Pie 'n' Mash and Prefabs (19 page)

At first, we used to listen to pop music, the Beatles especially, but one day Pete Scott brought in two Bob Dylan LPs,
The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan
and
The Times They Are a-Changin',
and we were all converted in varying degrees to folk music. The records of
singers like Bob Dylan and Joan Baez chimed precisely with our political view on the world. Many were about the fight for civil rights in America and, as time went on, about the Vietnam War. Thanks in part to the new wave of American protest singers, folk music as a whole began a revival in this country and a number of folk songs reached the Top 20. For a while, it was a big thing and many new folk clubs opened up, while the leading singers appeared on television. Folk music played a big part in politicising the youth of this country in the mid-sixties. I became a big fan of the whole scene and got very involved, not only with the protest movement but also with British and Irish traditional folk music. I started buying records and going to concerts and folk clubs. Eventually, I even became part of a folk duo – the Norman half of Robin and Norman – and appeared at a number of folk clubs in and around London and East Anglia (vocals, guitar and tin whistle).

At lunchtime, we would more often than not repair to the pub, not The Approach, as we didn't want any teachers seeing us, but to a pub just round the corner, the Prince of Wales. Here we'd usually have a half pint of brown, or if we had time and money it would sometimes stretch to a whole pint. One day, after saving up for some time, I decided I would try something a bit different. As it happened, I arrived later than the others at the pub that day and, as I walked in, Herb, who had got in the round for everyone, asked me what I wanted. ‘It's okay,' I said, ‘I'll get my own today.' So I went up to the bar and ordered a vodka and lime. It cost 2/6d and I paid for it with five sixpenny pieces. As I sat down at the table, the others all gave me funny looks until someone said, ‘You flash git!' and we all laughed. After I drank it, I wished I'd stuck to the brown ale.

Although we were now in the sixth form and specialising in our A-levels, we still had a games afternoon at our sports ground. However, there were a couple of times when we missed the coach because we left the pub too late. On those occasions, we just went back to Room 24. None of the teachers ever said anything. I think they assumed, or maybe hoped, we'd missed games because we were studying.

It was during one of those afternoons in Room 24 after a longer-than-usual visit to the pub that we came up with a plan to kidnap Alan Oland. Alan was a bit of a loner and didn't really have many friends. He wasn't unpleasant or anything, but, no doubt with the assistance of some alcohol, we thought it would be a good idea to play a trick on him. It was agreed that Clive Smith, who had passed his driving test and sometimes came to school by car, would pick him up at the bus stop and offer him a lift to school. He would then drive him to the other side of Victoria Park, throw him out and make him walk back to school, by which time he would be very late.

On the appointed morning, a big mass of sixth formers waited at the school gate. Mr Engledow came out and asked what we were doing there. Clive said, ‘Oland's late. I kidnapped him.' To his credit, Mr Engledow just laughed and said we could stay and wait. Alan eventually arrived to a big cheer and went off to report to the Headmaster for being late. Mr Hopkins solemnly wrote down in the late book, ‘Alan Oland. Reason for being late: Kidnapped'. As it happened, Alan took it all in good part and saw the funny side of the whole incident. As, fortunately, did the Head and Mr Engledow.

Although I was thoroughly enjoying the social side of school
life, I really had to consider what I was going to do when I left school, a day that was rapidly becoming imminent. I was fairly sure that I wasn't going to get good enough A-level grades to go to university, if indeed I actually passed any at all.

As the thought of going out to work straight from school didn't really appeal to me either, I opted for what was then seen as the next best option to university, teacher training college. I spoke to my teachers and my parents about this. My teachers readily agreed it was probably my best bet. Mum and Dad were a bit disappointed that I didn't feel I was going to get good enough grades to go to university, especially as John had gained his B.A. in English Literature at Cambridge, but in the end they agreed to support me.

