Dark Nights

November 1966

I didn’t know what to make of Drama. I wasn't averse to acting the goat now and then, but why poncing about in the hall should have the same value as a History lesson was mystifying. Upbury Manor had a commitment to the arts and if those on high considered Drama merited a place in the school timetable, then mine was not to reason why. Mine was but to curl into a ball and listen carefully as a giggly Miss Fyshe talked us through the stages of tree growth.

‘Rise slowly, slowly, not too fast. Now let me see those branches growing, spread your arms… hold them high above your head… now reach for the sky… stand up on your tiptoes… higher, higher!’

1A1 were invited to demonstrate their tree growing talents on an after school trip. To where I can’t be certain, but given Miss Fyshe’s connections and the presence of Mister Willis on the excursion, the Medway Little Theatre in Rochester seems likely. After piling onto a coach and making a short trip through unfamiliar territory in fast fading light, we arrived at an old building where, after climbing a staircase to a modest sized room, we put on a performance that earned a generous round applause from what appeared to be an elderly audience. Miss Fyshe, of course, was delighted.

Me, an actor? Wow!

Around this time something strange started happening after school; Paul, Clive and Stan went missing. John and I waited for them at the gate, as usual, but they were nowhere to be seen and when the same thing happened on consecutive nights, we got suspicious. It turned out the trio had wangled lifts with Kevin, who was charging sixpence a time for places in his dad’s Hillman Imp. Being members of Kevin’s 1A2 class gave them an advantage but when we got wind of it, John and I got in on the act too, as Kevin was happy to take a tanner from any of us on a first come first served basis. The deal got us home to Twydall a lot quicker and left us thruppence to the good on the bus fare, which was just enough to spend on a packet of potato puffs at the pick up point; a little shop just off the High Street, on Arden Street.

But in the close confinement of the car I suffered. Within days, I’d had enough of arriving home jelly legged and deathly pale with a stomach on the verge of eruption. I wasn’t that keen on potato puffs anyway.

I went back to the buses. A poor traveller, I often felt queasy, especially on damp days when the bus was crowded and the windows were steamed up, but a rush of fresh air at each stop helped and when it got too much, I just got off the bus early and walked the rest of the way.

Thankfully, I never once threw up on a bus but John did, on the way home one night. Pale faced and sweaty, he was struggling as the bus lurched out of Sturdee Avenue and then came to the stop on Woodlands Road. He’d have been wise to get off there and then, but he chose to sit tight. Only when the bus stopped on the Twydall side of Cornwallis Avenue did he make a dash for it, but it was too late. He’d crossed the point of no return and the deluge came as he left his seat. Out of loyalty I followed him off the bus, being careful to step over a pool of steaming puke and smile apologetically at a bewildered Carol Walker, a 1A1 classmate of ours.

Remember how we used to add up the three numbers on our bus tickets in the hope of getting a lucky twenty one total? Well, poor Carol was out of luck that night. Her raincoat got spattered with vomit.

School didn’t finish till four o’clock (a ten to four finish came in a year later). If it wasn’t dark by the time we got home we’d be drawing the curtains soon after. That put a stop to playing out. On one of these evenings the infamous Harry Roberts the police killer was in the news again, caught after three months on the run. 

After doing my homework I sometimes watched the telly, but my interest waned as the evening wore on and the programmes on both channels got more serious. We had Southern TV too, but that didn’t really count, as it was practically the same as ITV. I rued the fact that telly wasn’t as good as it used to be; Doctor Who wasn’t the same without William Hartnell and there weren’t so many westerns around either. I just wished we had BBC 2 like my mate Clive. He was the only kid I knew who had a telly that got BBC 2 and I envied him every time he told us about the latest episode of The High Chaparral.

Once the little ones were in bed and Dad had disappeared to the Rainham Mark Social Club for his nightly pint, I found my own amusements. The green mat in front of the coal fire was a mat no more once I’d emptied a tin of marbles onto it. The mat was my football pitch. The marbles were my players. Forget Subbuteo – I’d played it at Kevin’s house and didn’t think much of it – this game was better and night after night I’d disappear into my own world. The side in possession could either reposition their players and strike the ball once, or dribble to a maximum of three touches before passing or shooting. Possession was lost if the ball stopped closer to an opposition player. The goalposts came from a blow football game, as did two plastic goalkeepers. With fouls committed by missing the ball and striking an opposition player instead, sending offs were common. As were pitch invasions and coiled strips of paper being tossed onto the pitch like toilet rolls. I got so immersed in it that until I heard my Mam laughing, I wasn’t aware I’d been making crowd noises. But even then, I couldn’t stop myself.