Backstreet Days
joe pumford
I was dragged,screaming and protesting into this world, on the twenty fourth day of April, nineteen hundred and forty eight, anno domini. An event generally ignored by the public at large, but one which went down great with my old man, who promptly blew a whole weeks wages on his cronies in the local boozers. I being totally unaware of all this, wailed and screamed my way into post war Britain, a Britain of rationing, shortages, and excesses. Of my first years, I remember very little, things sometimes flash briefly through my mind. Images of being bathed in front of a coal or coke fire, and a black shiny fireplace. The galvanised bath which remained with us for many years and was used alternately for bathing babies, peeling shallots, storing coal, and apple bobbing. A chipped enamel bowl, the uneven tiled floor, and the general air of poverty.
One memory stands out clearly though. When I was about four years old, I can remember going, with my two sisters, to the old tip belonging to Lysaghts, now British Steel, Orb Works. The tip was directly opposite the entrance gates, and was used for the disposal of ashes and other industrial waste. We were there to collect coke, which we would sort from the ashes. The reason we had to do this, as I found out much later was, the old man had broken his thumb in work, and as there was little or no sick pay, we were on the parish, receiving food parcels and clothes, and the like. These charitable gifts kept body and soul together, ‘till the old man got back to work.
Though only small, I distinctly remember my negotiating the rickety wooden bridge which crossed the reen at the bottom of our street, and sitting in the old pram as my sisters trundled me along the black ash path, then over the sea defence wall which prevents the river Usk from flooding us out at high tide. The rattle of the wheels along the footpath promised a great adventure. Along the path on the top of the bank, a swift ride down the slope at the end of the path, a few hundred yards down Corpa Road and we were at the tip. There must have been many poor families in the area, because I remember lots of people doing the same thing. Sorting through the hot ash and clinker for lumps of coke. Getting my instructions from my sisters who were then aged thirteen and fourteen, I dived in, feet first, and was soon covered on dirt and dust After a while we returned home, and the girls who were told off for not bringing enough coke in turn blamed me. These are my earliest remembering’s.
We lived in Lloyd Street, typical three up, three down, dormitory type dwellings, coal fired, outside toilet. Three other streets, Ifton, Barthropp, and Downing, made our little community. We were surrounded by other houses but these four streets were our territory and our friendships and allegiances were dominated by these boundaries. At the bottom of the street by the ‘boards’, ran the reen ‘Liswerry Pill’ on the other side of the reen began the vast adventure playground which belonged to us for a few short years, alas gone for ever. Immediately across the bridge, was Santons tip, under which the ‘air raid’ shelters were buried.
The tip was a cornucopia of reusable junk for us kids. Santons, an electrical manufacturer, had two factories, one in Lloyds old brewery in Uoyd Street, the other across the fields beyond the reen. Santons would bury their rubbish, and us kids would sort through it looking for the various goodies we could find. We would find brass nuts and bolts, screws and copper wire, and sometimes, if lucky, Mercury filled glass phials, they were some kind of inertia switch. I remember letting the liquid metal trickle through my fingers into a milk bottle in which we stored the precious metal A good days scavenging on the tip, could easily net us ‘ten bob’.
We would weigh in our scrap metal at Gabicas, on Wharf Road. This place to me was like an Alladins cave, a treasure trove of indescribable wealth. Anonymous sacks, of rags and wool were piled high about the walls. Everywhere strange brass and metal artifacts, piled high, or hung on wire or string, Cast iron baths, old lawn mowers, motor cycle petrol tanks, all these things and more mesmerised me. One particular gizmo really fascinated me, a Cyclemotor, a large bicycle with a motor in its back wheel I would look at it open jawed, and imagine myself speeding down the street, hair flying in the wind. But alas it was to be a few years before I strode a motor bike, and the Cyclemaster wasn’t destined to be mine.
Gabica would buy and sell almost anything, and was a source of income for many years, and what I learned as a child stood me in good stead in later life.
To the left of the tip were the allotments, where the old man and others would grow their veg’s either for the pot, or for sale for beer money. The ‘old man’ would take me there some days, and I would do things to cabbages with a knife I can’t remember what I did, as I was only little. But I do recollect investigating the rickety old sheds scattered about the allotments, each one held something different, all had bundles of bean sticks tied together with a variety of cords. Some with the coarse sisal that they use for bailing hay, others with wire or old bandages. In one corner of his patch, the ‘old man’ kept a forty gallon drum, with the top cut off. In this he used to put horse manure collected from the fields where we would ride the ponies kept there.
The ‘old man’ kept the drum topped up with water, which was a deep green in colour, and occasionally would let me sprinkle the foul smelling liquid over his crops To do this I had two cans, one quite large holding about one gallon, the other a small pea or tomato can with holes punched in the bottom by the ‘old man’.
This was an exacting chore, and I always took great care to ensure that every plant got its fair share of the stinking mixture, and that I didn’t spill any on my clothes, as this would get me a ticking off from the ‘old lady’. The ‘old man’ would watch me, with a wry smile on his face, as I went about my smelly tas Past the allotments.
