My Young Life and Experience after 1945

By Trevor C Allonby

“Mum, where is Dad, has he gone to bed?” I didn't know where my dad had gone because he just disappeared. I should really have got used to my dad getting drunk because he seemed to spend a lot of time drinking. But when I think about it, his drunkenness didn’t bother me too much: it was the punching of my mum and myself that hurt me the most. However, I did find time to have fun with a couple of friends that I had. The secret agent games that I invented from time to time coincided with the true-life games and excitement that I found along the way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Apr 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398428393

Trevor C Allonby

This biographical story is about Trevor C Allonby’s early life when he was a youngster, from the ages of five and a half to seven. The story starts after a short school holiday when he returns back to school. The time is around 1945 just after the war had finished, however, there was still rationing which made it difficult to get most foods. In his early school life, he had problems because he was a shy boy. He also had many issues with his father who had just come home from the war and had drinking problems along with severe jealousy. This meant that both he and his mother used to get beaten up on a regular basis.

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About the Author

This biographical story is about Trevor C Allonby’s early life when he was a youngster, from the ages of five and a half to seven. The story starts after a short school holiday when he returns back to school. The time is around 1945 just after the war had finished, however, there was still rationing which made it difficult to get most foods. In his early school life, he had problems because he was a shy boy. He also had many issues with his father who had just come home from the war and had drinking problems along with severe jealousy. This meant that both he and his mother used to get beaten up on a regular basis.

Copyright Information ©

Trevor C Allonby 2022

The right of Trevor C Allonby to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All of the events in this memoir are true to the best of author’s memory. The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398428386 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398428393 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

School

Mum, Dad and I were just finishing our breakfast of boiled eggs and toast when I glanced out of the kitchen window, to see that it was drizzling very gently. It didn’t look very pleasant and I got the feeling that this could be a miserable kind of day.

My mum, who was sat at the kitchen table across from me, suddenly asked me in a broad Yorkshire accent, Are you ready for school, Trevor?

I looked across at Mum and answered by saying, Yes, Mum, I’m ready.

Mum then started to clear the table by putting our dirty cups and plates along with our knives and forks into the sink. Dad, who had earlier left the table, suddenly appeared from the bedroom where he had probably been getting ready for work. He then began to explain in his own inimitable style that he would probably be late home from work because he had a lot to do.

Mum didn’t reply to Dad, she just generally glanced in his direction and took every word as though it was probably his last, but in essence, Mum really knew that he didn’t have much work to do, what he was actually trying to say without giving the game away was that he would be stopping off at the nearest pub on his way home after work to have a drink.

As Dad moved away, he gave Mum a quick kiss on the cheek and then disappeared down the kitchen steps of our old house into what had once been a wet fish shop and was now a storage area for us.

Meanwhile, Mum proceeded to take her coat and mine off the hook, which was behind the kitchen door, and after giving mine a little shake, Mum then laid it across my shoulders, she then asked me to put it on. As Dad closed the front door downstairs with a loud bang, the windows in the kitchen where Mum and I were stood started to rattle and that included the rickety old wooden window frames. You know, Trevor, your dad is going to break that window someday if he keeps banging the front door shut like that.

I had to agree with my mum because we had mentioned it to my dad several times, but nothing ever became of it. Meanwhile, Mum and I finished dressing and followed Dad’s echoing footsteps down the kitchen stairs and across the old wet fish shop, and finally out through the front door into the street.

Mum closed the door behind us gently trying to protect it, because it really had seen better days and it looked as though we could do with a new door or perhaps a lick of paint. Once in the street, I suddenly felt that something was different and no matter how hard I tried to free myself from Mum’s hand, she kept hold of me tightly.

The pavement itself, which was still wet from the early morning drizzle, felt slippery to walk on, but not because of the way I was walking, more because of the way my mum was dragging me along.

Usually, when Mum and I left the house to go shopping, I would have the opportunity to run around hiding behind lampposts or dodging in and out of shop doorways playing hide and seek.

Now as I was a young boy of around five and half years of age, things were a little different. Or so I kept getting told.

Even the street this morning seemed different because the usual hustle and bustle of the early morning trams was missing.

But I suppose the thing that I missed most of all was the dray horses which belonged to the Tetley brewery, which you could usually see pulling huge carts full of barrels of beer, to deliver to unknown destinations in Leeds.

The horses, which were all beautifully turned out, in their fancy ribbons and nice shiny brass tack, used to gleam in the sunshine.

