoon he found every inch of the Gregory’s garden path covered in scrawl and doodles. He shook his head and apologised. ‘I’m sorry Johnny, but they’ve never seen chalk in the ground before.’

You can read more Twydall Tales here.