Huddled close to the railway lines was Freddie Brooks bungalow, Constructed partially from bricks, mainly from cast of timber, tin sheets, and bric-a-brac, it comprised of a sort of kitchen cum sitting room, the rest a pig sty. Indeed two pigs and some geese lived in with the Brooks’s.
The railway is a branch line, which then served the Mannezman, Stewart and Lloyds, then Lysaghts, the Channel dry dock, British Aluminium, then finally Uskmouth power station. The railway was one of the main play areas for us, indeed we cold spend half a summer up there and do something different every day.
Bordered on two sides by shallow, weed and reed choked reens. These provided us grubby boys with a constant supply of Newts, Taddies, Grass snakes and Slow worms which we would collect to the consternation of our mums. We would make bows, and arrows from the reeds, these we tipped with copper wire scrounged from Santons tip. The wire made the arrows very accurate, and helped them go further. We were quite capable of hitting each other from quite large distances and there were often casualties, fortunately never serious, and a quick rub with a dock leaf always cured.
Our gang comprised of, Wicki. Janksie, Frizzy, Beemy, Denno, Padgers, Bwana, two Paula’s, Tucker, and our Peter. Others came and went but our little hard core remained the same more or less, though we were rarely all together at the same time.
I would lie in bed of a morning, and listen to the shunting engine working away at the sidings, shuffling and sorting the various types of truck. The slow chuff chuff became more rapid as the driving wheels skidded on the polished tracks. Sometimes if we were lucky, one of the sidings would have only one small ‘bogie’, (a small truck) on it, then four or five of us would push it down the slope, screeching with delight.
Sometimes when the bogie hit the buffers at the end it would jump off the tracks. When this happened we would split our sides, howling with the excitement of it all. After this though we would have to play somewhere else for a while, while the men fixed the tracks, for us.
Across the other side of Brooks field, was Santons other works, and a place of special interest to us kids. The ‘boxes’. Santons had a huge pile of wooden boxes and packing cases of various shapes and sizes, filled with straw or wood shavings. We turned these boxes into our own miniature township. We each had our own individual little den, some were quite elaborate, with secret entrances, deadfall traps, and escape routes. We always had to be on the look out for the watchie, or other workmen, but I can’t remember anyone getting caught, and it was great fun to taunt the men who would attempt to chase us, but didn’t stand a chance. It was putsy.
On the corner, where the black ash path met Santons path, stood the mission, this tin shed was a remnant, from the days when people used to live on ‘brooks’s field’ in tin shacks. We loved the mission, us kids. It was a great place for bird nesting as hundreds of sparrows nested in the eaves. Many an egg collection was started there.
Although I was brought up and educated under the aegis of the catholic faith, I detested going to church on Sunday morning, and would mooch off at will, to the dog track where my brothers and I would collect old betting tickets, from which we would make a kind of concertina. We would quiz the other kids about the sermon, then, when the ‘old lady’ questioned on the mass, we would have the answers
The mission however was different, the atmosphere was relaxed and we all had a jolly good sing song. We would meet the kids from the other streets and sing, ‘my cup’s full and running over. After the ceremonies we would be given little coloured pictures depicting bible scenes, so much nicer than the incomprehensible latin dirges of the catholic mass.
The reen starts way up near Magor, and ends at the sluice gates just up from our street. The gates are built into the mud bank which forms part of Newports sea defences. The bank starts at Uskmouth and follows the contours of the river way up past the town centre. The sluice gates would allow some water in but kept the main body at bay.
Lliswerry pill runs from the sluice gates, under Corporation Road, then into the Usk at the bottom of Gaskell Street.
I can remember, I must have been about ten, when, me and a few others helped one of the spruces fetch an ex-ships lifeboat under Corpa Road. Six of us propelled the engine-less craft under the road on the rising tide, a nifty operation as head-room was minimal. We were to be the ballast to ensure that the boat could negotiate the large beams that crossed the stream under the road. As we inched the boat forward I remember the cold, clammy, slimy walls, and the water dripping down from above.
Finally we got the boat through and we popped up on the other side of Corpa Road. I got home late that night and the ‘old lady’ went spare.
The pill side of the gates were easily acessible to us kids and they provided us with many hours of pleasure. There were two sets of gates, one fairly modern, (then) constructed of red bricks, with two huge iron doors, like the clappers of some giant castanets. The other set of gates much older made of dressed limestone blocks, with thick wooden doors.
The area was a nursery ground for all manner of sea species, and in the summer months we would scramble over the rocks and weeds, catching cocky elbows, and if lucky a dab or plaice. Stealth and skill were needed to catch the flatties, as they were well camouflaged, but they soon ended in the tin can which we used to catch the We’d take them home, but they soon died off, or the cats ate them.
Lliswerry pill was in itself an adventure playground. Where it met the Usk we would go fishing for Eels with our home made throw out lines. These were made from waxed cobblers thread, with an old nut or bolt for a weight, and a penny hoo. The complete kit would cost no more than a tanner, the more affluent of us could afford purpose made lines with quill floats and split shot for weights. But for me it was cobblers thread, until, that is, the time when I caught Appendicitis the week the family were due to go to Porthcawl for the annual holiday.
