Pocket Money

Other kids went to Saturday morning pictures. Other kids went on holiday. Other kids regularly got an ice cream from the Tonibell, Mister Softee and the Mister Whippy van. My brothers and I weren’t so lucky but when Mam could afford it, she treated us to Oyster Delights.

And sometimes, on Saturdays, we got pocket money.

‘You ask him.’

‘I asked last week, you ask him.’

Dad recognising the custom of pocket money was one miracle. Getting it needed another.

‘Have you asked him?’

‘No, he’s in a bad mood.’

Dad in a bad mood was a man to be avoided. It was best to leave it until later, or try again on Sunday.

‘Have you asked him yet?’

‘Yes’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said he’s got no change.’

‘Blast!’

As the eldest I was supposed to get 2s/6d, Dave 2s/3d and Mike two bob, but as the weekend slipped by our hopes faded and come Sunday night, we wrote it off. Even when we struck lucky there was still a snag.

Dad worked long hours, including weekends, for his family, his fags and his nightly visit to the Rainham Mark Social Club. Each night he’d disappear at around half past eight but sometimes he’d feel the pinch before payday and we all knew what was coming if he entered the living room in his cap and coat, showing a rare grin.  

‘Right men, we’re having a whip round,’ he’d say. Then he’d come to each of us, in turn, and hold his hand out for what remained of our pocket money. The greater our generosity, the bigger Dad’s smile, with scathing condemnation reserved for anyone who had had nothing to declare.

We never went to Saturday morning pictures. A holiday for us was a visit to distant relations. A treat was a pound of broken biscuits or a bag of misshapes from Woolworths.

What you never had you never miss they say, and most days that was true, as I was too busy playing football to care about anything else.

Footnote: when playing football with Stanley Slaughter and others outside Stan's house in Leeds Square, a boy called Alan Hughes ran rings around us. A friend and neighbour of Stan’s, Alan was a kid I’d once seen playing football on Beechings Way. He’d impressed me then and he’d impressed me again. He wasn’t just miles better than us; he was miles better than any kid I knew. Only Charlie Donahue, who played for Walderslade and once tore our Upbury side apart, had made that kind of impression on me and it came as no surprise that Alan and Charlie went on to play for Gillingham's youth team, as did Upbury's Brian Lack.