People and Places 1

Of all our loose gang of friends, John was the most interesting to me. We were both intelligent and independent, and more likely to be leaders than led, John however was far more self-confident than I was at that time, and so exuded a charisma that my more reserved demeanour could never match. It made him the de facto leader of our gang, inasmuch as our rather disparate group had such an exalted member. His status was such, that when I casually mentioned to another member of the gang that John "loved" one of the snooty young ladies who studiously ignored us, I was answered with a derisory snort, and told that "John don't love no one", the highest praise that he could give to his exalted playmate. 

John and I spent a lot of time together, because we could talk and joke together in a way that the others could never join in with. The others were friends to be used for our own amusement, whereas John and I were nearly equal, although I was required, for our friendship to survive, to dance to his tune; the only time in my life I've ever given ground in that way. John lived with his mother and younger brother just round the corner from us in West End Street. His mother was an attractive young woman, whose husband had spent 5 years in the services,  and who kept herself somewhat aloof from the rest of the neighbourhood. John was tall, fair-haired and blue eyed, while his younger brother Alan, was short, stocky, and olive skinned, with black hair. A few eyebrows were raised in the neighbourhood, a few comments were whispered behind closed doors, but the war had delivered many different forms of casualties, and there was a general tolerance shown towards the various walking wounded.

I was generally a loner, with nothing much in common with my neighbourhood gang, although John was the exception because he could always surprise me. We were walking along St Benedict's towards the Theatre De Luxe one afternoon, and passed a fruit stall. A few yards on I said to John "Those plums looked nice"; at which he casually reached into his capacious coat pocket, pulled one out and held it out towards me: "Have one then" he said insouciantly, as he pulled out another for himself. It was a perfect line, and I'm sure he enjoyed it, as my face registered the requisite wonderment at his piece of legerdemain. 

His tricks were not normally something I would have the daring to do myself, but there was one I did attempt to replicate, with mixed results. We were walking past the post office building that adjoined the ever-inviting Theatre De Luxe, when we saw a pretty young woman approaching. "Watch this" John said as she hurried towards us. When she was nearly level with us, John said loudly "Yesterday my Dad caught a fish as big as this", and at the same moment flung his arms wide to describe the size. His timing was impeccable, and his outstretched hand caught her breast perfectly. We walked on, then turned round chuckling: to this day I can see the young woman standing, turned towards us, clutching her breast, as she directed a look of furious hatred towards the two scruffy, grinning boys who had treated her with such casual disrespect. 

This incident stayed with me, until I had a chance to practise the same trick myself. My first school was Nelson Street, a little local primary school that had been attended by my father, and brother, and in later years my own children. It had been brutalised by the blitz, and in my day had temporary pre-fab buildings to house many of the classrooms, but also a good sized playground set among some aged oaks.

I didn't have a particularly happy time there, mainly due to my inherent shyness, which was exacerbated by being thrown into close proximity to lots of other children I didn't know, and couldn't really relate to. I was probably considered odd, and treated accordingly, which led to some bizarre behaviour on my part, especially directed toward those who made me feel inferior. A girl that I particularly admired, a superior pretty girl, would never even acknowledge that I existed, and to this day I'm not sure I ever spoke to her. My only inter reaction with her came one day when, again ignoring my obvious devotion, she had propped up her heavy oak desk lid while she looked inside; I sauntered past, unable to speak, but determined to let her know I existed, I casually nudged the desk lid and sent it crashing down on her unprotected head. She was taken to the nurse and then home, while I endured glares from my teacher, and accusations of stupidity, which I was used to. I was happy to face no graver charges, and resigned myself to the fact that Carol - the superior girl - and I, would never be soul mates.

I was not friends with any in my class that I can remember, and actively disliked a number of them. I was poor, and knew it, poorer than most in fact, and so unable to relate to those members of my school who had things I could only aspire to, like bikes and various spectacular toys. They were probably not far above my working class status, but they had a life that I couldn't hope to have, and even in those very early years, distinctions of class and family were very apparent, and ate away at my self-confidence, while it fed my resentment. One particular classmate with whom I had never had anything much to do, was one day cheerfully talking about his new bike to a group of friends, to my great annoyance. Although I would never have normally considered giving form to my resentment, on this occasion an opportunity presented itself, that involved John’s audacious trick as described above, that I couldn't pass up.