I stayed behind in the Royal Gwent to have the offending organ removed and got a fishing rod as a consolation prize. It was made from an old tank ariel, and had a fixed spool reel. It lasted many years, but it never caught as many eels as the old throw out and ended neglected in a corner of the ‘old mans’ shed.
Our favourite spot for fishing was on the sewage out-fall at the bottom of Gaskell St. You could almost guarantee to catch something there, as the Eels seemed attracted to the raw sewage which spilled constantly into the river at this point. I would take my catch home, gut and skin it, then cook it myself. Rolled in lightly seasoned flour, then fried in butter, it was a treat not to be missed.
My ‘old man’ taught me these skills, as he was a dab hand with a throw out, and I still have a dabble with one now.
An added attraction to this spot was the fact that it was a minor coal port. The men who worked the coal patch used this place to unload the coal dust, dug off Uskmouth patch, then brought up river in an old ships lifeboat.
We would sit and watch these boats floating up river loaded to the gunnels with coal dust, and with only an inch or two of freeboard They would skilfully manoeuvre these boats with only one large oar, and bring them to the bank. There were always boats in various stages of disrepair along the pill and they provided us with great battle sites when we lived out some childhood fantasy. Sometimes we would slacken off the ropes that tied the boats to the shore, and drift into midstream. Other times when in a particularly mischievous mood we would untie the boats and watch them drifting in the current. It was in these days that I developed my love of anything nautical, and even now I love to wander along the river bank remembering times gone by.
CHAPTER TWO
These then were our immediate surroundings, I suppose you could call them our nursery grounds. But we were not constrained within these boundaries We ranged freely, little kiddie nomads. The only restrictions on us, were, the distance our little legs would carry us, and, ‘Make sure you’re home by tea time’. On our bikes we could get as far as Goldcliff or Redwick, where we would fish, or go knobbing for apples and pears.
One time I remember, me Frizzy, Wilfy, and Beemy,were at Redwick, the tide was out and we walked accross the mud and sand, way out into the estuary. We got very close to Denny island, right in the middle. But the tide turned and chased us back. It was quite scary as the water was moving as quickly as us and we only just made it to the sea wall, the tide lapping at our ankles.
Across the railway lines was Oggers farm, (also called Ogsies). This place had an orchard, and was always the first stop off whe we went raiding. Once me and Allan Jennings were out knobbing with my dog Kim, when Ogger spotted and chased us over the railway lines and onto Brooks’s fields. Things were getting a bit hot, as Ogger was catching up. So we dived into the bushes which lined both sides of an irrigation ditch. Standing knee deep in foul smelling water, we waited for Ogger to walk past Unfortunately Ogger was to clever for us, he burst through the hedge and grabbed hold of us.
I struggled like mad, the dog bit Ogger and he let go of me. I skinned out, running up the ditch, till I found a gap to escape through. I got home, and hid my stinking clothes I thought th I’d gotten away with it, but when the ‘old man’ came home I got a whack around the ear’ole. Allan had grassed me up to Ogger and he knew the ‘old man’. But me and Allan were innocent of the charges the awful Ogger made against us, we never chased his stupid cows. We only wanted a couple of apples.
Bordering Oggies farm, were Spytty Lane and park, and beyond these the Red lakes, and Sea waft This was huntin’ and fishin’ territory. We would set out on expeditions with one, or two air rifles between us, each taking it in turns to have a go. There wasn’t a sparrow, blackbird, or thrush safe within a hundred yards of us, and those that weren’t shot, had nervous breakdowns.
I was out for the day, once, with one of the boys, one shotgun and two cartridges between us. We were returning from the Red Lakes, where Paula had used his cartridge to bag a rabbit, and it was my turn to have a go. The gun was single barrel 12 bore Cooey. As we reached the stile on the edge of Spytty Park, a voice shouted from behind, we turned. ‘Paula, Joey, wait for me’.
It was the local child molester, an ex-boxer nick-named Cyclone. ‘Alright Joey, alright Paula’. He said through his nose. He smiled at us and I cocked the hammer on the shotgun. Patrick (his real name) noticed this and his eyes narrowed a little. We got to the stile and Patrick said ‘After you Paula’. As Paul climbed the stile Patrick tapped his bum. Paul took of like a scalded cat After you Joey. Cyclone said No Patrick, after you. I replied, pointing the shotgun at his chest. He got the message, and never bothered me after that. I was about fourteen then, and would have used it on him.
Janksie is a bit of a folk hero with my generation especially around our neighbourhood. When we were kids he was afflicted with a strange nervous complaint. Every now and then, and sometimes continuously, he would contort his face and make the strangest noises I have ever heard coming out of the mouth of a small boy. One summer weekend, I was about eleven, we were on a sortie up St Julians woods, a whole gang of us. Me, Wilfy, Micheal, Mac, and about six others. We’d come through Beechwood Park, crossed through Purnell’s farm, gone down the dip and crossed the stream and were making our way uphill towards the cemetery.