As Mum and I hurried to school, I tried to figure out why my mum was so keen to get me to school; I had been there before. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know what was happening. Perhaps she had discovered something else she could be doing instead of looking after me. At least that would be one thing in her favour; she would be getting extra freedom by not having me at home.

The final few minutes of me being dragged along Hunslet Road soon came to an end as we turned the corner onto South Accommodation Road. The road itself was very dirty because of the amount of traffic which used it, and it didn’t give me much hope of having a good day.

When Mum and I eventually reached the point where we had to cross the road, I felt perhaps a little more hopeful about having a good day because the drizzling rain had stopped and the sun was trying to break through.

The school itself stood there as it had probably done so for the last several years and it was starting to show its age. The walls which were dirty grey in colour had seen better days, even the school railings which were made of steel looked to be coated in several different colours of paint which didn’t make them look any better.

However, the main school gates themselves had been freshly painted in bright green paint and looked very smart.

The playground of the school, which Mum and I had to cross to get to the front door of the school, was painted in the usual way with snakes and ladders, hopscotch and other wavy lines, which probably belonged to games that I knew a little bit about.

As for the school doorway itself, that appeared to be a pair of nice bright new shiny wooden doors with a large brass handle, and right above the doorway was a large clock, which was just about to strike 9 am.

In the playground waiting for the doors to open were a lot of children, some were running around yelling and screaming, while others were just talking to their mums and dads, as they were probably just as nervous as I was.

As I looked around the playground, it seemed that there were more girls than boys, perhaps most of the boys were on the other side of the playground and I couldn’t see them, either way it didn’t really matter and I was just walking around in general trying to work out who I could make friends with.

However? In the next few minutes, things were about to change, for suddenly the huge wooden doors were opened by a man wearing overalls and big boots.

He didn’t speak to anyone; in fact, he just stepped aside and generally glanced around the playground at everyone. Perhaps he was thinking to himself that we would perhaps make his life miserable in the playground, and he might just have been right. But none of us knew who this man was, was he a teacher or just someone who worked at the school, we had no way of knowing, perhaps we will hopefully find out later.

The man himself was reasonably tall; I guess about five feet eight with grey hair and a bent nose. He appeared to have a kind face, but you never can tell, because his bright green eyes seemed to be looking first to the right and then to the left, as if he was counting everybody.

I was not sure what I was really expecting at school, but suddenly, everything in the playground was quickly forgotten when all the children made a sudden dash for the doorway…

Once inside the school doorway and to my left was a long row of pegs attached to the wall where it seemed all the children were expected to put their coats and hats. Once this had been done, we were then ushered into the assembly hall and told to wait quietly.

The assembly hall was as I had remembered it to be, large and cavernous and whatever you did it echoed across the room, in fact, you could almost hear what other people were saying 20 to 30 yards away.

On the right side of the room, the wall appeared to be just solid wood while the opposing wall was set with several large windows. But right in front of everyone was a large stage set about three foot above the ground, which possessed a large piano set at one side while the rest was covered with rows and rows of chairs. Everywhere you looked seemed to be highly polished wood, even the floor shone from the reflection of sunlight coming through the window, it gave you the impression that you were standing on a mirror. A lot of the children were now standing alone as a lot of parents had left the school and gone home or perhaps to work.

But eventually above the noise of the children and those parents who were still there, a voice could be heard telling everyone.

Quiet please.

The assembly hall went silent as though someone had just thrown a switch and then a few seconds later, a man on the stage asked all parents to say goodbye to their children, as it was now time for school.

The silence was again shattered by children saying goodbye, but in a matter of minutes, we were all lined up and put into small groups to be marched off to our respective classrooms.

I was in the second group to leave the assembly hall, slowly walking along a wooden corridor to my classroom, where we were then told to choose a table and chair and to sit down.

Once in the classroom, I then made an unconscious decision to sit close to the window, this would give me an opportunity to not only look out of the window, but with a slight turn of my head, I could survey my teacher and the rest of my class.

The school desk itself had seen better days because there were ink stains and deep scratch marks, which had become embedded with other unmentionable stains, but at least for now, it was clean and shiny. The seat which belonged to the desk was hard to sit on and not the place where you would want to spend a lot of time. Suddenly, the door of the classroom opened and in walked a lady who moved straight to the front of the class and sat down at the desk in front of us.

She didn’t speak for several minutes; in fact, all she did was look around the classroom taking a good look at each person sat in their chair in front of her. She eventually spoke to everybody and told us that for the next few months, she was going to be our teacher, and her name was Mrs Jones.

