|
Another
memory of around that same time involves the same trio; Roy, Eric and myself. One night
the three of us went to the Carlton Cinema in Clayton, where we settled comfortably into our seats. Whilst watching the newsreel,
which preceded the main film, Roy surprised Eric when he offered him a chocolate from his coat pocket. Eric gratefully accepted
the chocolate, though he must have wondered why Roy was suddenly being so generous. A minute or two later, Roy gave Eric another
chocolate, and I was beginning to wonder why I was being left out. This went on for about half-an-hour, and Eric was greedily
gobbling up all the chocolates Roy was handing him. About fifteen minutes into the main film, I noticed Eric was starting to shift
uneasily in his seat and the colour had drained from his face. Eric
then got up and went to the toilet and seemed to be gone ages before returning to his seat. After sitting down for five minutes,
he was off again, back to the toilet. On his return, Eric looked terrible. His face was white and he seemed to be having trouble
walking properly as he tramped up and down the aisle. After his umpteenth trip to the toilet, Eric informed Roy that he would have
to go home because he didn't feel very well. Which wasn't surprising really - as Roy - as I discovered later, had been feeding him
chocolate laxatives all night. Eric was off school for a fortnight recovering from Roy's generosity, and Eric's mother was so
incensed, she not only complained to my mother, but also lodged an official complaint with the school. In
1954, Roy - who was by this time a pupil at the newly opened Secondary school in Manor Road - came top of the class in
mathematics. His teacher was stunned, and so were Roy's classmates, as during that first year at his new school Roy had shown no
inclination whatsoever that he had even a basic understanding of the subject. The truth of the matter was however, that during the
maths exam, Roy had carefully positioned himself within copying distance of the brightest lad in the class (the 'class genius' as
Roy called him) and had duly copied every answer from his exam paper - bar one - which Roy couldn't see properly. At the end of
the exam, Roy was placed above the 'class genius', simply because the one answer he couldn't see properly - and therefore had to
do himself - he got right, and the 'class genius' got it wrong. Roy was beside himself with glee. Roy
was certainly a character in those days, though life did backfire on him on occasions; like the night he visited the Alhambra
cinema in Openshaw. Whilst watching the film, a 'pea-soup' fog descended over the area and whilst walking home over Copperas Lane,
he missed the bridge and walked straight into the canal. On another night, whilst trying to ride over that same bridge with a bag
of corn on his handlebars, he again finished up in the canal, complete with bike and bag of corn. And whilst on the subject of
bikes, I remember the day Roy - on his first morning out on a 'brand-new' bike - disappeared down some roadwork’s near the Royal
Oak. It seems Roy was predestined to fall down roadwork’s, into canals, and into all sorts of trouble generally. Though in the
year 1949, he was fated to make a fall that very nearly cost him his life. On Whit-Saturday, June 11th, 1949, it was a warm summer day, and Roy and Derek had gone fishing with some of the lads from Kershaw Street. That same morning, Dad had got up early to go on a pub outing from the Derby Arms in Clayton, to New Brighton. I was playing in our back garden with Brenda Hallows from next door, whilst mother was in the kitchen preparing dinner. After dinner, we were going to see the Whit-Walks with mother and Mrs. Hallows, and her two kids - Brenda and Sheila. However, the peace and quiet of that Saturday morning was quickly shattered when a policeman arrived at our kitchen door with news that Roy had fallen through the roof of Saxon Mill. Such was the shock, mother dropped the pan of potatoes she was holding and dashed next-door to get Mrs. Hallows. The two of them were then taken straight to the Infirmary by police car where, on their arrival, mother was informed by the doctor that they had done all they could for Roy, as he was almost at death's door. When mother and Mrs. Hallows entered the room where Roy was lay, they were confronted with the sight of a young boy completely covered in blood. His head - they were told - had been smashed like an egg. On Friday, June 17th, the story of the accident appeared in the Gorton & Openshaw Reporter as follows:- 'After
lying unconscious in the District Infirmary for several days, following a fall through the glass roof of the Oakfield Mill
Warehouse, Roy Siddall, aged 9, of 25 Mellor Street, Droylsden, was stated yesterday to be 'comfortable'. Roy went fishing in the
canal on Whit-Saturday with his 11 year old brother Derek and three other boys, Derek Laing (12) and Norman Laing (13) of 18
Kershaw Street, and William Higgins (12), of 2 Kershaw Street. Roy and the younger Laing brother climbed over a wall in order to
fish in the reservoir attached to the Saxon Mill. They were disturbed by three men, apparently employees at the mill, and climbed
onto the roof of the warehouse of the nearby Saxon Mill. Roy attempted to climb
up one of the glass span roofs of the warehouse, when a pane broke and he fell through to the concrete floor of the warehouse,
