Looking Back

PART 2

LOOKING BACK or REFLECTING

As promised in my last blog, I said I would continue with my article on looking back on my life or reflecting.  I asked if you had reflected on your life and what might have been. I think we all do that, and sometimes it’s fine to remember the good and bad times, the ups and downs, and the memories of growing up. It’s what makes you what you are and you should be proud of that person.

Hopefully, there will be more positives than negatives, but sadly not for everyone. Many people want to block those early years to the back of their minds for various reasons, but it’s easier said than done. Personal experiences at an early age can be traumatic and remain with you forever.

I mentioned last time about my misfortune of almost slicing the whole of my upper lip and the trials and tribulations that followed in terms of operations, being unable to talk properly, refusing to attend school and being taunted and teased by my peer group. 

When I reflect on those times, yes, they were bad, but I learned at an early age that I was one of the lucky ones. I had two parents who loved and cared for me and sacrificed much on my behalf, and I also witnessed at firsthand the horrors of the other children’s injuries in the burns ward I was in, which was for children who needed skin grafts. I won’t go into details, but it was the worst nightmare listening to their screams and then the realisation of the pain those poor children were suffering. 

At the age of nine, I had my penultimate operation in London, not that I knew that at the time. I will always remember this occasion because I came out of hospital on Christmas Day. We had just moved into our brand-new semi-detached house. It was great. We had an indoor toilet, a proper bath upstairs and a gas fire in the lounge, except we didn’t have to use paper and sticks to light it; it had a gas poker instead. However, the best thing for me was my own good-sized bedroom. What a luxury. We also had carpets everywhere, which was a novelty. Both my parents smoked like chimneys, and my dad used to tease mum by deliberately flicking his cigarette ash on the carpet when using her brand-new hoover. It made her mad, so it didn’t last long. Mum made sure of that. For the next two years, I attended the same primary school. Instead of a two or three-minute walk, it now took me twenty to twenty-five minutes to walk to school.

Every child had a free milk bottle in those days, and I was one of two milk monitors. We were only chosen because we were always the first to arrive in the playground. The role had its advantages, particularly in the cold winter months. We were allowed into school early to carry the milk crates to the classrooms, so we took our time. In the summer it was the opposite, in and out quickly. The other advantage was an extra milk bottle for delivering the goods.

Just after moving into the house, we received a hand-delivered letter informing parents of a new club opening for boys and girls between the ages of eight and fourteen, offering music, table tennis, badminton, snooker, boxing and indoor football. Free juice was also provided. I pleaded with my parents to let me join because of the sports, and because it was a short distance from where I lived and only one major road to cross, I was allowed.

I loved it there. It was good fun. It opened from 6.00 to 8.00 every Monday evening. The person in charge, Peter, was friendly, energetic and well-organised. He had two or three helpers, but I can’t remember their names. It cost sixpence (2.5p) or a shilling (5p) to attend each week. I joined the week it opened, and within two or three weeks, the new club was full. Sometimes, Peter organised trips at the weekend to football matches, a zoo, or the pictures (cinema).

There was one trip I wasn’t going to miss. It was a football match between    Arsenal and Manchester United, and as an Arsenal supporter, I was determined to go. It was a day I will never forget for two reasons. It was my first time on the London Tube, and Arsenal won the match. However, the day was almost spoilt because of my excitement. 

The tube was full of Arsenal and Manchester United supporters and the general public. We were packed in like sardines, and I was standing close to the door. At the next stop, many of the Arsenal supporters exited the tube and I followed and waited for the rest of the group. They hadn’t got off, and I was left all alone, wondering what to do. I was scared. I was nine years of age and stuck at a tube station. I looked around for help but saw nobody in uniform. What should I do? Ultimately, all I could do was wait to see what happened. I hoped Peter or one of the other helpers saw me get off and would return.  What seemed like hours but was probably only fifteen or twenty minutes, Peter found me. I hadn’t moved from where I got off the tube. We were glad to see each other, but Peter was so cross that I had to hold his hand for the rest of the day. We met up with others outside the right tube station and only made it to Highbury with minutes to spare before kick-off.

What a match! Arsenal were three goals up within the first fifteen minutes. The final result was 3-2 to Arsenal. I’ve still got the match programme somewhere in the attic.

Peter arranged another visit to the local Picture House (Cinema) in Windsor. I can’t remember the film title, but the visit went horribly wrong. In the previous blog, I talked about regrets and stated that we all have them at some time in our lives. You will be extremely fortunate to go through life without them.

The visit to the cinema was certainly one of my regrets. I was abused by one of the helpers sitting next to me, and I said nothing. I was too traumatised and scared. I knew what he did to me was wrong, but I couldn’t tell Peter or my parents. A couple of weeks later, two plain-clothes police officers knocked on the door to speak to my parents. It was such an embarrassing interview. Somebody else at the club had been abused and did the right thing and told his parents. This boy had been sitting on the other side of the adult. I told them what had happened to me, and that was the end of the matter. I never found out what happened to the helper, but he was never seen at the club again. My mum had a word with me once the police had left and just said I must always tell them if something is wrong. Those two weeks were awful, and I regretted not telling my parents. I thought it was my fault because I hadn’t told anybody. It taught me never to be ashamed if you know you haven’t done anything wrong.

What turned out to be my last operation was when I was eleven. My scarred lip was healing, and I was speaking more clearly. Secretly, I hoped this would be my last operation, but I knew my mum wanted my lip to be perfect. Taking the stitches out was more painful than ever, and I promised that if I had to have another operation, I would refuse. I had had enough. My body, my voice.

I wasn’t a bright student at this age and I failed my 11+. Although disappointed, I knew I wouldn’t pass. The Grammar school didn’t play football anyway, so I wasn’t bothered. That was my attitude, but underneath, I was hurting. I felt as if I had let myself and my family down.

At the age of 13, my parents received another letter from the hospital with a date for another operation. I refused to go. I was happy with my lip, and how it looked, and though there were letters I couldn’t pronounce properly, I couldn’t go through the trauma of another operation. 

It wasn’t until I was nearly 16 and studying for ‘O’ levels that I began to regret that I wasn’t an ‘A’ student. I was in the top set of my secondary school, but not an academic. That came later.

I subsequently failed all my ‘O’ levels except for Geography. It wasn’t even my favourite subject. It had been a wake-up call. I stayed at school to re-sit the exams and passed the other five subjects, but I was a year behind my peer group. I blamed my poor results on my sporting prowess. I represented my county in football and cricket at all age levels and won the U17 county cup in tennis. Travelling to London to train was a four-hour round trip twice a week and I struggled to keep up with my homework. 

Football was my first love, and it was thought I would make the grade as a professional footballer. I played for Arsenal and West Ham U18 teams when I was 16, but didn’t make it. I could have signed for Crystal Palace but I didn’t. Another regret.  I thought I was too good for them as they played in a lower division. When I think back to those days, I had the skills and physical strength but not the maturity nor the mentality to cope with the dressing room shenanigans.

When do I stop talking about my reflections on life? I could go on and look back on my adult life, but I don’t want to bore you. Perhaps I will at a later time, but for now, I think I will stop at Part 2.

SPOILER ALERT

I became a teacher, taught for 40 years, and loved every minute. I have no regrets there, though I wonder what would have happened to my life if I had become a professional footballer.  It wasn’t until I retired from teaching and had time on my hands that I decided to try and write fiction. I love it. Time will tell if members of the public will get to know, like and trust me and my books. I sincerely hope so.

Happy reading, 

Mansel