At that time, the application form allowed you to apply for six colleges: two first choices and four second choices. My first choices were Borough Road, Isleworth, and Keswick Hall, on the outskirts of Norwich. The former because it had the best name as a teacher training college, the latter because it meant I would be able to go to speedway at Norwich. I suppose it was asking a bit much to be considered suitable for the best college in the country and, indeed, my application was turned down without even an interview.

Not long after sending off my form, however, I received a letter from Keswick Hall, asking me to come for an interview. On the appointed day, I set off for Liverpool Street station by bus to catch the train to Norwich. I had to go through three interviews and an oral English test – the only part of which I can remember now is that I was asked the meaning of undulating. I replied, ‘Something that goes up and down,' and moved my
hand in a wave motion to demonstrate what I meant. The woman interviewing me said, ‘Every single person I have asked has done the same thing with their hand.'

One of the fellow interviewees I met on my visit to Norwich was Dave Gale, who was to become my best friend at college.

At the end of the day, I had no idea how I had done but about a week later I received a conditional offer of a place, the condition being that I gained at least one more O-level. I had four O-levels and the minimum entry requirement was five. Of course, an A-level would have been enough, but I wasn't confident I was going to pass any so I spoke to Mr Engledow and asked if he could suggest an O-level I might study, along with my A-levels. After some thought and discussion, we decided on the rather esoteric-sounding Greek Literature in Translation, as this was something that combined my liking for English and History. I started studying for this in January 1965, with just six months to complete what would normally be a two-year course. I had special lessons with Charlie Bowen, our Latin teacher, and I concentrated on getting this O-level. Now that I knew I only needed this to get to college, I took even less interest in my A-levels, giving up French altogether.

In the end, I got a grade C in Greek Literature and O-level passes in English and History, which meant I was on my way to Norwich, though there was a bit of a bombshell when it was announced later on that year that Norwich Speedway was to close and the stadium sold for a housing development. So I never did get to see speedway there!

T
o start with, my elevation to grammar school didn't alter the general weekend routine, but, by the time 1960 came around and I was moving into my teenage years, the idea of doing the weekly shopping up Chatsworth Road appealed less and less to me and I decided to stay at home on Saturday mornings. It was on those occasions that for the first time I was really able to listen to pop music at home.
Saturday Skiffle Club,
introduced by Brian Matthew, had started on the
Light Programme
in 1957, but by 1959 had dropped ‘Skiffle' from its title and was reaching an audience of something like five million listeners in its two-hour slot from 10am to 12 noon. It was exciting, listening to British singers such as Adam Faith, Marty Wilde, Billy Fury and Terry Dene, along with American rock stars like Gene Vincent, Eddie Cochrane, Bobby Darin and the Everly Brothers.

Pop and rock now began to play a much more important part in my musical life than Gilbert and Sullivan or Dad's other classical records. It was also about this time that we bought a new reel-to-reel tape recorder, a Belle, which played at the incredibly slow speed of 1 7/8 ips. But it did mean that I was able to record some of my favourite songs and singers off the wireless and play them at other times. Although I don't think Dad approved of my newfound musical taste, he nevertheless realised that I was now a teenager and he didn't interfere with my listening when he wasn't there, though he did draw the line at actually buying records or having to listen to it himself.

Sport on television in the early part of the afternoon continued as before, though it was now brought together under the heading of a brand-new programme called
Grandstand,
presented firstly by Peter Dimmock and then David Coleman. ITV also had its Saturday afternoon programme,
World of Sport.
This gradually became dominated by professional wrestling, with many of the leading wrestlers, such as Mick McManus, Jackie ‘Mr TV' Pallo, Bert Royal, Billy Two Rivers, the Great Togo, Les Kellett, Vic Faulkner and George Kidd becoming household names as people tuned in in their millions to see these giants of the ring, cheering on the goodies and booing the baddies.