receiving serious injuries to the right side of his head. The boy Laing obtained the assistance of two men working at the mill,
who treated Roy and telephoned for the ambulance. The reservoir in which the boys went to fish is a favourite haunt of youngsters,
although it is enclosed by a wall'. Dad
had received news of the accident whilst in New Brighton, and when told there was a telephone call for him at the bar, he thought
his mates were joking. After discovering that it was most definitely not a joke, the rest of the men on the outing had a 'whip
round' to provide him with enough money to get a taxi home, where he arrived later that day. Apart from the fractured skull, Roy
had lost the top of his finger whilst making a grab at the glass span in an effort to save himself from falling through the
roof. After
my birth in 1943, four more children were brought into the world at 25 Mellor Street, making a total of nine children in all, and
therefore keeping up the Siddall's 'large family' tradition. Elaine came along on February 10th, 1948; Linda Margaret on November
23rd, 1949; Desley Carrol, January 11th, 1953, and last but not least, Barry. He was born on July 21st, 1958. On each occasion of
the birth's that followed mine, I was sent out into the street by the midwife, where I sat on the front wall and patiently awaited
the 'first cry' of my new sister or brother. I
started school at Fairfield Road Juniors on August 31st 1948, where, in ensuing years, I was followed by Elaine, on February 9th
1953; Linda on November 22nd 1954; Desley, January 6th 1958, and finally Barry, who started his education in August, 1963. From an
early age I well remember the shortage of money in mother's purse. We rarely got treats as such. And other kids always seemed able
to afford things that I could only dream about. Though as I got a bit older, things did improve, if only 'slightly'.
Every
Friday teatime for instance, Dad used to give me my 'Friday Frippence' as spends, though I could always earn an extra 3d for doing
one or two little chores for him; like carrying home a hundred weight bag of corn on my back from Musgrave’s corn shop in Market
Street. As I was only ten years old at the time, I considered it an extra 3d well earned. Another source of revenue came courtesy
of our next-door-neighbours, Jack and Nellie Hallows. Mr. Hallows was an employee at Bradford Pit, and as such, he was entitled to
a couple of bags of free coal, which were tipped into their air-raid shelter every Tuesday morning. So, every Tuesday night, after
dark, I would stealthily creep round to the back wall of the shelter - in which their was a hole big enough to get your hand
through - and sit for about two hours in the pitch black of night filling a large bucket with Mr. Hallows' free coal, one piece at
a time. For this, Dad would give me another 3d. Unfortunately, this little earner didn't last too long. For, one dark night,
whilst feeling for a large piece of coal, I grabbed hold of a mouse, and was so filled with horror I shook until my teeth rattled.
I picked up my bucket and ran all the way up the back entry trying to suppress a scream and eventually entered our house
with just two pieces of coal in the bucket, for which Dad refused to pay. And that was the end of that. Another
little job I had at about this time - though unfortunately one I didn't get paid for, was traipsing to the corner
shop on a Saturday morning with mother's shopping-list. In
those days, before supermarkets appeared on the scene, corner shops were very busy places and 'our' corner shop was no exception.
Every Saturday morning I'd tag myself on to the end of the long queue which always awaited me. As time passed, and people got
served, we'd all 'hutch-up' a bit; every 'hutch-up' bringing me nearer to the front of the queue. Eventually, after what seemed
liked weeks had passed, it was my turn, and that’s when the trouble began. After
handing mother's shopping-list over the counter, I'd watch that same puzzled expression appear on the shopkeeper's face as she
tried to make sense of mother's handwriting. Whilst staring at the list, she'd reach for a jar of coffee - pause - shake her head
- then reach for something completely different. Sometimes, in desperation, the poor woman would pass mother's list to her
assistant to see if she could make any sense of it, and failing that, the shopkeeper's husband would be brought from the back
kitchen. After studying mother's list for a few minutes, he would admit defeat and return to the kitchen scratching his head in
bewilderment. Mother's list would then be passed amongst the queue of shoppers to see if they could help transcribe her
handwriting. And soon, the whole shop would be peering over each others shoulders to see if they could make out the next item on
mother's list. One woman said it was like trying to read a doctors prescription. Passer's by were dragged in off the street and
asked their opinion, and if no help was forthcoming from them, I was then asked to run home and find out from mother herself
exactly what it was she wanted. This used to happen every Saturday without fail, and many a time I'd arrive home with our shopping
and then have to listen to mother saying, "I didn't order one'o'them! An' what the 'ell's she give yer that for? What’s up
with 'er, can't she read?"
