If I Was Not A Boy Scout

By David Snook

An amusing account of how the author, as a twelve year old boy, took the decision to sever his ties with the local street gang and in his own words. “Join the bloody scouts”. A decision made by a child on the spur of the moment that was to change his life forever. Funny, sad, certainly provocative in places, but was it the right thing to do? The Author will leave it to you to make up your own mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Legend Press
• Release date: Dec 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781787192430

David Snook

I am the father of three children, the step-father of a daughter, and I live in an ex-funeral home with my new wife of almost three years.

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IN THE BEGINNING

1948, and the short stocky urchin with a dustbin lid for a shield in one hand, and a half house brick in the other, was preparing to go to war with the kids from the adjoining street. A fully-fledged member of the Blackshaw road gang in Tooting south west London, and at the grand old age of ten, fast approaching eleven, he was already battle hardened and experienced in the art of street warfare. Like many of his fellow gang members, probably well on the way to becoming, if not a hardened criminal, certainly somebody that most caring parents would rather their child did not associate with.

Memories of the bombing raids inflicted upon him by the German Luftwaffe still embedded in his mind, the prospect of a few bricks thrown by his adversaries in the next street, held no fear. A dustbin lid was ample protection. Unlike the V2 rockets and incendiary bombs; there would be no need to hide under the stairs or dash for cover under the kitchen table. This time he was able to see the enemy. Retribution would be swift and decisive.

Born into a poor working class family just before the start of the Second World War, the youngest of seven children, I had already experienced the embarrassment of having to accept ‘hand me down’ clothes, not just from one brother, but from two, so in effect they were third hand. This plus the humiliation of being called to the front of the classroom to explain why I had not brought my plimsolls to school, in order to take part in the PE lesson, was probably the start of an inferiority complex

The reason for the absence of the plimsolls was because I didn’t have any. My family could not afford such luxuries. We did not even have a pair of pyjamas, or wear underpants in our house.

After trying to make up various excuses, getting redder and redder in the face each time the teacher shot down my more and more fanciful explanations, I finally had to admit the truth. I HADN’T GOT ANY.

Then amid the laughter of the rest of the class, totalling some thirty nine or so other kids sniggering in the background, I was made to come to the front of the class and choose a pair from a selection of second hand ones piled in a heap in the corner of the room.

This completed my humiliation, I could no longer hold my head up high in Smallwood road junior school Tooting, until I had regained my pride. This I did by knocking a few heads together at the first opportunity.

These incidents, coupled with regular beatings from my father, who would fly into a rage if he didn’t like the way you even looked at him, was the how I expected to live the rest of my life.

I was of course not alone in this situation, there were countless other families in a similar position, if not worse. It was something we all accepted and just got on with. Unlike today there was no welfare state to help out when things got tough. If we were in dire straits and our neighbours could not help out; as they often did when anyone hit hard times; because we all tried to support one another. As a last resort we were forced to go to the local authority for help.

A representative from the local council would come down and interrogate each applicant in order to make sure that money had not been wasted on frivolous purchases. If you passed this test, an inspection of your goods and chattel was carried out. Anything of value in the house such as a piano or a suite of furniture, you were told to sell and come back when the money you received for it had ran out.

I dread to think what reaction you would get from people today if they received that sort of humiliating treatment. What with their plasma televisions, video games and the like. Most likely there would be rioting in the streets; with the vast majority claiming their human rights had been infringed upon, having being told that they must bear the responsibility of looking after themselves.

The saviour, as for many families, was the local corner shop. Many a time my mother would send me along to it with a note asking for our basic needs. Together with an added request for five Churchill No 5 cigarettes to be included in the order. Also, please would he add the bill to what we already owed him? I suppose the local corner shop was the equivalent of today’s money lender, but with a little more humanity.

Situated on the corner of Bertal road Tooting, and run by what at the time seemed to me to be an elderly couple, a Mr and Mrs Bailey, our corner shop was our lifeline, without it we would have gone hungry on many an occasion. Mr Bailey was the stricter of the two, he would provide the goods requested, sometimes with the cigarettes, but more often than not, without. He then wrapped up the items in old newspaper, handed them to me and said in a gruff voice. Tell your mother she can have the goods this time, but no more until she pays off some of what she owes me. Mrs Bailey on the other hand would give me the goods and then as I was leaving the shop, slip me a couple of boiled sweets before sending me on my way with a wink and a smile. And off I would go, until the next time.

Blackshaw Road was really quite a palace compared to where we had come from. Moving from 159 Balham High road, a first floor two bedroom flat, was like escaping from purgatory. With its toilet situated on the landing and shared by the occupants of two other flats, gas light only, no hot water, and certainly no bathroom, life could be to say the least, trying.

We slept in the two available bedrooms according to our gender, my two sister and my Mother in the smaller back room; my Father, my two brothers and me, in the larger front room overlooking Balham High road. My parents had handed over their first born child, my brother Reg, to a maiden aunt, my mother’s sister; on the pretext that it would help ease the strain on my mother. God only knows she needed help having to live with my father. Another brother, John, had died at the age of two and a half, before I was even born.

These sleeping arrangements however, as far as us boys were concerned, produced many drawbacks. My father would not tolerate snoring or coughing, if anybody has tried to stop themselves from coughing when they have a tickle in their throat, they will know what I mean, the more you try to suppress it, the more likely you are to fail. And as for passing wind, God we were in for a thrashing if any of us boys transgressed. All these rules and restrictions of course did not apply to him.