As well as on television, they appeared in theatres and halls round the country. Hackney Empire regularly featured wrestling bills, though it always seemed to be the same wrestlers appearing time after time. I lost count of the number of times I saw posters up around Hackney advertising ‘Judo' Al Hayes v. ‘Rebel' Ray Hunter. They must have got sick of the sight of
each other! Nevertheless, people would flock to see them live whenever they appeared. As it happened, I wasn't all that keen on it myself but Dad was an avid fan. Of course, he knew that it wasn't real but for him that was half the fun, watching all the manufactured outrage when a foul went unpunished or the exaggerated staggering around the ring after a light tap and even the occasional assault by an incensed member of the public on the ‘baddie'.

Dad had always been keen on wrestling since he was a teenager and used to go and see it in the halls around Aldgate. In fact, he loved it so much that for his first-ever date with Mum he thought he'd treat her to an evening of all-in wrestling, especially as the stars that particular night were Norman the Butcher and the Giant Anaconda. He felt this was the idyllic way to start a courtship. Sadly, Mum did not agree and, as soon as the first bout started, she jumped up from her seat and ran out. Dad told me many years later, ‘The delicate art of this cultured sport was entirely lost on her,' before adding ruefully, ‘It cost me a shilling as well.' It was just as well that Mum eventually forgave him or I'd never have been born!

The visits to Chingford also carried on. However, once we arrived at Nan and Grandpa's, I didn't stop long as I used to take a walk round to Aunt Julie's to meet up with my cousins, Wendy, Rita, John and Carol. They were all round about my age, Wendy and Rita just a little bit older, John and Carol a bit younger. Aunt Julie and her family had moved to Chingford from their prefab in Bethnal Green in the early 1950s and were now on the same estate as Nan and Grandpa, just a five-minute walk away.

This was another opportunity for me to listen to pop records, as Wendy and Rita were not hampered in this regard by their parents in the same way I was. Rita's favourite singer was Adam Faith and as soon as a new record of his came out she bought it. After staying for an hour or so, I would walk back, sometimes with Wendy and Rita, who would quite often bring a few of their records with them and play them on Nan's gramophone when we got back. Heaven knows what my grandparents thought of this intrusion on their normal Saturday night entertainment and telly, but they never seemed to object. I'm absolutely certain Dad wasn't too pleased but what could he say?

Aunt Clara used to like pop music as well. She was quite a bit younger than her brothers and sisters and in 1960 was only twenty-five years old as opposed to Dad, who was forty-five. Once the records were put on, Aunt Clara took charge and cleared away the chairs to make a space on the floor where we could jive. Not having had much practice at this new dance form, I'm afraid my early attempts weren't too successful. On one occasion, Grandpa gazed at my feeble efforts and remarked, ‘You look more like a dancer's labourer than a dancer, Norman.'

When we didn't get to play records, usually we watched television and it was one evening in 1963 that I settled down to watch the first episode of a new science-fiction series called
Dr Who,
starring William Hartnell. Although I found it interesting, I have to say it did not grab my attention immediately and I watched it on and off over the next year or so, but if Rita and Wendy brought their records round they always took precedence.

One Saturday evening programme that combined the best of
both worlds was the BBC's
Juke Box Jury,
compered by David Jacobs, as this played new pop releases with a guest panel having to vote on whether it would be a hit or a miss. For some reason, Dad didn't seem to mind this programme. Maybe it was the competitive element or more likely it was because he was often amused by Nan's antics. She got right into the programme and if the panel didn't agree with her view there would be more than a few ‘bloodys' and ‘buggers' directed at the television.

ITV introduced a pop programme in the 1960s called
Thank Your Lucky Stars,
part of which, the ‘Spin-a-Disc' section, followed a similar format to
Juke Box Jury,
where a guest D.J. and three teenagers reviewed three singles. It was here that Janice Nicholls first appeared and became famous for the catchphrase ‘Oi'll give it foive' said in her strong Black Country accent.

Initially, Sundays also followed the normal pattern but this changed somewhat when Dad arrived home from work one evening and proudly announced, ‘I passed my driving test today.' Mum and I looked at him in astonishment – we didn't even know he'd been learning to drive. After letting the initial shock sink in, he continued, ‘So this Saturday we're going to buy a car.'