THE
FIFTIES Life
for a kid in the fifties was carefree, unhurried and uncomplicated.
Without the modern day distractions that the youth of today have to contend with, we kids were left to get on with it and make our
own fun, though that wasn’t difficult as there was always something to do, or somewhere to go.
During school holidays, for instance, we'd play football from morning ‘til’ night. We'd be on the Moravian Fields at 9
a.m.; pick two teams - sometimes twenty on each team - then play football until it was too dark to see the ball, and only stopping
for breaks at dinnertime and teatime. On
Saturday afternoons we'd join the 'threepenny crush' at the Carlton Cinema to see how Flash Gordon was going to get out of the
mess he'd got himself into the previous Saturday. Or we'd go swimming at Ashton Baths, Barmouth Street Baths (the street where my
ancestors had lived in the 1870s, though I didn't know it then) or Whitworth Baths on Ashton Old Road, where, unaided by a rubber
ring, I swam my first breadth. On rainy days we'd race matchsticks down the roadside gutters on Ashton New Road, then get a clout
from mother for going home like a drowned rat. Other wet afternoon's were spent in our ginnel with Bev Martin, and, or, Barry
Duffy, Keith Brown, Paul Hesmondhalgh, Ernie Beedham and Dave Eyres etc., where we'd play cards, read comics, tell jokes, play
football or listen to Gary Grant going on and on about how - and why - we'd won the Second World War.
Before
television became affordable to the working classes, we kids made our own entertainment on a Saturday night by peering through the
windows of the Royal Oak to watch the neighbour's getting drunk. And if we weren't at the front of the pub, we'd be round the back
pinching empties from the crates which were stored in the backyard, which we then resold back to the pub at 1d a bottle. Sunday
was a day to go fishing, when, after getting up at the crack of dawn, we'd catch a train to Marple or Broadbottom - from where
we'd return having caught little more than a cold between us. These fishing expeditions could be very boring though, especially
when we’d sit all morning watching nothing more exciting than incessant rain dropping from the leaden grey skies to create ever
expanding circles around our unbobbing floats. It was on such a morning that Derek, bored out of his wits, noticed that the
elderly chap fishing a few feet away had fallen asleep with his mouth open. So Derek, in a bid to cheer himself up a bit, took a
maggot from his tin of live bait, crept up to the old man and duly placed it on the end of his tongue. Oh, how we laughed. Many
other Sunday mornings were spent fishing a bit nearer home in the canal near Saxon Mill, which was always full of goldfish. On one
Sunday morning trip to Saxon Mill, me and Roy caught a huge black and amber goldfish, which we quickly transported home and, after
getting mother’s permission, deposited in our bath.
The rest of the family spent the next few days asking for daily bulletins on the fish’s health, as they grew increasingly
desperate to get in the bath themselves. Bonfire
night was a real family affair in the fifties. Plan’s for the big night would start weeks in advance and the collecting of
‘bonti-wood’ was always well organised. We’d scour the estate for anything that was ‘burnable’ and once collected our
precious fuel was guarded with as much security as that which surrounded the crown jewels. Raiding parties from other parts of the
estate were regularly fended off as we took turns in standing guard over our massively stacked bonfire. Mr. Hallows often allowed
us to build the fire in his back garden, whilst Mrs. Hallows and mother laid on home-made treacle toffee,
piping hot baked potatoes and toffee apples. Money for fireworks was partially earned by our Roy lying in an old pram
outside the Royal Oak with a mask on - where I'd earn my share of the takings by shouting 'a penny for the guy please, mister'. On
winter evening’s we’d be out slinging snowballs at each other (some with half-bricks hidden inside) or sliding down Beech
Avenue on a long, glistening sheet of ice. Other teeth chattering evenings were spent pushing each other through the slush filled
streets on home made sledges, or sitting huddled together under the dim light of Hallows’ lamppost, chatting, until the shrill
cry of mother’s voice whistled through the cold night air to beckon us in for bed. During these winter months, mother would don
her much used pinnie and make pan after pan of mouth watering rabbit stew, barley broth with dumplings, pea soup, ‘tater ash and
‘tater pie - which was ‘tater ash with a crust on. ‘Pobs’ - which was bread
and warm milk - was often enjoyed as a snack, or if not being eaten, it was slapped on a bandage and used as a poultice for boils.
