1. Robert! Have you cleaned your teeth?

People often ask others what their first memory is. I'm not saying that "Robert! Have you cleaned your teeth?" is necessarily my FIRST memory, but it's one that comes to mind from my early childhood. I must admit that at that time, I didn't particularly like cleaning my teeth, because Mum always bought a brand of toothpaste called SR, and it was so minty it burned like hell. But I cleaned them anyway, and I suppose it's a good job I did, because here I am, fifty years later, and my gnashers are all still intact. So thanks, Mum.

It is so difficult to recall much detail from early childhood. I don't think I am alone on this one. There are moments, of course, that spring to mind, but I guess that's all our lives end up as. Just a series of moments that we recall, but the humdrum of everyday life just becomes a blur. So, all I can do is write about the things I do remember, and hope that it falls together into some sort of comprehensible order.

I suppose the overall emotion that is engendered when I think back to those early years is that I seemed to spend a lot of time being scared. I don't mean that people used to rush up to me and shout 'Boo!". I mean that it seemed that every new encounter was something that I dreaded. I was mostly scared of leaving my comfort zone of home, and having to interact with new people. Whilst I was fine and happy on my own lining up my Matchbox cars around the fireside rug in a huge traffic jam, I was not so comfortable with having to visit my Mum's friends, or more to the point, their kids. Other kids were scary. They were loud, and boys were rough. I spent a lot of time as a detached onlooker, trying to make sense of my world, whilst the other kids would just throw themselves into the mix and enjoy every game or adventure that came along.

At aged 5, I was bundled off to Park Infants School. The thought would fill me with dread, and I often used to feign illness in the vain hope that Mum would keep me home. Infants school is the time when personalities are formed, and the pecking order begins.

You soon learn who to like and who to dislike. In my case, I always had few friends, but managed to usually find just one best friend. My best friend was always male. I suppose I gravitated toward the other 'awkward joes' a lot of the time. I couldn't know at that time that I was gay, but I certainly felt different to most kids, and never really managed to fit in somehow. My first best friend was a boy called Graham Chester. He was from the poorer side of town, and his clothes reflected this. He was as skinny as I was podgy, but somehow we found a sort of common bond, and I would sometimes spend time playing marbles with him in the schoolyard at 'playtime'. However, he was not a friend that I used to spend time with out of school. Once the day was done, I was happy to get away from school and get back home. Whilst I don't think I was a particularly good or bad student, I got through the learning parts of the day okay. It was break times that I hated. In class, the other kids were under control. Once released into the playground they screamed, shouted, ran about, caused fights, or played football. I seemed to spend each break trying to disappear into a wall. I would just stand and stare at it all. I remember thinking how stupid they all were, and could never understand how or why people wanted to form themselves into little groups and play games.
Boys would link arms and march around the playground, chanting "All on the wall who's playing!". This was a call to get together enough lads to play a game of football, which I've hated for as long as I can remember. And so, for much of my time, I was a loner. I preferred it that way. I don't think it was necessarily that I liked being alone. It was just that I didn't seem to THINK the same as other kids. Plus, if I stayed out of the way, it meant that I wasn't going to get hurt. Fights frightened me to death, and if one broke out near me, I would try to sidle away, feeling sick in my stomach. On the rare occasions when I was attacked for no particular reason by some moron or other, I rarely fought back, and I suppose was a bit of a wuss. I couldn't help myself. I didn't have that killer instinct that seems to be part of being a boy.

After a couple of years attending the Infants school, we were moved up to Park Junior School, which was just another part of the same building, but with its own entrance, and separate playground. It was commonly known as Park Board School, because at some time in its history, it was most likely run by a Board of Governors as opposed to being run by the Church. (Thanks to Paul Appleby for the info). My memories become less of a blur at this point. I hadn't changed in myself, and would still avoid large groups of kids if I had a choice. I was still a people watcher. Whilst I tried to spend as much of my time being invisible, I did still look at my peer group an awful lot, and try to make sense of it all.

There were around 60 kids of my age in the catchment area of the school, so we were divided into two classes, A or B. The letters didn't have any significance as regards intelligence or merit. They were simply a way of dividing this huge chunk of childhood into manageable crowds. My first Junior's class was 1A, and it was run by Mrs Greenwood, a pudgy, smiley, posh lady who wore long drab dresses and pearls. She was a nice lady, a good teacher and incidentally, the wife of the Headmaster, Mr Greenwood. They both seemed very old to me at the time, both being grey-haired, and having a peculiar similar smell about them. Not that sniffing teachers was a regular pastime of mine, it's just something I remember.

Lessons were still handled on a somewhat Victorian basis to an extent. There seemed to be an element of repetition to learning. I think that they thought that if we learned everything parrot fashion over a long period, some of it would stick. And so we did 'Tables'. The whole class would chant in sing-song style, "2 x 2 is 4, 3 x 2 is 6...etc." In this way, we learned multiplication. Maths, or 'sums' as it was called then, was never my strong point. I enjoyed English, where Teacher would read to us, or where we had to write things ourselves.
In class 2A and 3A, my teacher was Mrs Clayton. She had the unfortunate nickname of 'Powderpuff Clayton', because after getting the class busy with something, she often used to delve into her bag and fetch out her face compact, check her appearance in the small mirror, and dab another cloud of face talcum onto her cheeks, and touch the centre of her lips with bright red lipstick. She again was a very smiley woman, but she also had an 'edge' to her. If you upset or annoyed her, you knew about it. Being told off was enough. You would feel smaller than small, and longed for a time to court her approval once more.

