Come Smile With Me—Episode 2

I am a big six now and progressing very well, considering the doctors’ prognosis. I am still having physiotherapy, mainly on my legs that don’t want to work too well. I wear a sort of brace during the day, but Mum can take it off when I am in bed, so that’s good. My friends don’t seem to notice that I am wearing anything different, which really helps me get through the days, and at night I feel normal. I have noticed that one of my legs is thinner than the other, but this will get better I am sure. Mum and Dad don’t talk about it much. I don’t want to be special, just normal. Perhaps I am normal already?

Today is not going to be a nice day as I am going to see my physiotherapist at the town clinic. Mum takes me on the back of her bike and it is quite a way so she is exhausted when we arrive. I have to sit in a miserable sort of waiting area packed with other people with all sorts of illnesses and problems. One of the many doors leading off this area goes to the school dentist. I dread going through that door, it makes my skin crawl and I will do anything to avoid it. The dentist seems reasonably human, but his nurse – I think she hates kids, and especially me. She reminds me of the wicked stepmother in Sleeping Beauty. She scares me with her look and makes me feel very frightened.

Oh, it’s my turn to see the physio now, so I go into a funny smelling room. There is a long bench against a wall, an old swivel chair, a long desk like table covered with piles of paper, and loads of files. I like my physio. I have been seeing her for a long time now, and we have got to know each other. She is very kind and gentle and seems to listen to what I am saying. I know that most doctors don’t. She tells me to take off my socks and shoes, which I do, and place my feet in a bowl of water. There is a sort of transformer box on the table and some wires that she attaches to one of my legs. Wow… That stings – I get a sort of electric shock in my foot, which makes my whole foot twitch. I am not sure that I want any more of this. Another shock, then another, and another – things are getting serious here. Then like a miracle it is all over, at least for a week when we will be back again. I can dry my feet now and putting my socks and shoes back on, we head off home.

This treatment and a range of many other exercises, some pleasant, some very uncomfortable, meant that over the next few years the strength slowly returned to much of my limbs and I begin to lead a very normal life.

I am seven when my youngest brothers arrive, they are twin boys, and together we make a large family. Poor mum surrounded by five men. At this time we are living in a temporary prefabricated house provided by the council because I was unable to manage the stairs when I got home from the hospital and this home had only one floor. It is far too small now that we are six in the family and we move once again to a larger house in Worthing with three bedrooms and a large rear garden backing on to a playing field. In the field we have slides, swings, and a roundabout and loads of space for football or chasing.

Mum is not too happy with the location because running down the side of our house is a public footpath that leads to and from the park. Some evenings I can hear things going on in the bushes that apparently I shouldn’t be listening to. I don’t know what I should be listening for, so am not sure why mum gets in such a fuss. The other night there was a fight on the path, but my brother and I were not allowed to watch. We did hear it though, it sounded great.

When I grow up I want to be an engineer, so today I have decided to build a tunnel from the back of my garden, under the fence and into the park. Getting started is not that hard and I am already about two feet down, but it seems to be getting harder as I get deeper. I am not sure where I can put the stuff that comes out, so I am piling it up behind me.

Right, I think I am deep enough now. If I kneel in the hole, I can just see over the top, so I had better start the tunnel towards the park. As long as I can crawl through, the tunnel will be big enough.

This is tremendous fun. I feel like a prisoner escaping from prison, wait till Mum sees this.

I just can’t understand why Mum and Dad are so cross. It was only my first attempt and if Dad hadn’t stood on the tunnel it wouldn’t have collapsed onto me anyway. It is hardly my fault. Early bed with no tea is not the sort of reward a budding young engineer should be getting. I will have to try again later.

Forget tunnelling, go-karting is the sport for me and living on the top of a very steep road, I am surprised that I hadn’t thought of it before. Four pram wheels from the local dump, assorted pieces of timber, some string, and my dad’s best toolkit and the first prototype go-kart was born. Road testing was not a problem and by the time that I reached the hairpin bend at the bottom of the road I had mastered the controls.

This design, my third, and it has to be said, my best so far, has a sort of roof, two seats and a kind of brake that has yet to be tested. I have decided that this morning would be ideal as Mum and Dad are in next doors having coffee (they are not happy with the kart being on the road for some reason). What they don’t see, they won’t worry about, and anyway, my brother Paul owes me a favour.