Mrs Jones was a reasonably tall woman of around five foot six and had dark hair with piercing blue eyes; she also wore spectacles made of brown plastic.

She gave me the impression that she seemed to be a nice lady but on first appearances things could be deceptive.

Suddenly, Mrs Jones stepped out from behind her desk and left the classroom, why we didn’t know, but I felt quite sure that we were supposed to be nice and quiet, and I guess under normal circumstances, we probably would be, but we were young and exuberant and full of life with enough energy to run the Titanic and not in any mood to either sit still or be quiet.

A few minutes later, Mrs Jones came back to her chair in the classroom; she then proceeded to sit down at the desk in front of the class. She didn’t speak for several minutes, but I got the impression she was weighing up every boy and girl in the class, possibly trying to work out their capabilities with regards to the forthcoming lessons.

Suddenly and without much warning, Mrs Jones finally picked out a young girl who was sat in the front row almost directly in front of her desk and asked her name.

The young girl looked at Mrs Jones and gave her name as Betty Marsh. After the name was given, Mrs Jones then put a tick against the young girl’s name on the paper laid out on the desk in front of her. Mrs Jones then smiled at the rest of the class and asked their names also, she then continued right around the class until she had almost finished. It turned out that I was the last person in class Mrs Jones was going to speak to and eventually she asked me my name.

Young man, Mrs Jones said looking in my direction. Would you give me your name, please?

I tried to give Mrs Jones my name, but something had happened to me because I couldn’t open my mouth. All I could do was stare at Mrs Jones because I didn’t really know what to say.

It was several seconds later when Mrs Jones asked me for the second time to give her my name, but unfortunately for me, my mind had gone blank and my lips refused to move. I couldn’t fully understand what was happening to me or why I was scared, suddenly I felt I needed my mum.

I guess it was because I’d never been on my own before, and didn’t really know what to say or do, so I unconsciously made a rash decision of deciding to say nothing.

Mrs Jones however continued to look intently at my face as though trying to figure out why I was refusing to speak. But in my own mind, I knew I wasn’t refusing to speak, I just couldn’t. I’d become so scared of giving the teacher my name, my brain had panicked telling my body to say nothing and do nothing.

A deathly silence then settled across the whole classroom, and some of the children were quietly whispering to themselves that I was probably going to get into serious trouble because I wouldn’t speak.

There were those children who were just a bit braver than the rest, and were making comments about me, such as, look at the baby why doesn’t he give his name to the teacher; he looks so stupid.

Some of these children may well have been quite correct about me being stupid and perhaps about me being a bit of a baby, but I was quite sure they would not see it if I kept my lips tightly shut.

Suddenly and without warning, I could feel tears running down my cheeks, which some of the other children spotted.

There was a cry from some of the children, ‘cry-baby’ for several seconds before Mrs Jones finally interrupted them and told them all to be quiet. I was beginning to feel at this point that I might just be going to get away with this, until I spotted Mrs Jones step out from behind her desk, where she then asked me to join her in front of the whole class.

I guess from Mrs Jones’s point of view, she must have felt that she had to make me an example for all the other children to take note of just in case they felt like doing the same.

Unfortunately, for Mrs Jones however, she was about to come unstuck in her plans to make me an example to the rest of the class. Mrs Jones then stepped forward and asked me to join her right in front of the whole class.

Mrs Jones then bent down slightly and started to talk to me very gently asking me to give her my name while at the same time using her finger and thumb on her left hand, she took hold of the lobe of my right ear.

Mrs Jones’s words faded away into the stillness of the classroom, but I still stuck to my guns and refused to speak.

Suddenly, my right ear started to burn with pain, because Mrs Jones was now squeezing it hard. I wasn’t too sure how long she was going to keep squeezing my ear, hopefully not too long because I couldn’t stand too much pain.

As for the rest of the class, I noticed that while I was in pain a lot of the other children were now thinking this was a game and started laughing and making jokes about me.

Even when I started to cry, the children seemed to enjoy the fact that their teacher was hurting me.

I myself wasn’t enjoying it, and I became determined to do something about it.

What, I didn’t yet know.

The pain continued for several seconds and then suddenly stopped, why? I guess Mrs Jones thought that I would give her my name.

She stood there looking at me trying to work out what her next move should be, when I noticed what appeared to be a faint smile on her face. Thoughts that began running through my head at that moment were not the usual kind of thoughts, mine were about was she going to hurt me again, if yes, how much.

