Christmas 1968

After three months at the International Stores I’d moved on from going out in the delivery van with Mrs Stone to working independently, delivering groceries on a big iron bike. Downhill, it went like a runaway train, I only had to steer and brake, but riding uphill was a different story. Forget the gears. Sturmey Archer’s finest might have lessened the strain on the thighs but the need to pedal like a lunatic turned my legs to jelly in a matter of seconds. The only way to climb a steep incline was to get out of the saddle and put my full weight on the pedals.

Saturday 21^st December.

Twydall Green was as busy as anywhere else on the last Saturday before Christmas. At the back of the International Stores, boxes for despatch were arriving much faster than me and Paul Prickett – the other delivery boy – could shift them, but each was one less for Mrs Stone to worry about she came in to reload the delivery van.

On a bright, but chilly afternoon, I picked up a delivery for Mrs Mungham, a regular customer who lived on Beechings Way.

3:50pm

It was half time in that afternoon’s football matches. As usual I wondered how Gillingham and Manchester United were getting on. Hopefully, I’d catch the latecomers reading of the results on the wireless when I got home shortly after six. Opposite the playing field on Beechings Way I parked the bike at the kerb, made the delivery, then set off back to the shop.

As I passed Ruckinge Way I heard somebody shout.

‘Lynch! Fall off!’

A quick glance revealed the culprit to be a laughing Clive Ward. Bouncing a ball he, his brother Peter and two other kids were about to cross over to the playing field. As the moment for a sharp reply had gone, I cursed him under my breath and turned my attention back to the road. Needing to turn right up Goudhurst Road, I glanced over my right shoulder and saw a lorry overtaking me. As soon as it roared by I swung the bike into the centre of the road, not realising there was a mini right behind it.

Screeeeeeech… Bang!

For a moment I lay in a daze. How I came to be lying on the grass verge, so far from the middle of the junction, was a blur. A middle aged man in a car coat appeared.

‘I’m sorry son but you can’t just turn corners like that. Are you alright?’

I sat up and saw the bike lying on the grass nearby; back forks bashed in; seat pointing upwards. In the middle of the junction was a mini; driver’s door open, nobody there. The man talking to me had to be the driver. I told him I was alright and got up, but I was confused. Where were my shoes?

My shoes were in the road. Why? I didn’t know. I only knew I had to get away from there, quick, in case the police came. I didn’t want my dad to find out what had happened. If he didn’t kill me for nearly getting killed, he’d kill me for getting in trouble with the police.

After retrieving my shoes and putting them on, I picked up the bike, reset the seat and pushed it away.

‘Are you sure you’re alright?’ the man asked.

‘Yes,’ I said, in denial of shock and a burning thigh.

Click click click went the spokes on the bent forks as I pushed the bike up Goudhurst Road. Two old ladies stared as I passed. One of them told me how lucky I’d been.

‘I know’ was all I could say.

I bloody know I was lucky you silly moo!

A hundred yards up Goudhurst Road I stopped for a moment to take everything in. It was then that I noticed a hole in my jeans, a hole that aligned with the burning on my thigh. The mini had been behind the lorry… and I’d pulled out in front of it. That much was clear. I remembered the screech of brakes… and I’d seen a fleeting close up of the car’s front grill. But what about the rest?

In my mind I saw the car slamming into the back of the bike, scooping me onto the bonnet and shunting the bike across the junction. I’d followed the same trajectory, launched into a somersault from the bonnet. The big mystery was my shoes. Did they come off when the bike was slammed from underneath me? Or had my feet touched the ground at some point, and momentum had bounced me out of them before tossing me onto the grass verge? I really didn’t know. The hole in my jeans and the burning in my thigh were more accountable. A friction burn inflicted when I came down on the grass, I guessed. Bloody hell, I had been lucky, but my immediate concern was the bike. How could I explain the damage to Mister Sullens?

‘I was just coming down the back street. I’d dismounted on the move and was standing on one pedal ready to hop off when the front wheel went over a big stone. I lost my balance and fell over and landed on the forks. Sorry Mister Sullens.’

If Mister Sullens smelled a rat he kept it to himself. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said, calmly. ‘I’ll take it over to Arnold’s bike shop, he’ll sort it out.’

I had a good soak in the bath that night. The injury to my thigh was a raw, nasty looking scrape that stung like hell. The size of half a crown, it formed a big scabby crust that took weeks to heal.

My parents? I never told them.

And the football scores?

Gillingham 0 Bristol Rovers 2

Southampton 2 Manchester United 0

It just wasn’t my day.

Christmas Day

I got my very first transistor radio, a posh one too, leather bound. And I was chuffed to hear The Good, the Bad and the Ugly playing as I switched it on.

On the telly…

Cilla flipping Black.