I think we were re-taking Iwo Jima. We had just reached the top near Christchurch, when, strange noises floating on the breeze. ‘Eek, grnungh, eyurch’. It was Janksie. Although we could barely see him, he could be heard distinctly. He must have been at least half a mile away. St Julians woods in those days was a beautiful place, it was completely wild, and a fantastic place to play. It’s been got at now, landscaped, and its whole character has been ruined. The property developers who run Newport will probably build houses there soon.
We used to pick bluebells and daffs and put them on the graves in the cemetery, but the grumpy old bloke who looked after the place would chase us off. We used to swear at him, and pull faces, this would really get him mad, and he would try much harder to catch us, but we would split up aii lose hi He caught me once, but I bit his hand and got away. We would make our escape down Lawrence Hill, gathering armfuls of bluebells for our mums.
Janksie and me seemed to attract trouble like a magnet. One day me, him, and our kid went exploring down Brooks’s field, and I’m afraid to say, we broke into the bungalow. More for curiosity than evil intent. Anyway, we were in. The place was full of junk a couple of old beds, old wind-up record players, radiograms an that sort of stuff. Me and our kid went exploring, out the back, where the pigs and geese were kept. Janksie was searching the cupboards and shelves, making his strange noises, when all of sudden we heard a great crash, me and our kid rushed into the other room and found Janksie on top of a chest of drawers, each drawer was opened, and Janksie had dropped a sledge hammer through all of them, Crazy! Just then Freddie Brooks came back, we heard him and made our escape, crawling through the long grass at the side of the bungalow.
Returning home later, thinking we’d gotten away scot free, I was met with a clip around the ear-ole from a horny hand from the ‘old man’. A few clouts later and I was ready to confess to starting the great fire. The ‘old man’ dragged me down to Janksies house to tell his ‘old man’. As they were heatedly discussing us, we heard from the roof. ‘It’s not us Mr Pumford, we’re not up here’. It was ‘Janksie’, and our kid. The two fathers shouted, and my partners in crime came slithering down the drain pipe from Santons roof. the ‘old man’, kicked me, and our kid all the way up the street, gave us a good hiding, and locked us up for the week.
CHAPTER THREE
Motor bikes, came into my life at the age of twelve, and me and the boys would roar up and down the black ash path. The first motor bike I ever rode was a 500cc Ariel, a huge heavy thing, which I could hardly hold up when stationary, but when roaring up and down the black ash path, I felt like a God.
The roar of the unsilenced engine, and the wind howling and rushing around my ears making my eyes water. The adrenaline would flow and I would imagine myself hurtling around the Isle of Man. Geoff Duke was no match for Me!
The motor bikes could be found everywhere, rotting in back gardens, or dumped at the rear of garages. There were old side- valve, BSA’s. Little two strokes, like, ‘James, Francis Barnett’, lying neglected after the ‘War’. We would boldly march up to the householder and ask ‘Do you want that old motorbike mister’. Some would answer with a scowl, and ‘push off you cheeky little bugger’. Others would smile and shake their heads, meaning no! But the real good guys would say ‘take it away’ and, three or four of us would grunt heave, and shove, a flat tyred, rusty old heap, through the streets and lanes down to our back. Much to the consternation of my parents. There the rusty old heap would be transformed into a sleek racing machine.
Off would come mudguards, lights, stand, toolbox, etc, etc, leaving only the bare essentials. Handlebars and seat. We would get all types of bikes, some we would have running within hours, others would gather more rust, until we could cannabalise the bits off some other wreck, and make a runner. By these methods we obtained, if I recollect correctly, three sidevalve BSAs, two Matchless, two AJS’s, a James a Francis Barnett and two Triumphs, plus loads more bits and pieces.
Our back garden was like the pits area of a race track, or a scrap yard, depending on your point of view. We would hurtle up and down the streets like mad things on mechanical monsters, the neighbours went spare. The ‘old man’ would come home from work many a day and give us a whack or telling off, through us upsetting the neighbours. Once, some of the boys brought an old 35Occ BSA down our back for me to fix. I had a look at the bike and deduced a broken HT lead, I failed to notice that the throttle was jammed open. I connected a new lead, and, proud of my position of chief mechanic to the boys, announced that I would show them how to get a bike going and how to ride one.
Our back garden is at the bottom of a short lane which opens on to Ifton Street. I proceeded to bump start the bike, givin instructions to all and sundry to get out of the way. The bike exploded into life, wheels spinning, exhaust bellowing, it hurtled up the lane dragging me behind it, my arms straining to hold on, afraid to let go, as we bounced off the walls which lined the lane. The bike and I shot up the lane, crossed Ifton Street and burst through the door of the house opposite. In through the door and halfway up the stairs I went, the noise was deafening, and the old dear who lived alone in the house was petrified with fear. I managed to drag the bike out and placate the old lady, I was hysterical with shock, but the ‘old man’ soon sorted that out whe he came home, a good pasting, and grounding for weeks.
Another time I was having a go on my cousins 35Occ Matchless. This bike was a beaut, it had brakes, cowhorn handlebars and racing number plate, it looked like a real track bike. Head down, throttle wide open, engine screaming, I dropped the clutch. The bike took off, front wheel in the air it mounted the pavement a headed for Thorpes’s front door. I kicked out to fend off the oncoming wall, my boot put the front door through and the bike careered down Barthropp Street, me in tow.