While I stood there watching Mrs Jones’s reaction to my defiance it gave me the chance to take a closer look at her face and her appearance.

Mrs Jones was wearing a maroon coloured cardigan, over the top of a crisp white blouse, her skirt was similar in colour to her cardigan, but it was rough to the touch, I guess in modern day terms something like tweed.

She had nice shiny shoes on, which were also maroon in colour and could have been made of what we would call today patent leather.

Mrs Jones then stepped close to me for a second time; in fact, I could almost feel the heat of her breath as she spoke to me.

Was she going to squeeze my ear again or had she decided that something else would probably work better, either way, I knew in my mind that it was difficult to tell what she was going to do, because I couldn’t read her face, perhaps she was going to send me back to my desk.

Suddenly and without any warning whatsoever, Mrs Jones took hold of my ear and began to squeeze, but this time it was harder than the first time, which I knew would mean more pain.

Her bespectacled face gave her an air of superiority and intelligence, but from my point of view right at this moment, I was unsure if her superiority was in teaching or torture.

Then Mrs Jones asked again, Now, young man, will you finally tell me your name?

There was for a few seconds, a few moments when I couldn’t feel anything, and I began to think that perhaps Mrs Jones wasn’t going to squeeze properly, but then an intense searing pain struck my right ear.

However, by this time, I had had enough and couldn’t take the pain anymore,

I then made my decision on how I could fight back.

As the pain in my right ear continued to hurt me, I suddenly swung around and swung my left foot forward catching Mrs Jones a hard blow on the front of her right shin. Mrs Jones was suddenly stunned by what I had just done and stepped back very quickly, and saw blood running down the front of her shin into her shoe.

The expression on her face said, ‘oh my god, what has he done?’

As for myself, I had reached the point of not caring about what had happened to Mrs Jones, because my right ear still hurt, and tears were now running hard down my face.

The silence in the classroom was almost deafening as Mrs Jones stepped away from me and went to sit down in the chair behind her desk. She began to examine the front of her shin and I guess she was trying to weigh up just how much damage I had done to her.

But as far as I was concerned, the unfortunate part of this whole episode was Mrs Jones, she had completely underestimated not only me but the power of my shoes.

Now I can hear you all saying what does he mean by the power of shoes, well, let me explain just a little bit.

My shoes were not what you might call ordinary shoes in any sense of the word, because shoes during the 1940s were very expensive and even more so in wartime. My shoes had probably belonged to some other child, probably less fortunate than myself. However, my dad always seemed to be able to find some somewhere.

And because I was a young boy and always playing football, kicking stones around, and that included anything that would act like a ball, my shoes never did seem to last very long.

So, when my dad while he was working happened to find a bombed house, he would usually have a good look around and sometimes he would find shoes among the ruins, which he could usually repair for me to wear.

My only problem with that, by the time my dad had finished repairing any shoes he might have found, was I usually found for a short time that the shoes hurt my feet, but they never wore out.

The pair of shoes I was wearing today was a pair of shoes my dad had found and repaired, and he also said they were good for at least three years, not that Mum or I believed him.

But I have had these shoes for two years now and they still look as though they will be around for another two years.

I don’t know what will happen to my feet by then, hopefully, they should be okay. It was only later that I found out that Dad had been a part time cobbler and used to mend shoes for other people when he got the chance.

The jacket and trousers that I wore had been cut from other old jackets and trousers that we had been lucky enough to find, or perhaps on the odd occasion they might have had been given to us.

But let’s get back to the shoes, because I used to like to play football, kicking everything from stones to tin cans so it was guaranteed that they wouldn’t last very long, but somehow, my dad had found a way to strengthen my shoes and make them almost bulletproof.

He told me that I could play football as much as I liked, and in fact, if I needed to, I could walk in the rain and not get my feet wet.

I tried this out one afternoon, by jumping in and out of as many rain puddles as I could find, and my dad was correct, I didn’t get my feet wet. Unfortunately, for Mrs Jones, I’ve now found an even better use of my shoes apart from playing football, and that’s called self-defence.

Hopefully, I wouldn’t have to prove it too many times during my childhood, but I felt quite sure that Mrs Jones would now keep her distance from me.

Now I’m trying to figure out just exactly what Mrs Jones is going to do next and just to make sure I stood perfectly still. I didn’t want to risk any further punishment either by her or further ridicule from the rest of the class.

