Twydall

‘Fish, chips and peas please,’ said Mam.

‘Peas? We don’t sell peas,’ said the man behind the counter at the chippy on Twydall Green.

Mam wasn’t happy when we got outside. ‘He looked at me like I was daft,’ she said. ‘Fancy them not doing mushy peas. They don’t do steak puddings either. Or gravy.’

No chip shops in Gillingham did. They didn’t sell Vimto or Dandelion and Burdock, either. Shame.

Things were different to the life I'd known in Bolton but overall, we adapted well and I liked the kids I played with on Crundale Road. Though my short time at the infants was largely enjoyable, my first year in the juniors was not. Playtime was something to dread. I wanted to be like any other kid and play with my classmates but the big boys had other ideas. I’d run when I saw them coming but I never got far, and when I tried to wriggle free, I’d be roughed up and pinned into a corner. It seemed half the school wanted to take a turn with the funny talking kid.

‘Say potaters. Go on, say potaterz!’ 

Every time I spoke there was laughter and mimicry. And tears; mine. In rare moments of respite I’d escape to the bottom corner of the playground, by the railings, and stare at the approximate position of Bolton on an outline drawing of the British Isles, marked on the playground. A tearful little boy in a school full of funny talking kids; I promised myself when I was big, I’d go home.

As I got older and the big boys moved on, school got better. The second year was a happy year, as was the third. By the fourth year I'd developed what would be a lifelong affection for Twydall Juniors.

You can read more Twydall Tales here.