This series of stories will be titled ‘I’m surprised I turned out as well as I did, given my childhood…’ 15

My father had rabbits at the top of the garden at his parents’ house when he was a boy.

My Grandad didn’t like animals and though this is not a ‘direct’ memory, it’s one that I remember him telling me.

Grandad never liked them and when they were allowed out to run in the garden, he’d go back into the house and watch from the window.

I can see him now, standing at the window as he used to, hands behind his back, a wistful and peaceful expression on his face, just before we went outside to help him in the garden…

He’d no doubt be in the same stance as he watched those small fluffy creatures hopping about from a distance, just because he didn’t like animals.

In the kitchen, the oven and hob had an ‘eye-level’ grill.

The grill had to be lit by a match and Grandad lit it once and bent to look and see if it had caught. He held up his hand, keeping the match out of the way while he looked and didn’t watch what that hand was doing.

He set fire to the kitchen curtains.

I think I get most of my ‘skills’ from my Grandad… haphazard and clumsy.

Grandad also told me about his younger days too.

At the time, my father had a promising career as a footballer until he twisted his knee and damaged his cartilage, putting him out of the game for good.

A bloke once said to my Grandad, “Are you related to Hedley (my father)? You have the same surname.”

“Yes, we’re related by marriage,” Grandad told him.

A few weeks later, the bloke collared Grandad again. “’Ere, you said you were only related by marriage. Hedley’s your son!”

“Yes, and if I hadn’t have married his mum, we wouldn’t be related,” he said, with a wink.

My Grandad had a wicked sense of humour and he used me as a ‘foil’ for his jokes.
Definition of foil in this instance

Sometimes, the joke would develop over time and it wasn’t always necessary for him to be there when it all came to fruition. Just hearing about what had happened would be enough.

He taught me a little rhyme and though I knew it was naughty, I thoroughly enjoyed his reaction when I recited it.

I knew not to swear in front of my mother, but, at the age of about three, I had the odd notion that if I was under the kitchen table, I was invisible. No one could see me, so therefore no one could hear me…

“I’m a little boy-scout and I don’t swear.

Shit, bugger, arsehole! I don’t care!”

Oh boy… I was SO wrong in my ‘can’t hear me if they can’t see me’ theory.

My grandmother (father’s mother) had a phrase she used often.

“It’s as near as buggery…”

I didn’t work that one out for a LONG time!

When, as a teenager, I finally did figure it out, I told my father about it.

He tried hard to brush it off with, “She probably doesn’t realise what she’s said, or she doesn’t know what it means…”

She knew, but she didn’t think I would know…

---

As boys, my grandad must have been a terror (and listening to @s0u1’s dad, they must have ALL been like it!)

They’d get hold of fireworks and steal a dustbin lid (the metal ones).

They’d knock on the door of the house they’d stolen the lid from and another boy would light the firework and place the lid on top of the ‘Banger’. Then the boys would run to a safe distance to watch the dustbin-owner retrieve his lid.

Grandad said the best fireworks would lift the lid a few feet into the air!

I wonder if they were the reason for safety notices on fireworks? It wouldn’t surprise me.

They used to go ‘scrumping’ too and one particular day, they’d raided an orchard and filled their pockets. That wasn’t enough for the boys and they decided they wanted more, so they tied Grandad’s trouser legs tight around his ankles and filled his trousers too!

When the farmer found out there were boys in his orchard, he set off chasing them. Only Grandad got caught, I can’t imagine why…

One guy Fawkes Night (November 5th) we went to my Uncle Alan’s house for a bonfire party. Alan was my Grandad’s younger brother.

The outside toilet was just beyond the garden and therefore, the fire stood between the majority of the guests and the outside loo.

My older cousin and his friends lit a Jumping Jack and threw it under the door of the toilet.

All I remember is the lads running away, with my aunt screaming at the top of her lungs, adjusting her clothes as she ran out of the toilet chasing them.

That Guy Fawkes night, I burned my best coat, a brown anorak. I can’t remember what happened or how I burned it, but I do remember asking about it and my mother changed the subject… odd.

No one had any money back then, everyone was dirt-poor and it was a rough, tough neighbourhood, but we always had our manners and we’d never call anyone by their first name, it was always Mr or Mrs… or more usually, ‘Uncle’ or ‘Aunt’ whether they were related or not.

Everyone knew each other and whether or not they got along, I always had the feeling of security that if a kid went to an adult, they would always be brought back home, safe because everyone knew where everyone else lived.

Despite that, I knew my address off by heart from a very young age. I remember my mother dinning it into me.

“You live at…?” she’d say, to prompt me.

“One-eight-one, Primrose Hill,” I’d parrot back.

That’s all I needed to know, but my kids had to learn an address and a phone number… life sure got tough.