Summer of 69

In the news… the ha’penny was scrapped. Ha’penny chews became two a penny. Everything else got rounded up.

Making the most of the light nights, Clive, Paul, me and Stan took our bikes out to race around the narrow lanes of lower Twydall and lower Rainham.

And, of course, there was football. If I wasn’t having a kick about on Eastcourt Green with the local lads, I’d be playing football on Beechings Way with anyone that happened to be around, often till the sun went down. On one such occasion the light was fading fast when Clive dribbled straight at me. Keeping a close eye on the ball I backed off, unaware that I was being set up. When Clive had me right where he wanted me, he made his move. As quick as a flash he knocked the ball past me and as quick as a flash I turned to go after him… and almost bashed my brains out against a tree. While I slumped to the ground seeing stars, Clive laughed like a lunatic.

At the International Stores on Twydall Green Mister Sullens asked me if I’d like to help with the stocktaking. As a minor my hours were restricted but I enjoyed the experience and of course, the extra money. In quiet spells between deliveries Mister Sullens or his supervisor Mrs Brown, a middle aged German lady, regularly gave me a little job on the shop floor, such as pricing Shippams’ pastes with an ink pad and a sixpenny stamper.

I liked Mister Sullens. Tall, straight backed and very smart in his collar and tie and white grocers overall, he was a perfect gentleman, addressing his young female staff as Miss Yapp, Miss Hayward and Miss Croft, rather than Margaret, Susan and Liz.

Pat, a quiet girl with glasses, was another young lady on the staff. So too was Janet Knight, who’d been one of the big girls in the playground when I’d first started at Twydall Juniors. Another person I knew from Twydall Juniors was Mister Sullens’ son Kevin, though I didn’t make the connection till I saw the family leaving the flat above the shop one afternoon. A year or two older than me, I’d known Kevin as Salty Sullens, for the amount of salt he sprinkled on his dinner,

Occasionally I went out in the delivery van with Fred Bullock, an old chap who’d taken over from Mrs Stone. Paul – the other delivery boy – had left and gone into full time employment, leaving me and Fred to clear the deliveries between us. Fred was okay but I preferred being out on the bike, especially after…

Flogging the iron horse up Twydall Lane was hard work though it didn’t seem so bad when I delivered a hefty box of groceries to Mrs Robertson on Brenchley Road. At her request I carried the box into the hall, where I was surprised to see her pretty young daughter.

‘Oh you must be strong to carry heavy boxes like that!’ said the pretty young daughter. With dark wavy hair and a captivating smile, I recognised her immediately as the grown up version of a girl from the year below me at Twydall Juniors.

Wow!

After giving her my best ‘Oh it’s nothing’ smile, I swaggered back to the bike feeling ten feet tall, knowing I’d be keeping a sharp lookout for the Robertson's groceries in future.

Much as I liked working at the International Stores, I missed watching football on Saturday afternoons. At least I got to see Sam Leitch’s Football Preview, a lunchtime TV programme, before going to work at two o’clock. Seeing the stars was a treat and there was no bigger treat than seeing the charismatic Liverpool manager Bill Shankly, whose appearances were mesmerising.

The show always ended with a Scottish round up and some grainy action from north of the border. Hearing every single Scottish commentator describing every single goal as ‘a great goal’ or ‘oh, it’s a great goal’ amused me greatly.

Great goal? Who’s he kidding?

At the Shell petrol station on the corner of Charing Road and Goudhurst Road I claimed a free ticket for a promotional evening at Chatham’s Central Hall, featuring a special screening of Manchester United’s European Cup triumph of the previous year. Local celebrities, including Gillingham’s Carl Gilbert and Kent cricketer Alan Knott got the evening off to a good start when they appeared on stage to kick plastic footballs into the audience. Gilbert, always the entertainer, stole the show with a fresh air kick that drew great laughter from the audience. When the screening got underway I was surprised at the level of support for United. The audience cheered as the goals went in and when the show came to an end with United running round Wembley with the cup, everyone applauded.

A new football magazine appeared, Shoot, a weekly publication that bridged the gap between issues of Football Monthly. I was glad when the new season started, yet not so happy when Manchester United got hammered at home by Southampton, a game shown on Match of the Day. Ron Davies scored four times for Southampton in their 4-1 victory. What’s more, he made it look easy. The Gills were struggling too. After suffering five successive league defeats in August, it looked like they were in for another hard season.

With a return to school on the horizon I went to the barbers for my customary crew-cut, only to ask for a fashionable skinhead when I got in the chair.

I felt very smug when I knocked at Clive’s door on Milstead Road to ask if he was coming out to play football.

‘Who cut your hair; an Indian or your mum?’

‘The barber.’

‘Where did you go – The West End?’ asked Clive, citing the inaptly named barber’s on Twydall Green as piss-take number two.

‘Thurston’s on Canadian Avenue, opposite Benham’s’ I said, as casually as I could over the music that was blasting out from his living room. ‘What’s that crap you’re listening to anyway?’

‘Honky Tonk Women; the Stones latest.’

What a daft title, I thought.

Me, Paul and Clive got a surprise when Upbury boys Jeremy Brougham, Alan Bailey and Stephen Missin turned up at Beechings Green, having rode over (from Brompton?) on their bikes. The six of us practiced crossing and heading a ball for the best part of a hot, sweaty afternoon before resting on the grass to take a break.

‘That haircut makes you head a ball better,’ said Stephen.

Though I nodded in agreement, I quietly dismissed the potty notion. I couldn’t dislike Stephen, even when he let it slip that the three of them had nicknamed me Thin Eyes in reference to my sleepy eyelid. Poor Stephen was the kid that always got the blame if a passing move broke down. ‘Oh Missin!’ was the cry and ‘Oh Missin!’ was the echo, from all around the field, whether it was his fault or not.

The holidays were drawing to an end when Mam received some Christmas cards. Strange, I thought, in August. ‘Samples’ she said. ‘Take them out and see if you can get some orders.’

The samples had come from the people at Aburound House, the day centre on Woodlands Road that my brother Garry attended. Though I realised there was something wrong with our Garry – at six years old he was still in nappies and couldn’t talk – his wrongness had no label until I saw the back of those cards.

So for a couple of days I traipsed up and down, and knocked at the door of every house in the catchment area of Eastcourt Lane, Beechings Way, Featherby Road and the top road… and got three orders.