The war had been in stuttering existence for a mere two months when I was born. My mother, Mary was unmarried and had concealed my imminent arrival until the last possible moment. She also concealed the identity of my father, in so doing depriving me, not maliciously, of prenatal care, thus inevitably threatening my very existence. Consequently I was seriously at risk of a very early death almost before my life had begun.
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It has been suggested to me that one member of my mother’s family did in fact glimpse Mary’s suitor, but being a momentary rear view only, the suitor's identity remained a secret. Mary always maintained she would take my father’s identity to her grave, and, true to her word, she did just that. Except that it is said that another relative, an uncle, now deceased, on learning of my mother’s condition, gave my father the proverbial ‘good hiding’ on two separate occasions. Proving, if true that at least one person knew my father’s identity, and also the village or area in which he lived.
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I did start as an eager eleven year old with enthusiastic intent. I remember explaining to a member of the family that I was going to learn the piano at my new school. Indeed, I had already learnt the rudiments necessary to convert me into a musician, proudly showing off my new knowledge by reciting e,g,b,d,f, which, I pontificated, you had to remember by the sentence ‘Every good boy deserves fun’ Alas, I never did grasp exactly what e,g,b,d,f really had to do with music. Plus the teacher who taught music placed me permanently in the back row during singing lessons, the place reserved for tone deaf pupils. My music career ended before it ever started. I never did get to learn the piano; the teacher concerned, far too fond of spanking small boys with an ancient plimsoll not exactly inductive to musical appreciation. But of any case corporal punishment was an accepted form of punishment, accepted by many parents and most teachers. (A national poll in 1952 showed that nine out of ten teachers were in favour of its retention. There is little doubt that Britain's schools in the fifties were in the main authoritarian and happy to be so. )
I do not particularly remember feeling envious of other children, though at times this may not have been completely true. The village had its element of better off families, some of whom attended the private school situated at the top of the village. So there were children whom you seldom saw and with whom you certainly did not associate. Some attended the private school because their parents were rich enough to afford the fees. Others were sent into this academic isolation despite their parent’s limited incomes. The rewards were children who spoke ‘proper’, never played ‘tin can lurky’ on the streets and who hopefully gained superior employment on leaving school, or at least married well.
But most of us were what could be termed ‘working class’, with working class interests, habits and aspirations. And what could be deemed more working class than to follow the nearest professional soccer team, in my case Derby County, on wet, windy, wintery afternoons. ......................
The war had been in stuttering existence for a mere two months when I was born. My mother, Mary was unmarried and had concealed my imminent arrival until the last possible moment. She also concealed the identity of my father, in so doing depriving me, not maliciously, of prenatal care, thus inevitably threatening my very existence. Consequently I was seriously at risk of a very early death almost before my life had begun.
...........................
It has been suggested to me that one member of my mother’s family did in fact glimpse Mary’s suitor, but being a momentary rear view only, the suitor's identity remained a secret. Mary always maintained she would take my father’s identity to her grave, and, true to her word, she did just that. Except that it is said that another relative, an uncle, now deceased, on learning of my mother’s condition, gave my father the proverbial ‘good hiding’ on two separate occasions. Proving, if true that at least one person knew my father’s identity, and also the village or area in which he lived.
........................
I did start as an eager eleven year old with enthusiastic intent. I remember explaining to a member of the family that I was going to learn the piano at my new school. Indeed, I had already learnt the rudiments necessary to convert me into a musician, proudly showing off my new knowledge by reciting e,g,b,d,f, which, I pontificated, you had to remember by the sentence ‘Every good boy deserves fun’ Alas, I never did grasp exactly what e,g,b,d,f really had to do with music. Plus the teacher who taught music placed me permanently in the back row during singing lessons, the place reserved for tone deaf pupils. My music career ended before it ever started. I never did get to learn the piano; the teacher concerned, far too fond of spanking small boys with an ancient plimsoll not exactly inductive to musical appreciation. But of any case corporal punishment was an accepted form of punishment, accepted by many parents and most teachers. (A national poll in 1952 showed that nine out of ten teachers were in favour of its retention. There is little doubt that Britain's schools in the fifties were in the main authoritarian and happy to be so. )
I do not particularly remember feeling envious of other children, though at times this may not have been completely true. The village had its element of better off families, some of whom attended the private school situated at the top of the village. So there were children whom you seldom saw and with whom you certainly did not associate. Some attended the private school because their parents were rich enough to afford the fees. Others were sent into this academic isolation despite their parent’s limited incomes. The rewards were children who spoke ‘proper’, never played ‘tin can lurky’ on the streets and who hopefully gained superior employment on leaving school, or at least married well.
But most of us were what could be termed ‘working class’, with working class interests, habits and aspirations. And what could be deemed more working class than to follow the nearest professional soccer team, in my case Derby County, on wet, windy, wintery afternoons.
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