Good as his word, the following weekend he took me round to several second-hand car dealers in Hackney to help him look for a car. The one we finally settled on was a 1957 black Ford Anglia. Our first outing in it was to Chingford. As John was also at home, all four of us went. Much to my disappointment, as we got in the car, Dad said, ‘John, you sit in the front, so you can watch and start learning how to drive.' So, rather grudgingly, I had to sit in the back on our
first proper outing in the car. When we arrived at Nan's, Dad tooted the horn and Nan and Uncle Albert and his family came out to see us. Nan took one look and said, ‘Lord and Lady bloody Muck, we are honoured.'

The car's registration plate read 284 KMP, but in keeping with Dad's penchant for nicknaming everyone and everything he decided to call it ‘Arnold Pentecost', so that's how it was known to us all. Although owning a car didn't significantly change our everyday life, it did make a big difference at weekends and during holidays. For a start, we drove to Chingford every Saturday and, although Mum still visited her parents by bus, we always went to pick her up in the evening. It was because of this that I met my other grandpa for the first time. At this time I still knew nothing about his past and all I saw was a white-haired old man sitting in his armchair, always with the top button of his trousers undone, just watching television and saying nothing. Dad, of course, wouldn't speak to him and, after some brief pleasantries with Nan, we would be off; we never stayed longer than ten minutes at the most.

But it was our Sunday routine that was most altered by the arrival of the car as it was pressed into service to go places we would never have attempted to get to by public transport. These varied from beauty spots such as Hatfield Forest to historical places like Audley End, as well as some lesser-known seaside resorts, including Burnham-on-Crouch and Maldon. Our visit to Burnham-on-Crouch resulted in Dad involving us all in breaking the law! We went into a café and ordered some drinks, orange squash for me, tea for Mum and Dad, and ham sandwiches for all of us. The tea and orange came up very
quickly but there was no sign of the sandwiches. Dad called the waitress over and asked where our sandwiches were.

She replied, ‘They'll be ready soon.'

More time passed and we tried to hang out the drinks but the tea was getting cold and so, after finishing it and still with no sign of the sandwiches arriving, Dad said, ‘Come on, let's go. I'm not waiting any longer.'

So we left the café without paying for the drinks… and still hungry.

Every Friday evening, Dad would have his tea and then say to me, ‘Get the bucket filled up then.' This was the start of our weekly ritual of cleaning the car. Although he didn't take quite as much pride in our car as Old Daddy Flat Cap did in his, he nevertheless wanted it to be a credit to the Jacobs household, so off we went, carrying buckets of water up and down the path to clean all the London grime off before giving it a good polish. It might have been a labour of love for him, but I can't say I saw it in quite the same way myself.

Our local garage, Eleanor Motors, was on the corner of Chatsworth Road and Lea Bridge Road. This is where we always bought our petrol. There was no self-service then so the tank was filled up by the attendant. We always asked for ‘four and four shots', which meant four gallons of petrol and four shots of Redex. I was never sure what the point of the Redex was, though I understood it had something to do with making the car run better, but I think it was more accepted folklore than really beneficial. It was supplied from a big dispenser next to the pumps.

Because the car was filled up by an attendant, Dad would
always give him a tip. However, I was unaware of this fact and one day I went with John just after he'd passed his driving test to get some petrol. Dad gave me £1 1s to pay for it. The price of a gallon of petrol was four shillings and eleven pence, which meant that four and four shots came to exactly £1, which is what the attendant asked for. So I gave him the £1 note and kept the coins. When we got home, I gave Dad back the shilling and he said, ‘What's this? Why are you giving me back a shilling?'

Before I could answer, John put in, ‘Norman didn't feel like giving him a tip.'

Why John couldn't have told me at the garage what the extra shilling was for, I don't know.

After having Arnold Pentecost for a few years, we sold him and bought a second-hand Ford Popular with the licence plate YGB 203. Somewhat predictably, it was nicknamed ‘Yogi Bear' by Dad.