Sauce butties, banana butties, condensed milk butties and even dripping butties were regularly tucked in to, especially if we had
nothing else in the cupboard, which was often the case.
‘New’
clothes were purchased from jumble sales, or
were ‘hand-me-downs’ from one family member to another. On one school outing I was forced to wear a pair of Dad’s baggy old
trousers, and when the wind blew up my trouser leg’s I looked like Coco the clown.
Balaclava’s were standard dress for a fifties kid, along with rolled down wellies or bumpers, which were a cheap but hard
wearing, thick-soled plimsoll. Schoolboy trousers, hitherto held up by braces, were now kept aloft by snake belts, which could be
purchased cheaply and in a multitude of colours. Bikes were popular in the fifties, when we'd think nothing of going for a spin to Lime Park, or Ringway to watch the planes landing and taking off. We could pedal a bike for ever in those days, and after one particular trip, I felt as though I had. One Sunday afternoon a gang of us set off for Blackpool, but as we reached Chorley the gears broke on my back wheel, leaving me to pedal the rest of the way in high gear only. We reached Blackpool sometime around midnight and slept in the shelters on the sea front. On Monday the weather was roasting, and we spent the afternoon on the beach, where I filled my rucksack with pebbles and seashells, which were intended as 'presents' for my young sisters. On the way home however, and with my bike still in high-gear-only mode, I struggled to keep up with the rest of the lads. The early evening sun was still burning hot as we cycled down the East Lancs Road, and at our first stop for a rest, I discarded one or two of the larger pebbles from my rucksack. At each and every stop after that, more and more pebbles were left by the wayside, until, as we neared Manchester, my rucksack was all but empty. By
this time, I was weary from pedaling my increasingly heavy bike and felt completely and utterly 'knackered'. On reaching the city
centre, the rest of the lads set off towards home. And that’s when I lost them - or they lost me. I was so exhausted I didn't
know where I was, and after cycling round town not knowing which way to go, I spotted a bus with ASHTON-UNDER-LYNE on the front
and decided to try and follow it. Unfortunately, the bus driver must have forgotten to change the sign and headed off towards
RADCLIFFE - with me in tow. The time now was 11pm, and I'd been on my bike for seven hours. On reaching the centre of Radcliffe, I
sat down on the pavement and was just about to nod off when two men emerged from a pub behind where I was sat. After asking me
what I was doing out at that time of night (I was 13yrs-old at the time) one of them bought me a bag of chips whilst the other
gave me instructions on how to get to Droylsden - where I eventually arrived about half-past-twelve. Mother - who'd seen the rest
of the lad's arrive home a couple of hours earlier - was standing on our doorstep looking worried to death. I was so exhausted
however, that I walked straight past her without saying a word; climbed the stairs to my bed, and was fast-asleep before my head
hit the pillow. On
another day-trip to Blackpool - by coach - I was packed off by mother with a small parcel of sandwiches to sustain me throughout
the day - which I shoved in the pocket of my raincoat. On reaching our destination,
we got off the coach and walked to the sea front to have our dinner, but, after settling down on the beach, I discovered that my
sandwiches had worked their way through a hole in my pocket, and try as I might, I couldn't get them out. Plonk had a go. Gary and
Bev had a go. Then Keith Brown tried his hand, by which time my sandwiches had been shoved even deeper into the depths of my
raincoat. During the course of the day, as I grew ever more hungry, I tried in vain to wrap my groping fingers round my butties,
but eventually gave it up as a lost cause. On
the coach home I was starving, and so were the other lads, who - again without success - tried
to retrieve mother's elusive parcel from my pocket. After alighting from the coach on Ashton New Road, we made our way to Mellor
Street where we bade our farewell's, with a firm promise to meet the next morning to discuss the
events of our day-trip to Blackpool. As I walked up our ginnel, I put my hand in my pocket and - lo-and-behold - out came my
sandwiches. I'll never forget the look on mother's face as I placed my parcel of butties on the kitchen table, then asked,
"'What's f’tea mam, I'm so ‘ungry I could eat a ‘norse".