But at least the war was over, we no longer suffered the indignity of having our windows blown out in the bombing raids, therebye having to cover the resulting damage with blackout material. Nor did we have to dash and hide under the kitchen table or the staircase every time the siren sounded.

Blackshaw road however, was a different place entirely, not only was there enough space so that we could all have our own bedroom, we had electricity. Although we were warned by the maiden aunt, to make sure we dried our hands before turning on the electric light, otherwise we would all be electrocuted. There was also a combined toilet and bathroom, which meant no longer having to get the tin bath out in front of the fire on a Friday night and wait your turn before getting into someone else’s dirty water. The only drawback being that, while one member of the family was lounging in the bath, no one else could use the toilet.

81 Blackshaw road was part of a block of council buildings run by Wandsworth Borough Council. Tenants were obliged to keep their windows clean, take it in turns to clean the communal stair case and refrain from hanging out their washing on a Sunday. These rules were strictly enforced. Failure to do so would result in a visit from a council representative knocking on your door and instructing you to comply immediately.

Our little block of flats were situated on the corner where Smallwood road and Blackshaw road meet, opposite what is now the Lambeth crematorium, but back then just an overgrown field. The flat itself was a first floor maisonette, the top half of the building on the outside being plastered in white stucco work, the ground floor section constructed in plain red brick. Our accommodation was accessed by a wooden gate at the front of a short path leading to an oak timber door, behind which lay a wooden staircase. At the top of this staircase you found a small landing, turn right and you were facing flat No 83, turn left and you faced No 81, our new abode.

The two bedrooms on the first floor section of the flat were accessed by a door leading off the living room. They were occupied by my twin sisters in one of the rooms, and my two brothers, Peter and Ted, in the other. Apart from the door to the upper rooms, the living room also boasted what to me as a young lad, a multitude of cupboards, and to my delight, us boys were allotted one each to keep our treasured possessions. Many a fight broke out among us if anyone trespassed into the others treasured domain.

Apart from the two upper rooms, there were three others, on what we called our ground floor. My Mother and Father slept in the main bedroom at the front of the building, and me in the larger of the two at the back. That was until my sister Betty got married and moved out. Shortly followed by my remaining sister Pat, who unlike Betty, stayed where she was, only now she had a husband. This meant a major reshuffle, I was relegated to the box room. But at least I still had my own bedroom, I had certainly moved up a notch.

ON A HIDING TO SUCCESS

The transition from Balham to Tooting however did not go without its problems, for me it was getting accepted by the well-established street gang.

Standing at the front gate of my new home, with a group of the locals eyeing me up and down was quite a nerve racking experience. They ranged in age from about nine years of age to about thirteen. A voice shouted here’s one of them, whats yer name mate? David. David what? David Snook Bloody hell what kind of name is that? It’s mine Well it’s a f-----g silly name and yer a silly looking c---. Surrounded by a group of hostile boys and in totally unfamiliar circumstances, I felt very alone. In desperation I looked around for a friendly face. There was none. As the youngest member of my family, I was quite used to be given a clout around the ear, so I had no fear on that score. Spotting a lad of about my size within the group, and relying on the advice from my older brothers, of; if in doubt, strike first and ask questions afterwards, I stepped forward and punched him in the mouth.

With shouts of "fight, fight" ringing in my ears, we rolled, wrestled and kicked on the pavement, like two rabid dogs. To my amazement I was not feeling any pain, in fact I was gaining the upper hand.

Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, relief was at hand, or was it? As I turned to look at my rescuer, a fist smashed into my face three or four times in rapid succession. "Good one Terry" the shout went up as the blood spurted out of my nose.

Fearing that I might have won, one of the gang, a certain Terry Watts, had stepped in to alter the odds in their favour. "We won, we won" The jubilant cry went up as I lay there on the pavement.

Of course they bloody well won, there were at least eight of them, although to be fair only one other had intervened.

When I at last plucked up courage to get to my feet, most of the gang had disappeared, the two that had remained looked at me, half in pity and half in wonder that I was not crying. Here you are mate said one boy, as he handed me a grubby looking piece of rag, which I accepted with gratitude. Thanks I replied, See you and with that I made my way up the stairs to the safety of our new home. Thus began my introduction to The Blackshaw Road Gang.

As the days and weeks went by, I was gradually accepted into the gang and my earlier confrontation was forgiven, and if not forgotten, never mentioned again. I formed a close friendship with the two boys who had remained behind to offer me assistance in my hour of need, Lenny Carpenter and Norman Watts, the younger brother of the boy who had flattened my nose.

The next hurdle for me, would be my introduction into the local school. Smallwood Road Junior Mixed would be trusted with educating me to the best of my capabilities, or so I was told by the teacher charged with looking after my welfare. The first morning, in fact was not as traumatic as I thought it would be. It was comforting to know that I was not alone in it being my first day at a new school. We were sorted out according to age and gender, making sure that there was an even mix of boys and girls in each class.

It soon became apparent that this air of calm and tranquillity would not last long. I was naturally left handed, but my new teacher decided that this was unacceptable and I was duly instructed to write in future with my right hand, failure to do would result in rapped across the knuckles with a ruler. I was then berated because my writing was, in her words, atrocious. I was not sure what this word meant, but by the expression on her face, it were not good.

All this of course was very confusing, to write with my left hand was totally forbidden, but when I later progressed and gained a place in the school football team, mainly because I was left footed, I was suddenly the possessor of a wonderful gift and could play on the left wing.

And so I settled into my new surroundings, making a few new friends on the way as well as a few enemies.

So all in all things weren’t too bad, I joined the Life Boys, the younger section of the Boys Brigade, whose meeting place was the