In the playground during our break, I was walking through the trees with somebody, while behind me I could hear the boy with the bike talking loudly as he ran excitedly towards our backs. I glanced round to judge the range, and then resolved to put John's trick to the test. As my victim approached at full speed I waited for him to draw nearly level, then loudly said, out of the blue, to my startled companion " Yesterday my Dad caught a fish this big" and flung my arms wide in demonstration. I can't believe I expected it to work, but John's trick was obviously foolproof, and my out flung fist caught my onrushing , and unprepared, classmate full in the eye with terrific force. He screamed, and fell to the floor clutching his face, where he lay, surrounded by anxious classmates and teachers, while I moved away through the trees, mumbling to anyone in earshot, that he had run into me, and I had no idea what had happened. My tingling fist was evidence that I had succeeded far beyond my expectations, and the possible consequences now crowded in on me. I contemplated going home, or maybe just hiding somewhere, but it seemed that any such actions would only lead to more questions I couldn't answer. I finally waited until break had finished, then filed back into the classroom with the rest of the class, expecting at any moment to be called to account, and dragged out of class to face the headmistress. My victim’s desk was empty, and remained so for some days, and every hour of those days I suffered agonies of guilt and fear, although never remorse: I was glad to no longer hear about his bike, but convinced that retribution would come. But although there were whispers from teachers, directed I felt, at me, and certainly baleful glares that were intended for me, I was never accused of anything more than stupidity , which I could handle; and when the victim came back the next week with no more than a multi coloured bruise fading from around his eye, I finally relaxed and accepted that life would go on.

Old Palace Road ran in a long sweep from Dereham Road to Heigham Street. The Dereham Road end sported minor bomb sites on either side; neither of great interest, but both well used. The east side site had a large advertising hoarding, which we utilised as a massive climbing frame; while the west side doubled up as a wood yard, as mentioned earlier, which gave a lot more variety for our games on what was otherwise a pretty flat, rubble strewn wasteland. The road was flanked by terraces for most of its length, until Armes Street, after which the western side was dominated by the massive 3 story brick construction that was the asylum, built in 1833. It had a blank forbidding frontage, studded with small high windows, ominously barred and meshed, and apparently also took private patients who could come and go at will: I've been told that in the thirties a well dressed, red faced man would often be in the vicinity, shouting furiously at an unheeding world. As children we were sure that lunatics lurked behind those desperate portals, but we never actually saw any; I’m not sure if it was even occupied at that time, although it didn't close until 1960, when it was demolished to make way for the massive rebuilding that took place in the area.  But we were always slightly nervous when we walked past it, and glad to leave it behind. 

This area was made still more interesting though by the terrace of houses on the eastern side. One of the otherwise featureless houses opposite, all with front door, window and tiny front garden, housed one of the many endlessly fascinating characters of our childhood. The clue was in the window of number 192, a grimy placard bearing the legend “Walter Franklin hairdresser”. "Wally" was a short, strutting little man, with black brilliantined hair, and always dressed in a shapeless suit. He ran his business from his tiny front room, and on occasion my mother would take my brother there for a hair cut – “a very bad haircut”, he recalls, never one to forget a bad hair cut, even 70 years later. But it wasn’t Wally’s tonsorial inadequacies that concerned us, it was his short temper and furious rages. He was obsessed with the war and Hitler, and we quickly learned that it was possible, from a safe distance, to provoke his passions by sticking out our arm and yelling “Hitler”, or simply shouting “What did you do in the war Wally?”. He would become incandescent, waving his arms and shouting imprecations at Hitler and the Germans, in language ripe with the choicest expletives. He would finally calm down to a furious mutter, which seemed to always accompany him as he strode aggressively up and down the street. We always assumed that he was mad, which he may have been, but he was also a notorious drunk, and a legendary gambler who would lurch home from the pub, his pockets carelessly stuffed with pound notes, inviting trouble, but not, as far as I know, ever finding it.