But as far as the children were concerned, there was no more ridicule of any kind, instead all I could see was a sea of blank expressions, which I probably took as respect.

The silence in the classroom seemed almost overwhelming and eventually Mrs Jones shouted at me, Go back to your seat, boy.

At this point, I was completely amazed that Mrs Jones had decided not to take any more action against me and that included the rest of the lesson, in fact, she didn’t even look in my direction at all.

Suddenly at the back of the classroom, there was the sound of a bell ringing and it sounded like it was coming through the wall.

What I didn’t know was that this was the sound of the break time bell, and it was situated on the other side of the wall in the school hallway.

It wasn’t the same noise I had heard before, so I can only assume that it was a new bell of some kind.

Most schools have a period in the morning and afternoon, which allows not only the children to have a break from school lessons but more importantly for the teachers to have a break from the children.

But unfortunately for me, this was my first day after a holiday break and with a new teacher; it seems things have changed slightly.

However, most of the other children had become fairly agitated at the prospect of being allowed out into the playground to let off steam.

It was probably three or four minutes before Mrs Jones finally gave permission for the class to leave the classroom in an orderly fashion and head off to the playground, as for me, I was told to stay where I was.

All the other children had now left the classroom and I was left all alone to not only contemplate the kind of situation I was in but I guess what was at the back of my mind, what was my mum going to say.

I guess I was really trying to work out in my head if my mum was going to be angry with me for kicking Mrs Jones, or the fact that I cried when Mrs Jones squeezed my ear.

It would, as far as I was concerned, probably all depend on whether my mum was in a good mood or not. I guess my mum was much the same as a lot of other mums; she could have good days and bad days.

Some of the good days that I have shared with my mum, we had laughed together, would this be another laughing day, or will I be heading to bed early without any tea?

Most, if not all, of the bad days we had shared were because of my dad and his drinking habits.

There was also something else I wasn’t too sure of, and that was if my mum told my dad what had happened between Mrs Jones and me.

What would his reaction be? I didn’t expect him to do or say anything except to say that he would be right behind my mum in any decision she might make.

I had found out through trial and error that the only thing my dad seemed to take any interest in was going to work and calling at the pub afterwards. But if you were the kind of person who had the nerve or the courage to tell my dad that he wouldn’t be able to go and have a pint, which seemed to be his great passion in life, then you had better stand back and be prepared for anything.

On the odd occasion, Dad would probably just have one pint or perhaps two at the most, but most of the time, he would drink till he couldn’t drink any more. Then he would stagger across the road to our house where Mum and I would then have to suffer his abusive mouth and flying fists.

I know it seems that I am being a little hard on my dad because he did have the odd day when he was okay; those were the days when he didn’t drink at all.

And thinking of drink, I now suddenly realised that while I stood all alone in the classroom I needed to go and have a wee.

Now what am I supposed to do because I can’t leave the classroom in case someone sees me, but I need a toilet.

Should I stick my head out of the classroom door and see if there is a toilet somewhere inside or just wait.

Unfortunately, for me my body was telling me that I couldn’t wait much longer and the pain in my stomach and bladder were telling me that things were getting desperate.

My dilemma began to make a big impression on me, and I felt I had to take a risk but what could I do? It was then I noticed Mrs Jones’s wastebasket, would that be satisfactory, I wasn’t too sure.

Thinking allowed to myself, I felt that no one would ever know, and it was certainly worth the risk, far less dangerous than leaving the classroom.

So, taking my dilemma in hand, I casually relieved myself into the wastebasket, and then move moved back to my seat at my desk.

It seemed ages before Mrs Jones and the rest of the children came back to the classroom after playtime, where they found me still sat at my desk.

Some of the children asked me how I had been, while others gave me a brief explanation of the games they had been playing.

I wasn’t particularly interested in what they’d been doing or where they had been playing, I was just glad somebody had stopped to talk to me.

The rest of the morning was a bit of a breeze with a little bit more of learning, to read, along with the teacher’s way of showing young children, how to start learning to count using small blocks of wood, and a few tennis balls.

These were combined with Mrs Jones’s use of the blackboard.

Mrs Jones stood up from behind her desk and stepped out to face the rest of the class.

None of the children including me had any idea what she was about to say or do, so we all sat with full attention waiting for her to speak.

Unfortunately, for me however, Mrs Jones without knowing kicked her wastepaper basket out from under her desk. But the wastepaper basket didn’t move like you would expect a wastebasket to move, and that is to slide across the floor, in fact, this one slid about three inches and then fell over. Resulting in several pieces of scrunched up paper, and around half a pint of liquid flowing across the classroom floor.