Marlene Keys was heading up the street with her shopping bags. A look of terror spread over her features as she saw me, the bike pulled me ever nearer. Marlene scooted, but she was in luck, I fell off, the bike crossed the street and went through someones front hedge, then stopped. All the neighbours were out again, and they stood about gossiping, and I remember the very words that they used. It’s that Joey Pumford again, he hasn’t been the same since he fell out of the cherry tree. These words would haunt me for many years. The ‘old man hit the roof again and that put the kybosh on bikes for months.
The cops would try to catch us as we hurtled though the streets and lanes, but we were always to fast for them on their push bikes. One day I was zipping along the ash path, on my B33 B.S.A. when two cops came on their big push bikes. I recognised them, and I knew that they’d recognised me. So I scooted off home, kicked the bike against the garden wall, and started working on another. A few minutes later the ‘old man’ and a cop came down the gardem The ‘old mans’ face black, like thunder. The cop had that Gotcha’ look about him, but I knew he wasn’t smart enough to catch me. The old man pulled me. It wasn’t me dad, I’ve been out her for hours fixing the Triumph, honest. ‘Well officer’. The ‘old man’ said ‘The boy says he’s been out here all afternoon. The cop knew he couldn’t prove nothing, and that I wouldn’t own up and he gave me a sour look.
He was desperate to catch one of bike boys, so he went looking for clues. The dope had taken off his gloves and put the palm of his hand directly onto the cylinder barrel of the B.S.A., which was hot, almost glowing. I watch him wince, as his skin sizzled. ‘This bike appears to have been ridden Mr. Pumford’. ‘Well’. (the ‘old man’) ‘Honest dad you can ask mamma, all I’ve been doing is running the engine to get the carburation right, honest’. The cop was beat, he wouldn’t book me today, he and the ‘old man’ went, I was smug. Five minutes later the ‘old man’ came back, I wasn’t so smug, another thick ear-ole, another grounding. The cop got his revenge a few wee later, another thick ear.
We had a friend called Mouldy (Maldwyn), whose dad owned Upper Lakes Farm, on Nash road. This is where we would go when grounded, as Mouldy had some bikes and some old cars.
It was a treasure farm of junk and such. There was a new Hudson Straight Eight, a real gangster- mobile, an we would be Al Capone. We used Mouldy’s farm as a base from where we would roam the lanes around Goldcliff and Nash on motor bikes, or in cars. We had no concept of road safety and would ride the bikes flat out, leaning and skidding around the bends, luckily without serious mishap. But there were times when I came close to wearing a car, or tree as a necktie.
One time me and our kid had a race from the sea wall at Goldcliff, to Mouldys. He was riding a reasonably modern Francis Barnett, while I was riding astride an old 5OOcc BSA. Our kids bike had all the accoutrements, lights, brakes, etc etc and what his machine lacked in power it made up for in its refinements. Mine was a shed, no lights, brakes, nothing, just the bare essentials, and a piece of wood to sit on. The back tyre was as bald as a politicians promise, and was stuffed with grass and paper, as we couldn’t afford an inner tube. The throttle cable was gone, so the throttle was jammed wide open, and the only means of controlling speed, was with the exhaust- valve- lifter, a tiny lever on the handlebar operated by the index finger.
We were off, careering up the straight but bumpy road toward Goldcliff Church. Me in front, the rigid rear end and grass filled tyre snaking over the uneven road. The engine roaring, petrol vapour leaking out of the ill- fitting petrol cap. The tank was noisy. I hunched down, and looked back at out kid close behind, barely held on by string and the copper fuel line, and it rattled his chin on the petrol tank of his machine. He knew that he could beat me easily, while I was dicing with death at 50mph on my wreck. His Franny Bee was quite easy to ride at a steady 60, he was sticking close. Past the church we roared and rattled, the organ and choir dimmed as we shot through in an instant, past the farm, and through the ever present slick of cow manure, to the humpy back’d bridge where we had to bear left as we flew over the top.
Over we went, and as my front wheel left the ground I knew that I’d misjudged it. I landed and went into a tank slapper, sliding and wobbling as I went. I managed to kick myself away from the hedgerow as our kid whizzed past. His little two- stroke engine screaming, leaned right over, his knees and elbows tucked in, he struck a classic pose. He was in front, and I fought to maintain control. I had to get back in front to give myself a chance of winning.
Juggling clutch and valve-lifter I regained temporary mastery of the machine, and took off in pursuit. With my superior power I soon caught and overtook our kid, the wind slashed at my face, as hedgerows flashed past. My eyes watered and my fingers were becoming numb with the vibration. I caught up just before we reached Whitsun Court, but it was late. As I had no brakes, I had to use the valve-lifter to slow myself down yards before our kid, who, riding to the limit braked, turned left over the bridge which put us on the road to Broadstreet Common. I struggled through the corner, feet dragging the ground, clutch slipping, engine screaming then dying. Our kid was way in front and I, determined to catch him, screwed the old BSA for all its worth, crunching my way through the gears as I crash changed up and down the box. I was determined to win!