Getting the kart to the top of the hill is not a problem, now that there are two of us pulling the string and we reach it in no time at all. Both a bit tired but excited by the adventure that lies before us.

I haven’t tested the kart carrying two before, (Paul has never been very keen), so I am not sure what difference it will make to the speed, but I always have my new brake. An ideal time to test it out.

Ok, quick push against the kerb, and we’re off. Steering with the string is more difficult than I thought. I wish I was using my feet, but there wasn’t room with Paul behind me so this will have to do. We’re past our house now—I wish Mum and Dad could see us, they would be really proud.

We are definitely going much faster than I have ever been before. Right now, let’s try the brake. Disappointing, nothing seems to be happening and in fact, I don’t think it is still attached to the kart. We are about thirty yards from the bend so I will begin pulling on the steering string now…

I was not to know that the string would snap at this point. I haven’t had the opportunity to test it under such conditions as this now, and it is really bad luck that the articulated lorry has chosen to come round the bend at the same time that we are, only travelling in the opposite direction. It is my quick thinking in screaming at Paul to duck that enables us to pass completely under the trailer without any harm. I can see the underside of the trailer, the enormous drive shaft spinning around, four pairs of gigantic tyres that look extremely close, and it is only when we meet the concrete kerb on the side of the road that things start to go seriously wrong.

The lorry driver is falling out of his cab and has gone as white as a sheet. He towers above us and had he been calmer would no doubt had saidone or two things that perhaps we shouldn’t have heard. The rear wheels of his trailer have stopped on top of the kart, we having been thrown onto the pavement by the force of hitting the kerb. Needless to say the kart is not looking it’s best, and grasping the opportunity to run, we pick up what remains of the kart and stagger home before Mum and Dad find out. I can still hear the driver screaming at us as we throw the damaged vehicle into the shed and rush upstairs. Today is not a good day.

Dad has bought a new motorbike; well it’s second-hand but new to him. A shiny BSA Bantam. Dad is very proud of his motorbike and spends a lot of time cleaning and polishing it in the front garden where he keeps it on a stand. He uses it to get to work. Today has been a reasonably quiet day, so I have decided to play at being a motorcycle racer and am sitting astride the BSA. It is a really great feeling and I can almost touch the ground with my feet, but not quite. I can hear the crowds roaring and am on the final lap. I can see the chequered flag and stand up to take the cheers and applause. I am not sure why, but my foot has slipped down on to the kick-start and the BSA and I are off. If we hadn’t hit the substantial brick wall some six feet in front us which forced us to a sudden stop I could have been seriously hurt. The bike is not really damaged. A bent mudguard, a few broken spokes, and a flat front tyre. I am not certain what happened to the front light, but it was probably my fault. I am not really sure why Dad is so angry. I could have been injured.

Somehow I arrive at being ten years old and like most kids of my age am fascinated with cooking. The local electricity company, Seeboard, (I think the company is called) is advertising a ‘young chef’ competition, and I fancy a go. I am entered into the Southeast heats, and have to prepare and eat, a traditional breakfast for two. By some stroke of good fortune I am now into the various heats finals and my task is to prepare and eat a two-course dinner for two.

I love roast chicken, so this is an ideal choice for me, and I set about preparing the vegetables, meat, etc., and everything goes according to plan. Unluckily I receive a commendation, but not a place in the finals and I am on my way home. I have had a great day, a bit scary, but fun never the less.

We were a very happy family and enjoyed days of endless fun and adventures. We were not by any means well off financially and Dad was always trying to make some extra money for holidays, birthdays, special events, etc.

Today, dad has found himself an old pushcart with large steel and wooden wheels and two long handles to pull or push with. Dad is going down to the local fruit and vegetable market to buy a selection of items at wholesale prices, and then he and I will be walking around the local streets selling the produce at slightly higher prices.

Dad is ready to go. The cart is laden with produce of all kinds, from tomatoes, peas, beans, cabbages, and potatoes to apples, pears, and some rosy red plums, and even some fruits I haven’t seen before. At the top of our road, and then slightly higher still, is a really expensive place to live and dad decides that we will try our luck here. Dragging the cart to the top of the hill is not easy and by the time that we reach the summit and are ready to begin selling we are both tired out.