Mrs Jones stared at the pieces of paper, and then blinked her eyes at the liquid now running from the wastebasket and across the floor.

If Mrs Jones had any idea what the liquid was, she didn’t say, instead she just walked out of the classroom and returned a couple of minutes later with a mop and bucket, which she cleaned up the mess with.

I knew myself I wasn’t going to say anything, and neither did Mrs Jones, however, she did glance in my direction.

Whether this meant she knew what kind of situation I had been in and how desperate I must have been, I did however see a faint smile on her face.

Lunchtime came and went, as did the rest of the afternoon, and very soon the school bell could be heard sounding the end of school for that day.

I now realised that in a matter of a few minutes, I would be going home, and was rather looking forward to meeting my mum after my first day. But what I didn’t know was that school had finished a few minutes earlier than normal and that meant that my mum would probably still be at home.

But what did that mean for me, I couldn’t leave school on my own because I wasn’t allowed to cross the road by myself, it was far too dangerous.

At least that’s what I kept getting told.

I have heard about things called zebra crossings, but up to this point, I haven’t seen one. Did that mean I would have to wait for a zebra to show me across the road, if so then I could be in for the long wait.

An icy shiver ran down my back as though someone had poured cold water down my shirt, I know they haven’t, it just felt like that.

Mrs Jones then went to a cupboard, which was off to the side and took out her coat and her maroon handbag. Meanwhile, the rest of the class was given permission to leave, while I was told to stay behind until Mrs Jones told me that she was ready to leave.

I asked Mrs Jones why I had to wait, she then informed me,

Young man, I’m going to go home with you because I want to talk to your parents.

I gulped and almost choked myself, after what Mrs Jones had just told me, and then I started to smile.

Mrs Jones saw the smile on my face, and I thought she was going to ask me the reason why. As for myself, I was thinking about the confrontation between my mum and Mrs Jones when we got home.

Mrs Jones and my mum were about the same in height and probably weight, but I was quite sure that Mrs Jones didn’t have the same punching power as my mum.

But then a second thought crossed my mind, perhaps Mrs Jones was good at fighting also.

Mrs Jones and I eventually reached the school gates together and crossed the road almost immediately, because there wasn’t much traffic about. She didn’t take my hand like I thought she might, instead she steered me in the direction she wanted me to go by placing her hand on my shoulder.

As we walked gently along Hunslet Road, I thought that perhaps I might get the opportunity to take a look in the bike shop, because there was always something interesting to see, but unfortunately for me, I was walked straight past. Not because I would have any chance of ever owning a bicycle, but it did allow me to use my imagination and dream a bit.

Sometimes when I was on the way home from school with my mum, we would usually stop at the bread shop, and if luck was on our side, we might even get a loaf of bread. Today, I didn’t get the chance to do any of those normal things, but it did give me the opportunity to start thinking about what my mum would say when Mrs Jones and I reached the house.

In the distance, I could see the front door of my house, and I could also feel tension building up inside me, because I could almost hear my mum’s first words when she opened the front door and saw Mrs Jones and I stood there.

Standing at the front doorstep, Mrs Jones knocked on my front door as though she was tapping on a thin pane of glass. I knew my mum would never hear her, and that she would have to bang louder than that, because Mrs Jones didn’t know that we lived on the second floor of the house, and more importantly that we didn’t have a front doorbell.

This meant that anybody who came to the door and needed us for whatever reason usually had to bang very hard on the door so that we could hear them. Mrs Jones, can I say something please? There was a short pause, because I didn’t expect Mrs Jones to answer my question.

What do you want, young man? she said rather abruptly.

Can you bang on the door a lot harder please because my mum will be upstairs in the kitchen and she won’t hear you?

Mrs Jones gave me a quick glance and looked back at the front door, whereupon she clenched her fist and began pounding the front door rather like a boxer training on a punch bag.

As we stood there waiting for my mum to descend from the kitchen, I was watching the traffic going up and down the street. I wasn’t thinking of going anywhere or doing anything except trying to appear unconcerned about the confrontation that was about take place.

The front door finally opened to reveal my mum with one arm in one coat sleeve, while in the other hand she was holding her handbag.

Mum then dropped her handbag onto the front doorstep and put her other arm into the sleeve of her coat, before she realised that I was stood there, and I wasn’t alone.

Who is this, Trevor?

