October 1968

At home…

‘Ooo-woo Gerard!’

I couldn’t believe my ears. Shelley Jordan screeching through the letterbox of our new home on Aylesford Crescent was a terrible shock. Her appearance on my doorstep puzzled me for a while but means, motive and opportunity all clicked into place when I found out she lived around the corner on Hawkhurst Road. Just my rotten luck.

Shelley wasn’t the only Upbury pupil living nearby. Jim Barker lived a few doors down Eastcourt Lane and Steve Clay a little further up, facing The Sportsman pub. A surprise, as I’d never seen either of them on the bus. Nor would I, since both caught the school bus on the top road. That struck me as very odd. Special buses were laid on for kids in the outlying districts of Hempstead, Wigmore and Rainham, and I realised there had to be a cut off somewhere, but if Eastcourt kids like Jim and Steve were entitled to a free bus pass then it ringed Twydall as the black hole in the middle of the service. As unfair as it seemed I didn’t dwell on it.

Me and my brother Dave joined the secretaries and college girls waiting at the bus shelter on Eastcourt Lane, most days, to catch the 1 or 1A. If we were a bit late and the bus was already there we could still catch it opposite the ESAB works if we legged it down to the next stop Beechings Way.  Sometimes the bus was full by then but missing it wasn’t a big deal, as that stop gave us the extra option of the 1B.

After school I usually walked home with my mates Paul Parker and John Greenland. It was about then an older boy came to my attention – David Day, a giant in the fourth year and a Twydall boy himself, I think. I thought I could walk fast but I was nowhere near as quick as him. As hard as I tried to stay on his heels when he shot past us in the alleys after school one day, he left me further behind with every stride. A giraffe wouldn’t have caught him.

We didn’t raid Benhams anymore. Perhaps because our numbers were depleted – Clive and Stan had taken to cycling to and from school regularly. Or perhaps we were just older and wiser, and we’d just seen the error of our ways. Whatever it was, we’d become quite saintly.

It gave me a kick to say goodbye to Paul and John when we reached Eastcourt Lane. My new home on Aylesford Crescent was just a minute away yet they were still five minutes away from their homes in Wingham Close, which was their hard cheese.

Just as it was my hard cheese if I was a bit late out of school and they'd pissed off without me. Andrew Collins was a quiet kid who’d just come up to our class from A2. As he wasn't a sporty type I didn't know much about him, only that he was useless at football and his pointed conk had earned him the nickname Beak. I got to know him better when I found myself walking alongside him after school, as his house on Trafalgar Street was on my route home. I gave him another name after a conversation we had when crossing Canterbury Street.

‘I’m going to the shlopodists.’

‘What’s one of them?’

‘A shlopodist… someone who looks after your feet.’

I’d never heard of a shlopodist, or chiropodist even, until then, but I was highly amused when I found out what Andrew meant. There wasn’t much wrong with his speech; he just had a problem with sh sounds. But that was enough for me to give him the nickname Shlop.

In school…

I liked Mister Porter, our new form teacher. He treated us as young adults and encouraged us to think for ourselves in a series of debates. In a debate on capital punishment he cited the Bentley and Craig case, putting great emphasis on the crucial words ‘Let him have it,’ Then he stood back and left it to us. In a lively classroom I found myself leaning one way and then the other as a compelling argument for capital punishment was followed by an equally convincing argument against it. It was riveting stuff. 

On telly… the Mexico Olympics.

Afro-American athletes, in black socks, gave clenched fist salutes from the winners’ rostrum and gained worldwide publicity for the black power movement. Though it caused a big stink, I didn’t get it. I just thought it was daft.

The events were far more interesting. Bob Beamon’s twenty nine foot long jump amazed everyone…

…and the Fosbury flop had to be seen to be believed.

He did what? Head first and backwards?

Of the British medal winners my favourites were Chris Finnegan the boxer and Lillian Board, the golden girl of British athletics.

I liked Lillian Board. She was the girl next door, but it was a girl on the motorcycle that kept catching my eye, on billboards everywhere. Too bad it was an X film.