* *
* *
* Propelling
car tyres round the streets with a stick was another popular pastime in the fifties. All the lads in our street had a tyre, which
we used to race round the block; race down Beech Avenue to John Street and back, and sometimes race around the entire estate. I
can remember a time when I wouldn't dream of going anywhere without my tyre. When mother sent me to the shop, my tyre went with
me. When I went for a haircut, my tyre accompanied me. If a neighbour wanted me to run an errand, I'd gladly oblige as long as I
could knock my tyre along in front of me, and that’s how I came to drop a bottle of Lucozade I was fetching from the chemist for
Ernie Beedham's auntie. I was so worried, I picked up my tyre and crept home to ask mother if she'd go and give Ernie's auntie the
bad news, then hid in our shelter fearing the worst. After all, a bottle of Lucozade cost 2/9d (13p) and to me, that was a lot of
money. However, instead of Ernie's auntie coming after me, I heard mother shouting, "David, Ernie's auntie's sent
y'threepence for goin' t'shop." On hearing that, I was out of the shelter and in our house in less than a second. Whilst
coming home from school one afternoon I was approached by a lad from High Bank Road, who wanted to know if I had any tyres to
swap. I told him I might have, depending on what he wanted to swap for it. He then took me to his back garden and there, leaning
up against the shed, was the biggest tyre I'd ever seen. He told me his mother had stopped him playing with it because it was too
big. Without hesitation, I ran home and returned with my tyre within minutes. My 'new' tyre was almost as big as me and I had some
difficulty in keeping it upright as I set off up High Bank Road. On reaching the passage which led on to the Moravian Fields, I
decided to see if any of the lads were on there playing football, and turned my tyre in that direction. After reaching the top of
the 'camels hump' bridge, which I struggled to do, my tyre ran away from me and started rolling down the other side. It bounced
down the steps and onto the long pathway which led to Fairfield Road, and it was then that I saw two little old ladies walking
along the path, and it was also then that I realised they were in the way of my tyre. I
opened my mouth to warn them of their impending doom, but it was too late. The tyre hit one of the old ladies right in the middle
of her back, knocking her up in the air and scattering her shopping bags, glasses and whatever else all around her. I didn't know
whether to run home and hide in our shelter, or go and help pick her up. In the event, I did the latter. She looked up at me from
her prostrate position on the floor and instantly regaled me with some of the most foul and disgusting language I had ever heard.
As she crawled around on her hands and knees looking for her shoes, she threatened to call the police, though by that time I was
halfway over the bridge running briskly towards the safety and seclusion of our air-raid-shelter. I didn't bother playing with
tyres after that. I’d decided it was too dangerous. *
* *
* * * It
was at about this time that mother underwent yet another very strange experience. Across the
street from our house in Mellor street, lived a Mrs. Patchett, an elderly lady who lived by herself.
Mrs. Patchett, as I discovered many years later, was interested in spiritualism, which, with hindsight,
would explain mother’s frequent visits to her home. Mother was into that
sort of thing. I can vaguely recall her recounting messages she’d received from one medium or another to Marjorie and Derek, and
even Mrs. Hallowes next door, but as I was only a youngster, I didn’t take much
notice of what she was going on about and never really thought any more about it. On
one evening visit to Mrs. Patchett’s however, mother was to get more than she bargained for. As
mother remembers it, she and Mrs. Patchett were sat chatting by the light of the living room fire, when suddenly the room started
to grow dark. Mother looked at Mrs. Patchett for an explanation, but at once
noticed that the old lady was looking at her intently. Mrs. Patchett’s face had
drained of colour, mother told me, and a look of incredulity had taken over her usually placid expression.
The old lady gestured to mother to stand up, and pointed at the mirror hanging over the fireplace.
Bewildered, mother slowly raised herself from her fireside chair, turned, and faced the mirror.