But before I could speak, Mrs Jones interrupted me and introduced herself to my mum, telling her she was my class teacher and that we had had little problem at school. But what was more to the point as far as she was concerned, she felt it only right and proper that she came to visit her and explain the situation in person…

Would you be kind enough to give me your name please? Mrs Jones asked very politely.

The reason I’m doing this is because I asked your son at school today for him to give me his name, and he refused to do so.

Mum looked at me and then back at Mrs Jones, she then told her that she was a Mrs Clarkson and that was all she said.

Mrs Jones then informed my mum that she needed to speak to her, because of the way that I, her son, had acted in the classroom causing damage.

Mum’s eyes began to sparkle as they widened at Mrs Jones’s last sentence, whereupon she invited Mrs Jones into the house almost immediately.

As the front door closed behind us, Mrs Jones then started to give her explanation of what had happened, and why. Halfway through Mrs Jones’s explanation, my mum stepped in with, So! What’s your problem, Mrs Jones, just because my son felt shy and didn’t want to give you his name, that’s really not too serious, is it?

Mrs Jones then answered my mum’s statement by saying, But Mrs Clarkson, your son must give me his name, because if he doesn’t, how do I know that he’s turned up for school?

I expected my mum to stop and think for a few moments and she didn’t disappoint, because I fully expected that in a couple of questions’ time there could be a severe clash of personalities.

Mum suddenly looked at me and waved her hand, which directed me to go upstairs and wait in the kitchen.

This I did without even questioning why my mum wanted me to leave and be alone upstairs, I had learnt only too well that it paid not to argue too much with my mum.

Mrs Jones then spent several minutes explaining to my mum what she had done and why she had had to do it, in the hope I suspect of getting some sort of sympathy, or at least understanding.

Unfortunately, for Mrs Jones however, my mum didn’t usually go around feeling sympathy for other people.

While I was upstairs in the kitchen I was trying to pay full attention to what Mrs Jones was telling my mum about me, and I fully expected her to change her story in order to get my mum to appreciate the kind of actions that she had taken.

I also expected Mrs Jones to perhaps leave out certain things, which might have given my mum a different impression, or perhaps interpretation of the events which had taken place.

But to give Mrs Jones her credit, she put in every detail, right down to the fact that she had squeezed my right ear twice to hurt me, in order to make me give her my name.

The chair by the fire which I was sat in was reasonably comfortable, but at that moment, comfort was not a thing I was interested in. I was more interested in what was going on downstairs and awaiting the inevitable explosion that was about to take place.

It seemed awfully quiet while I strained both ears to try and catch every word that was said.

Suddenly, the peace and quiet was shattered, by the eruption of a volcano downstairs called my mum. She had taken in everything that Mrs Jones had said and her reasons for doing it, but from my mum’s point of view, that didn’t give Mrs Jones the right to hurt me at all.

My mum told Mrs Jones that she knew at some point that I would probably get into trouble one way or another, and punishment of some kind would follow.

But she readily informed Mrs Jones that under no circumstances would she be allowed to hurt me, whatever I had done wrong.

My mum also informed Mrs Jones that if any kind of punishment, i.e. a smack, was warranted, then she would be the person to give it to me. And as if to emphasise her point more strongly, my mum pushed Mrs Jones right up to the door, and almost touched her nose with her teeth, as she snarled out what she would do if she ever touched me again.

However, Mrs Jones didn’t seem to fully understand Mum’s reasoning powers, and kept on insisting that she didn’t fully understand the problems she faced as a schoolteacher.

Downstairs went quiet a second time, and then came eruption number two, but this time, there was a bit more fallout as my mum grabbed the front of Mrs Jones’s blouse with both her hands.

"Mrs Jones! I don’t know much about you, except you tell me that you are Trevor’s teacher, and you have also told me that for my son to give you his name you squeezed his ear twice and made him cry.

This must never happen again, because if my son tells me that you have hurt him for any reason, then I will come looking for you and do some hurting of my own, do you fully understand?

Mrs Jones didn’t move, don’t know if this is because she was feeling scared, or the fact that my mum had such a strong grasp on her, but eventually, Mum let go of Mrs Jones’s blouse.

Mrs Jones then straightened her blouse and rearranged her hair back to its former position before she spoke, "Mrs Clarkson, I’m really sorry that I had to come to your house to see you on behalf of your son, and I apologise for squeezing your son Trevor’s ear.

You have my assurance that this won’t happen again, but if there’s any problems with your son, either in school or in the playground, I will come to see you first, is that okay?