Engine crackling through the open pipes, I chased after the devil ahead of me. Though he was at least 200 yards in front I gained at every second, knowing every inch of the road and what line to take.
Past Broadstreet Common, rural dwellers necks twisting to the unaccustomed clatter, frightening the duck an chickens grazing on the Common. Past the decoy pool I saw him visibly slow, got him, I thought.
Head down half blinded by the tears streaming from my wind slashed eyes I felt as one with the machine. As I turned the bend by the old army camp, our kid stopped, turned, and waved but it was to late. A herd of sheep. Quickly I leaned the bike over and stepped off, at about 45mph. The bike went into a ditch, The sheep everywhere, me into a chain link fence, then hospital with concussiom It was the talk of the street.
‘Still he hasn’t been the same since he fell out of the cherry tree. This put the moccas on bikes for a while, I’d had so much of a fright that I was a very contrite little boy for ages. I reckon though that I’d have beaten our kid if it hadn’t been for those bloody sheep.
The farmhouse where Mouldy lived was used as a lodging house for the workers building Llanwern Steelworks. We would play there in the evenings, there was a snooker table and an old pianola which us kids would play. The lodgers were burly Irish navies, who would swear and throw shoes and such at us as they tried to watch the telly, worn out after a days graft. Mouldy’s mother was a nice old lady with a refined accent and she would ask us politely, but without success to quieten down, but a big Mick would growl and send us scurrying for cover.
Mouldy’s father ‘John’ was a horny handed bow legged man with a red tipplers nose. His favourite hobby was the making of elderberry-flower wine, this he brewed in the barn. We would sit around and he would siphon the stuff from an old wooden cask with a length of rotten rubber tube. The old man would suck at the cloudy white liquid and control the flow with a gnarled thumb. One cup of the potent brew, complete with dead flies, bees, and other lumps was enough to get me quite drunk, also quite sick.
Ginger Tom was an Irishman who lived at the farm, he was a great mechanic, (sober) and he instructed me, Omlette, and our kid in the workings of the infernal combustion engine. He was a great character when sober, but hell on wheels when under the influence. One Saturday evening in the summer, Omlette and me were working on a bike, when Ginger Tom came staggering down the lane. It was dusk, about 7:30, when Tom appeared laughing and talking to himself. We smiled at Tom who had a job to stand up. Omlette pointed out an almost brand new Mk 2 Ford Zephyr, and told Tom that Big Mick had brought it for Tom to have a look at.
Tom staggered over to the Zephyr, fell in, then after a few seconds fumbling around, started the engine and lurched away. Gears grinding, engine screaming, swaying from side to side he shot down the lane. At the bottom of the lane Tom spun the gleaming two tone blue car, and sped back towards us As he hit the bend by the barn we could see that he was travelling to fast. The car suddenly rolled over, bounced against the limestone walls of the barn, and landed neatly on all four wheels. The roof was caved in, the one side dented and scratched. Ginger Tom fell out, stood up and said ‘Jeysus, those brakes pull to the left a bit. He waltzed off into the house. We heard loud voices and screams then Big Mick came to look at the damage, he wasn’t very pleased.
Another time Tom got steaming drunk and drove a bulldozer up Nash Road, crashing and crushing half a dozen cars. He sure had some style that Ginger Tom.
When I was about eight, Janksie, me and our nipper went knobbing up Lawrence Hill. It was towards the end of summer and the apples pears, and cherries were ripening. The object of our sortie was to plunder the pear trees which grew in proliferation on Lawrence Hill. Me being the tallest, bravest, and stupidest climbed up the biggest tree, throwing pears to the waiting trio below. The higher I climbed the braver I got. I was Sherpa Teng- Sing,Hilary and Stirling Moss all rolled into one knee skinned specimen of boyhood.
Our kid pointed out choice fruit directing me here and there. Janksie made his own queer noises, his face contorted into weird and wonderful shapes. Our nipper who was only a toddler watched open mouthed as big brother swung ape-like through the uppermost branches.
As I neared the top of the tree, our kid spotted a monster pear. the biggest and the highest. I followed his directions balancing delicately on ever thinner branches munchin’ nervously at the odd pear. I was within an inch of that giant fruit, the ginormous specimen was almost within my grasp, my fingers tickled its plump bottom. Then, whoosh I was falling, a scruffy meteorite.
I remember crashing through the branches, then oblivion. While I lay unconscious, my feet in the air, moaning. Janksie and our kid ran to get help from the man who lived in the big house on the hill, but he didn’t want to be bothered with two little scruffs, it was only after they told him that I was dying, did he bother to phone the ambulance. He couldn’t even shift himself to take a look, so much for Christian charity and the brotherhood of man.
I spent three days in hospital with concussion, but was soon on the prowl again, but I’m sure that my brain was shook up, cos everything that I did after that seemed to go wrong. Me and Janksie were always getting caught for something or other, and his mother would scream at him, ‘Janky, you stay away from that Joey Pumford he hasn’t been the same since he fell out of the cherry tree’.