Initially our efforts are in vain, but very soon some people come out to look at what we have to sale and we begin to progress steadily back down the hill towards home selling a good selection of produce as we go. Suddenly the front of the cart drops. Dad has let go of the handles, (I think that he thought that I was holding them), and being much lighter than the cart they head very quickly skyward. Gravity takes over once again and the front of the cart hits the road spilling the entire contents on to the carriageway. I am running after apples, oranges, and even potatoes as they speed down the hill.

This is the day that Dad decides that this is not the best way to generate an increase in income, and the idea is scrapped. I, not unlike many lads of my age, decide that it is time to earn some money for a few of the pleasures of life, so a paper-round is started with the local newsagent. I am pretty good at it. Most of the customers get what they ordered for most of the time, and I always get good tips at Christmas. Some mornings I work in the shop before the papers come in and that is always good fun. I like sorting the papers into rounds and making sure that each round leaves the shop in the correct order of delivery.

This particular morning there is a notice pinned up on the board explaining that there is a national paper boy and girl competition being organised by the Daily Mirror. Mum and Dad have suggested that I have a go so I complete the entry form and send it off. Many of my customers and the newsagent write off in support of my application and incredibly I am sharing the first prize for the Southeast with a papergirl from Eastbourne.

The prize is cash, and a visit to the Royal Banqueting Hall in London as a guest of the Daily Mirror, and the great day has arrived. I am dressed in my finest clothes, shoes are gleaming, and mum has checked my hair, and fingernails. I have never been to London on my own before, so I am a bit scared, but now that I am in the taxi taking me to the station, my stomach is beginning to settle.

I am travelling to London by the Brighton Belle (a really posh non-stop London to Brighton train) so have to get to Brighton first. This part of the journey is soon over and I arrive at Brighton station on time to catch my next train. Walking down the platform that runs beside the train that has recently pulled in from London, I can see that most of the seats are reserved and my heart jumps as I recognise my name printed on a sticker pasted on to one of the windows. Taking my seat I am on my way to London.

I am given refreshments compliments of the Daily Mirror, which is making me feel very important, and too soon we arrive at Victoria. Victoria station is a vast building with thousands of people rushing about in every direction. So many different types of people, some old, young, small, tall, smart, untidy, even a few tramps. I have never seen so many people together in one place before. My instructions tell me to make my way towards the taxi rank, which is at the front of the station, so this I do and soon spot a row of taxis waiting for hire. The first one seems available so making my way towards the car, I ask if the driver would take me to the Banqueting Hall. I am soon in the midst of what would appear to be a living stream of vehicles. How we avoid hitting any of them I do not know and it is with great relief that we arrive safely. I pay the fare and make my way up the grand steps towards the open glazed doors.

I am warmly welcomed and guided through a pair of wooden richly ornatepanel doors into the finest room that I have ever seen. The whole room is decorated in the warmest and most elegantly coloured wall coverings with brightly shining glass pendant chandeliers reflecting on to a range of beautifully arranged dining tables. Each table is covered in a glorious white cover with each place setting in silver. I am stunned. At the head of the main table is a small stage set up with a microphone and some musical instruments, and seated around me are the other competitionwinners from across the entire country. I am seated next to the girl from Eastbourne. She seems pleasant enough, but a bit big for me.

I am a lot shorter. I must be younger than she is. The food is lovely and much more than I can manage, although my partnerseems to be able to eat it all, and more. I think she is older than I am.

We have an introduction and welcome from the organisers and then the entertainment begins. The first act is a comedian called Dave King. I haven’t heard of him, but he is very funny and makes us all laugh. Next, we have a magician called David Nixon who is extremely good and I just can’t seem to work out how he does the tricks. When I grow up I would like to do tricks like that. The final act is a group called Cliff Richard and the Shadows and they are brilliant. None of us want them to stop playing or singing, but eventually it is time to leave and we all make our way to our various taxis, trains and then homes. Today has been something special and one day I will look back and smile. I suppose that I have always had an affinity towards people less fortunate than myself for a number of personal reasons, and one way that a good school friend and I could actually help was to hold regular table top sales from my front garden.

We would collect jumble, books, and collectibles from whomever we could encourage to support our good cause, and by selling them at a tabletop sale on a Saturday morning we would raise a reasonable sum of money. We would then call on the local hospital matron to present our donation for use on the residents and patients. We always enjoyed our visits, which very often included tea and cakes in the matron’s study.