There was a silence for perhaps 10 seconds, and then I heard my mum’s voice, this time it was all calm, soft and quiet. It was not what I expected, but it seems that the storm had now passed, because I heard Mum say goodbye to Mrs Jones on the doorstep.

The door closed but there was no bang, and soon I heard Mum’s footsteps coming up the kitchen steps.

As for Mrs Jones, she had started to walk up Hunslet Road towards the centre of town. Didn’t know if this was where Mrs Jones lived, or she was going to catch the tram, either way it would be reasonable to assume that Mrs Jones’s head would be full of thoughts about how she had just dealt with the situation between my mum, and her problem with me at school.

Could she have handled it better, had there been another way to solve the situation?

As Mrs Jones reached the junction of Hunslet Road and Black Bull Street, she had to wait for the evening traffic to ease before she could cross the road. It was there that she started to think about the problems she had had with me at school, and the punishment that she’d given me. She even had time to reflect on what my mum had said, and she was rapidly coming to the same conclusion, that perhaps my mum had been right after all.

Her reasoning was, how would she have felt if some other schoolteacher had done the same to one of her children.

She suddenly felt that there would have been no doubt whatsoever about her reaction, and that would most likely have been something similar to my mum’s.

She understood that it hadn’t been about me being punished, it was about the kind of punishment that I’d been made to endure.

However, this also gave Mrs Jones problem number two, what happens if anything like this happens again with me or any of the other children, how did she punish any of the others without ending up in the same kind of situation?

Mum finally returned to the top of the kitchen stairs and found me sat in the comfy chair beside the fire.

She didn’t speak to me, but I did notice that there was a kind of half smile on her face. I’d seen her smile like this before and I had thought that it was a good sign, but on a couple of occasions, I had found that I had been wrong.

Was this half smile today telling me that everything was okay, or was it a sign telling me to be wise on my part and not to mention it again? I didn’t feel like taking a risk because it was getting too close to my teatime, and I was getting hungry.

My next thoughts were about what were we having for our tea, because I knew that things were very scarce, and I haven’t seen much in the cupboard.

In the late 1940s, food was rationed because a lot of the food was not only hard to get but difficult to find, in fact, some of it was almost impossible. But of the things that you might find if you’re lucky, such as dried eggs, didn’t really taste of dried eggs. You could if you tried hard enough, pretend that you were eating an omelette. You might also find at the shops, luxury items like the odd tin of corned beef or perhaps Spam, but only if you spend a lot of time looking around town, but I will come back to the rationing situation a bit later.

The Surrounding Area

The house that we lived in was reasonably close to what my father called a Catholic Church. I couldn’t understand any significance in his remarks about the church except from a young boy’s point of view. It was a nice place to explore when there was no one around. I even mentioned to my dad one day that I would like to cross the road and perhaps have a closer look at the church, but my dad told me very firmly that it was not a place for me. I did ask why, but all I got was a shrug from his shoulders and a few simple words, you will find out when you are older.

Now that remark could have meant anything to me, and having a young boy’s brain, the place could have been on today’s standard of what you might call a very large house of ill repute, or perhaps even a bingo hall, instead my father told me that I shouldn’t even bother to find out one way or the other.

Our house was part of a small terrace of houses and wasn’t very big. Standing at the front door looking inwards, you were stood in what had once been a wet fish shop but was now a storage area, while at the back of the house was a second empty room used as a small workshop.

Up the kitchen stairs, you would find on the left, one room which was the kitchen, which was very plain and simple. The left wall had one rickety old window, and in front of it, a big white square Belfast sink with one cold-water tap.

At the end of the wall in the corner of the room was an old gas cooker which had seen better days. It was the usual kind of cooker, which I think had two large burners and two smaller ones up front. The oven itself would probably have taken a chicken of perhaps three pound in weight, but not any bigger. I seem to remember there was a small grill which allowed us to make toast.

On the other side of the room, there were two small shelves and a small cupboard, where any groceries that we might be lucky enough to buy would be kept.

On the wall opposite the kitchen window was the old fireplace, called the Yorkshire range. Most of your hot water came from the fire, because you had a water tank built into the side of the fireplace, and on the opposite side, you kept your kindling nice and dry. I guess from my mum’s point of view, the only problem with this kind of fireplace was the amount of dust and dirt that it created from burning coal and wood, which created plenty of ash.

The sitting room was across the landing and consisted of a small fireplace which was not used very much, while the seating was what was commonly called utility