Throughout my childhood, we were given school milk at break time. It came in 1/3 pint glass bottles, and each day the teacher would assign two kids as milk monitors to fetch a crate of milk from the back door, where it was delivered every day by the milkman. In the wintertime, the milk would sometimes be part frozen, and there would be a tube of frozen milk protruding about an inch from each bottle, with the cap sat on top like a little hat. Mrs Clayton also used to sell us Rich Tea biscuits that she kept in a tin, at four for a penny. I would sometimes just have two for a ha'penny. She didn't stop us eating our own snacks and sweets, but she did used to frown and say, "Biscuits will do you more good than sweets", so you had to try to snaffle your Black Jacks, Fruit Salads or Sherbert Flying Saucers as quickly as possible, out of her line of vision.

Whilst Mrs Clayton took us for most of our classes, Mr Greenwood taught Physical Education and one of the two male teachers at the school, Mr Butwright, used to teach us 'Arts and Crafts'. I seem to remember lots of papier-mache being involved! The other male teacher, Mr Abbott, became a mini-celebrity for five minutes after having an article written about him in the Lincolnshire Standard. He was over 7 feet tall, and complained that he couldn't buy a bed in the town that was long enough for him. Cammacks the furnishers came to the rescue and presented him with a free, extra-long bed! I don't know why that would make the papers, but I guess they were short on long news.

At this time, I shared a double desk with a blonde boy called Ian Thompson. He was smaller than me, but also stronger and rougher. I got along okay with him, although he was never really a friend. What I do remember is that he had hairy legs! Even at the age of around 8 or 9, I was fascinated by the golden covering of hairs on his thighs. In those days, all boys wore shorts until they went to the 'Big School' at aged 11. I suppose it was my burgeoning sexuality, but I didn't realise it at the time. Speaking of which, I guess my first 'crush' was on a boy called Stephen Smith. His Dad was a Grocer too, and I first remember seeing him in his Dad's van when I was quite small and travelling with my Dad around the Freiston area. Stephen was tall and dark with green eyes, and as well as being athletically built, he was also clever, damn him! Some guys just seem to have it all!

Behind me in class sat two strange boys who definitely didn't have it all.They were called Derek Thomson, and Steven Grist. Derek seemed to have no neck, had permanently frayed lips, and snuffled all the time. He used to be excused Games for much of the time, because he had asthma, but I don't think I really knew what that was. Steven was a tall lad, but seemed a bit odd to me. His head was permanently shaved around the back and sides, with a clump of unruly hair plonked on top. Good-natured enough, and always eager to please, he used to throw up his arm to answer the Teacher's questions unfortunately wrongly much of the time, and others would mock him. After a Games lesson, he always seemed to have a problem dressing himself again, and would inevitably end up with his jumper on inside-out, back to front, or both.

Our school was slightly unusual in that from around 1966, it employed a French Teacher. French was, as far as I know, not part of a Primary school education at this time. Looking back, it was probably one of those cases of 'It's not what you know, but who you know'. The teacher, Mrs Sagar, was married to one of the town's doctors, and he no doubt had links with one or more of the school governors. His French wife was possibly 'found' a job in the school system. This is only supposition on my part, but I know that when I went to the Grammar School, they found it unusual that there were a bunch of us who already had learned a smattering of French. Mrs Sagar used a box projector to show cartoon images on screen. From those images, we learnt basic words and phrases, like L'oiseau est dans l'arbre, or Ouvrez la fenetre. Ultimately, it did me no good whatsoever, because I still failed my French 'O Level at 16!

The total number of below freezing days has fallen from 20 per year prior to 1900, to around 10 per year in recent years. Most of the warming has occurred since 1976, which explains why my memories of early schooldays included lots more snow! Icicles would hang from our shed roof, and I would sometimes break one off and suck on it like an ice lolly. I still remember Dad ice-skating on the Maud Foster drain opposite our house, and it was a weird feeling to be able to stand in the middle of the river.Whilst it was fun at the time, getting to school amid a flurry of snowballs usually meant the big old classroom radiators were draped with steaming wet coats, gloves and balaclavas. It was nice to be able to put on a roasting hot dufflecoat to go home in though.

Towards the end of my last year at Park Junior School, I broke my leg falling from a swing, and had to spend 10 weeks off school in a full leg plaster. I had a bed made up in the front room, and had to learn the awkward and embarassing ritual of the bedpan, and sitting-up washes in bed. Apart from that, and having to occasionally scratch inside the plaster with a knitting needle, it wasn’t so bad. At least I got to watch a lot of tv or read comics all day.

Up until 1966, there had been an exam in place called the 11+, the outcome of which decided which type of upper school you would attend. By the time I was reaching 11, the system had changed, and the decision about my next chunk of education was made by Mr Greenwood, the Headmaster. My Mum and Dad had initially marked me down to attend Kitwood Boys Secondary School, but Mr Greenwood actually called at the house and persuaded them that I was intelligent enough to go to the Boston Grammar School. So that was that. A new chapter began.