Wally very briefly became more than just a sideshow in my theatre of life, when one day, while sitting in our front room with my mother and father, we heard footsteps ringing down the passage. “That’ll be my haircut” Dad said, as the knock came at the back door. At this my skin tingled with apprehension; they surely couldn’t have invited Wally into the house! I watched disbelievingly as my mother opened the back door, and there, silhouetted against the blank wall of the wash house, stood the oily - haired troll, bag in hand. I’d never been this close to him before, I’d always had somewhere to run to - suppose he recognised me. I took my normal course of evasive action when unwelcome visitors arrived, and dived under the table, hidden by the long green cloth that reached nearly to the floor. Mother brought him into the living room, his legs close enough to touch from my ground level vantage point. “This is Charlie” my mother said, as Wally looked at my dad lying flat upon the bed. He grunted something, then speedily sizing up the situation, moved towards the bed, threw his bag over my father to the wall, and with considerable agility and speed, clambered up the side of the bed to a kneeling position, and throwing one leg over, he straddled my father’s chest, and with scissors at the ready , he looked down into dad’s somewhat startled face. I remember no more, but if my brother’s testimony is anything to go by, the haircut would not have been of the best, although to have it safely achieved would probably have been sufficient. To the best of my knowledge he never came again, and I was never that close to him again.

As a postscript to these early memories it is perhaps worth giving a few more details of that exotic thread running through the life of Norwich in those years after the war - the Americans.

In 1942 the USA entered the war, and while Britain became an aircraft carrier for the Allied war effort, Norfolk was its flight deck.

In my early years in Norwich the Americans were a constant presence, and because of my aunts we saw more of them than most. They supplied us with comics, food and cigarettes in the grim war time days, and for a year or two after, until Joan and Celia got married and moved away. The best place to see them after that was on the side of the city that they frequented most, which was primarily the Prince of Wales road area, due to its proximity to Thorpe station which would be where most of them would disembark from the various bases spread around Norfolk. As kids we would often saunter down Prince of Wales Road and accost the groups of servicemen with a cheery "Got any gum chum?", which would usually be received good naturedly, and sometimes even produce the much prized packets of chewing gum, that our parents so detested. 

These groups would be heading to the city centre, and especially the famed "American Club" in Lobster Lane. This secretive little establishment had a notorious reputation with us as teenagers, because we could never be admitted: it was reserved for American servicemen, and the only locals who could gain entrance were the girls who flocked there compulsively. 

I have spoken to a woman who was a regular visitor in the late fifties and she described the layout and ambience to me. The entrance was a cramped little door, manned by a suspicious doorman, which led up a narrow winding staircase to the first floor. Here was a jukebox packed with the records brought over from the States, which were unavailable to the rest of us, but which we would dearly loved to have listened to. This floor was the dance floor and would be packed every weekend with jiving and smooching couples in garish scenes reminiscent of every rock and roll movie ever made. Up a further flight was the restaurant and bar which, being a club was able to be open all day till about midnight.

It also had a further fifties touch in that it was exclusively for white Americans, and black servicemen were not allowed in. There was always friction between the two groups, which never flared into trouble in the city because the groups self-segregated, but could lead to some ferocious fights back at base, as I was told by women who went there on weekends on the famous bus that picked them up from The Bell Hotel in Castle Meadow, the infamous "meat wagon", which was still going strong twenty years later. The black Americans had to find their own hang-outs, and they tended to congregate in the Prince of Wales Road area, primarily "The Cave", a tea room near Wilmotts, and pubs and cafes further down.

By the late fifties they were still much in evidence around the city centre, and one New Year’s Eve in the late Fifties,while cruising the pubs with Robin we hooked up with a young airman in the George and Dragon in St Georges street. He was already far gone, but still ready to party, and so we stayed with him as he generously lavished us with cigarettes and drink. By the early hours he was completely out of it, and we considered leaving him to his own devices in the street, but even to us that seemed unfair after the money he had spent on us, so we half carried him through the streets to the American Club and deposited him in the doorway in front of a decidedly unimpressed doorman, then legged it before any questions could be asked.