And there, staring straight back at her,
was the face of her mother, Frances. On
a quiet Sunday afternoon in the mid fifties, Gary, Bev and yours truly were wandering the streets wondering what to do with
ourselves, when we noticed that Mr. Clare, who owned the grocer’s on the corner, had left his car parked in the entry at the
side of the shop. That wasn’t unusual in itself, he often parked his car there. But he had never left it unlocked before, as he
had on this particular day. The temptation was too much to bear, though it all started innocently enough. After all, we were just
three inquisitive young lads who wondered what it was like to actually sit in the driving seat of a car and pretend to drive,
which, with one of us acting as a lookout, we took turns it in turns to do. Unfortunately,
it didn’t stop there. After the thrill of just sitting behind the wheel wore off,
we decided it would be even more like driving a car if we could manage to release the hand brake and allow the car to roll down
the slight incline on which it was parked. After tossing a coin, Bev jumped into the
driving seat to have first go, whilst me and Gary squeezed into the passenger seat beside him. The plan was to pull the hand brake
on again as we reached the bottom of the entry, push the car back up the entry and then change seats. We should have realised
though, that this idea might not quite work out the way we’d planned when we discovered that the hand brake was very hard to
release, and would therefore be very hard to pull back on again. But we didn’t think about that as the car slowly started to
move, we were too excited. On reaching the bottom of the entry we tried to pull the brake back on but it was too heavy, and try as
we might, we couldn’t budge it. Mr.
Clare’s car meanwhile, had rolled out of the entry and was now on it’s way across Mellor street and heading towards Kershaw
street. We were panic stricken, and me and Gary were urging Bev to use the foot brake, but he was blubbering so much by this time
that he couldn’t even see where the brake was, let alone put his foot on it. As the
car reached the top of the street, Gary threw the passenger door open and we both jumped out, leaving Bev driving down Kershaw
street crying his eyes out. The next minute, Bev was trying to get out of the car himself; he
had one foot in the car and one out, and was hopping down the street like a one-legged man. Then suddenly, and thankfully, the
front tyre bumped against the side of the pavement and the car came to a halt. Me and
Gary dashed back to find Bev gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were purple. Within seconds, we were galloping at
full-pelt towards the bottom end of Kershaw street, and only moments later, we were on the other side of the estate. *
* *
* * * Looking
back, I seem to have done a lot of running during my youth, which probably explains how I
managed to get selected for the school cross-country team, though even that wasn’t quite as commendable as it may have appeared
at the time. The year was 1957, and I was in my fourth term at Littlemoss Secondary,
when the P.E. teacher, a Mr. Heron, decided that the whole of the fourth year would take part in a one off race, in an effort to
find some ‘new blood’ for the school’s flagging cross-country team. The race was run over a distance of approximately three miles, and in all, about eighty lads set off on that
bright, winter morning run. After the first mile, I was going well, and the goal I’d set myself of being among the first ten to
cross the finishing line was already looking well within reach. It wasn’t too long however, before I started to lose touch with
the leading pack, though I did take comfort in seeing the rest of the field beginning to tail off behind. It
was a lovely morning and I was feeling good. The birds were singing, the sky was blue, and I was now beginning to gain ground on
the front runners. I approached the first of two dry-stone walls on the course and sailed over it like a gazelle - little knowing
that a large Alsatian was awaiting me on the other side. I’ve heard it said that
dog’s can smell fear and that’s why they attack people. Well, if that’s true, it would probably explain why it went for me
in such a nasty and vicious way. The transformation from cross country runner to sprinter came about quite naturally, I found, as
this angry, almost manic dog chased me across a field that wasn’t strictly a part of the course. The other runners meanwhile,
were fast disappearing from view - whilst I - chased by this slavering lunatic, was being forced to run in the opposite direction.
I was literally running for my life by this time and didn’t know - nor particularly care anymore - where the hell I was going.
Up one hill and down another, over walls and under barbed wire fences I went, with the dog still hot on my heels. On reaching the
top of yet another hill, I heard a voice shouting from somewhere in the distance. The voice grew louder as I jumped into a clump
of bushes to hide from the dog, then suddenly, the Alsatian turned on it’s heel and scampered off in the direction of where the
voice was coming from. Still
shaking, I watched with relief as the mangy dog met up with it’s owner, then watched with even more relief as the two of them
vanished from sight. Within minutes I’d pulled myself together and peered out of the bushes to see where I was, and was
surprised to see, coming up the hill, none other than Derek Kershaw, the fastest runner in the school. I quickly left my hiding
place and ran after him as fast as my little leg’s would carry me, then suddenly realised we were heading towards the finishing
line. I crossed the line in second place, a feat which earned me a round of applause from the teachers and schoolboys assembled at
the finish. On arriving at school the next morning I was told to report to the gym, where Mr. Heron was waiting to see me. And
that’s how I got selected for the Littlemoss School cross country team.
All material contained within this website is the sole property of David Siddall.
|