These various mishaps weren’t my fault, I just always seemed to be there when things went wrong. Like when Bwana’s motorbike caught alight and burned down his dads pigeon shed. It wasn’t me who dropped the lighted dog end into the petrol tank, I didn’t smoke, only Janksie and Bwana did. Or the time when Santons boxed burned down. I wasn’t even there, and Janksies mother said the same thing, ‘I’ve told you etc etc’, I didn’t start the great fire of London, nor sink the Lusitani. Nor am I responsible for WW3, no matter what Janksies mother says.
As we got older we would look for more adult activities, the only venue available for us undisciplined scruffs was Corpa youth club, there would be girls (eyuch), and games. The usual stuff like ping pong, and five aside football etc. One of the teachers who ran the youth club, was a keep fit fanatic, with a mania for boxing. He would pick a victim for the night and insist on a few rounds of fisticuffs.
One night he was doing his bit, and he picked on me as the recipient of his knowledge. I was about thirteen, skinny, dirty, scruffy but no ones fool, even though my brain was supposed to be scrambled. Anyway teacher insisted that I learned the noble art, and shoved a pair of sixteen ounce gloves onto my little hands. The gloves were bigger than my head and I had a job to lift my arms up.
The crafty bugger though, he was done up to the nines, just like a real pro. He had on shorts, boxing boots, and a pair of four ounce gloves. He was about twenty five, a good head taller and two stone heavier, no wonder all the kids were terrified of him. There was him all togged up, there was me, snotty nosed, raggedy arsed, with a pair of steel toe-capped boots on, cos our dad couldn’t afford posh shoes which kept wearing out.
Any-how, Sir, as we had to call him, started moving about in the middle of the classroom floor. He was a real smoothie, he must’ve learned his boxing from Biggles, or the Boys Own. I couldn’t do much as I could hardly move my hands. He kept his left hand out, jabbing, bobbing and weaving. The boys thought it was hilarious.
Janksie was sat on a desktop like a monkey, bouncing up and down. ‘Eek eek ugh ugh’. Padgers shouted Block ‘im wiv your ‘ead Joe’. Bwana was rifling sirs pockets. The other guys were having a great time, snogging with the girls, or coaching Sir. Sir meanwhile was getting really livened up. Smiley who was supposed to be the ref’ was completely ignored, and the half minute rounds were forgotten. Jab, jab. Thunk, thunk, Sir was peppering my face with jabs, with an occasional hook to the body for luck, my face was getting red, my brain redder.
Shouts of ‘Finish ‘im off Sir’ rang out. Sir was hitting harder, and I was getting madder. I lashed out with my size 11 steel toe-capped boot, right into his left shim. A look of surprise sprang upon his face, another boot to his right shin really livened him up. He dropped, his arms wrapped around his shins. Biggles never taught him to expect this. He sat on the floor wincing. I stood behind him to get a clear shot, I threw all my power into a big righthander, knowing that the gloves I wore were like piIlows.
It never hurt him, and he screeched ‘I’ll get you Pumford you little B*****d’. I stepped in front of him, and I could see the look of pain and hate in his face as he clutched at his shins. We looked at each other momentarily, but it seemed like for ages. I showed him my gloved hands then whacked with my boot, right where it hurt he squealed like a stuck pig and I legged it out the door.
The boys thought it was great and they cheered me as I ran. I heard Janksie shout ‘E ‘avent been the same since ‘ee fell out ‘uv the cherry tree’. Boxing was off the menu after that, and I was person-non-grat Well he should’ve picked on someone his own size, should’nt he?
To say that I was accident prone as a child would be a gross under-representation of the facts. I was constantly falling into, out off, or under something or other. Fortunately no serious damage was done, I think it was because I always seemed to land on my head.
I seemed to be somewhat unsteady, maybe because of the size of my head (7 hat size), or my feet (size 11), but I certainly spent a lot of time concussed. The first incident to my bonce occurred when I was about six. I was hurtling down Lloyd Street, rushing home for my tea, and I ran into the road at the junction of Ifton and Lloyd Streets. Straight under the wheels of a policemans bike. I collected a fractured skull, and later had to go to the Royal Gwent to have the bone scraped.
They kept a bed ready made up for me after that, so my mum tells me anyway.
This bump was the first of a succession of incidents. One time the gang was playing at the top of the street, on the wall of Kendals shop. I was scaling the wall hanging onto the barbed wire fixed to the top of the wall. The wire snapped, down I went hands ripped to shreds. But I landed on my head so no serious damage was done, apart from a little concussion that is.
My head size also seems to have reduced my gymnastic ablities somewhat. While my schoolboy friends enjoyed an ability to spring about doing somersaults, forward rolls and back flips, I was completely useless. I think it had something to do with my geometry. With my spindly frame separating two large masses of bone, (my head and my feet). I was something akin to a set of dumbells inflexible and unstable.
On P.E. days, I would hurtle down the school hall, my bony little knees going up and down, like the fortunes of the labour party, in my baggy shorts my black dappers flapping on the wooden floor. I would hit the spring board boinging myseff into the air. But as soon as my body reached the inverted vertical the forces of nature would take over, and I would drop quicker than an election pledge.
My P.E. teacher would go spare at my uselessness and would rail at me. I in turn would point at the area of the floorboard where I made my landings, showing him the splintered wood, also at my head the hair wearing thin I would explain that I wasn’t a monkey, and that P.E. was stupid anyhow. But he wouldn’t listen, I think he was retarded or just plain thick. In the end I would mooch off, and go swanning around, down the docks, or Mahoney’s scrap yard, getting a proper education.
On one occasion my troublesome bonce almost got me filled in, it caused me a considerable amount of embarrassment and consternation, and I still cringe at the memory of it.
I was in the ballroom of Lysaghts stute, at a dance. I shouldn’t have been there really, as I wasn’t quite fifteen and the dance was supposedly for adults, (teddy boys). There was I, all togged up in my first long trousered suit and my fancy silk shirt I was feeling quite happy, as I’d had two pints of best bitter, when all of a sudden a vision of loveliness came up to me and said ‘Hello’.
I was bit nervous at first, as the girl was all of sixteen, but I soon calmed down and asked her for a dance,
The band was playing a slow number, and her green eyes sparkled as I held her close. I can still smell her perfume after all these years, The band went up-tempo and we danced faster. We were really enjoying ourselves as we jigged and shook, faster and faster, we got closer. Then suddenly, crunch! my nut collided with the girls nose.
She screamed then passed out cold, blood streaming from her pretty nose, which I thought I’d broken. The bouncers came over and I ran away terrified, which was a good job as they were her brothers. They were huge, about six feet tall, and built like brick shithouses, which was quite large for little old me, they had broken noses and cauliflower ears. They were very angry, and rumour had it that I was about to loose an arm or leg, or worse. It took months of diplomacy before I was able to return to the stute, and even though my apologies were accepted I was a very nervous little boy. The beautiful girl danced with me once after that, but the magic and romance was gone, and she kept out of range. The gang however thought it was hilarious, and they called me Headward for months afterwards.
I was always at loggerheads with the school system. I dunno, they seemed to be a bit backward to me. On one hand they would tell us to love our fellow man, and to turn our face from violence. Then they’d beat the tar out of us for talking in class. Or they would tell us it was wrong to steal, then they would confiscate our sweets, and eat them. So much for honesty!
The reason, I suspect, that they wanted us to turn the other cheek, was to ensure that we wouldn’t retaliate against their institutionalised vioience. One particular teacher was a real ‘Stinker’, a ‘Brute’. His favourite torture, was, to force my hand, palm down, on a book, with the fingernails protruding over the edge. He would then give a sharp, vicious blow with the edge of a ruler to fhe fingertips. The pain was excruciating, and guaranteed to bring tears to the eyes of a little boy. I hated this teacher, and vowed to wreak my revenge on his fingertips. Other teachers were a bit squeamish, and wouldn’t beat us, they would merely turn us out onto the cold landings, where the headmaster would find us as he did his rounds.
This middle aged martinet used to love inflicting violence on erroneous little boys. He’d sneak around with his cane, looking for some poor victim, usually me, then lash the hands of some tiny piece of humanity, it sickened me.
One time I was returning to my lessons after a particularly severe beating at the hands of the headmaster. I walked into the arts class, and saw a bunch of about five boys stood at the front of the class. I went to have a look, and discovered the boys had opened a book and found a photograph of a nude model. Being only thirteen at the time I was quite unknowledgeable of the female form, and stood spellbound, observing the various bumps and curves
So engrossed was I with the photograph, that I failed to notice the arts teacher had entered the room, and was stood looking at me, the other boys had scooted. He, was a slimy bald headed, religious bigot, and he looked at me as though he’d caught the sinner. ‘What’re you looking at boy!’ He hissed. ‘Nothing sir’ I stammered. He grabbed me by the ear, a triumphant look about his slimy features. He marched me out of the classroom, back down the stairs to the headmasters office.
I stood outside the door, listening to the muttering inside. The headmaster beckoned me into his inner sanctum, then launched into a diatribe, using large words, like masterbation and perversion, words that I didn’t know the meanings of. Teacher looked on with a pious expression on his slimy features I in turn let it wash all over me, well I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about What d’you expect from a thirteen year old, who’d never ksssed a girl, let alone seen one in the nude.
The Black’un (the local pub) was a place where recaltrisant little boys could obtain illicit alcohol, this venue was at times dangerous, as Bruce the monster dog lived there. If we were brave and lucky we could get the dregs of the cider barrels, and sometimes the odd flagon of beer or two. One summers afternoon, me, our kid, Janksie, and Desi were going to raid the Black’un, but we were all a bit chicken. Then our kid, full of bravado said he’d show us how to do it. Over the wall he went, us watching wide eyed, he picked up a pint pot that was lying around and made for a cider barrel He tapped the barrel and half filled his glass, as he gulped he failed to notice a wasp inside the pot, this promptly stung him on the top lip. Our kid screamed, which woke up Bruce the monster dog, who came careering out of his haunt. The dog skidded, our kid scooted, up over the wall with Bruce hanging on to his arse. We ran down the street, our kid screaming, Janksie eeking and onking. Another thick ear-ole from the ‘old man’.
So there you have it, some of the life experiences of one small boy. Many more things happened to me, some of which don’t bear thinking about, others which cannot be spoken of.
FIN - for now
