King's Cross Kid Read Online Free
Author: Victor Gregg
won’t hurt yer, mind yer, she might tell yer both off, quite right too.’
Together John and I used to have a lot of fun pushing little Emmy around in the pram, which to us was nothing more than an outsize toy. Luckily Emmy never suffered any injuries from our many escapades.
6
Losing My Marbles
I was now nearly seven and becoming aware of life outside of the walls of our house. The kids from Wakefield Street played together, likewise the kids from other streets, and as a natural course of events I drifted towards the street nearest to our house, Wakefield Street. The boys I spent my time playing with became my companions for the next ten years.
My first insight into the power of property came when I was standing alone in the playground watching some of the Wakefield kids playing marbles.
Playing marbles was less important than owning a bigger bag of marbles than anyone else. In the game you aimed your own marble at your opponent’s and, if you hit one, that marble became yours. Arguments arose in the wink of an eye; no marble was handed over without resort to a show of fists. I knew that I had to get my hands on some marbles as soon as possible. That evening I asked my mum if I could have a penny to spend. ‘What for?’ ‘I want to buy some marbles, Mum.’ ‘Well, yer won’t get many for a penny’, and she gave me twopence.
The next morning before school started I went to the sweetshop next to the school where you could buy marbles of every kind, from the cheap clay coloured ones to the more popular glass ‘glarnys’ and the grand, ornamental glass ‘Wizards’. The clay marbles sold for about ten for a penny while the real posh ones cost as much as sixpence each. Once acquired, the marbles became a source of riches. If you owned a bag of fifty marbles you could barter them for almost anything; all that was necessary was the initial stake and the ability to get your hands on as many of the other kids’ marbles as you could without losing any of your own.
After a couple of weeks I was the proud possessor of a collection of more than two hundred which I used to take home, and with Mum’s help count them over and over again.
By now I had the full backing of the Wakefield Street kids, but had aroused the envy of the Harrison Street lot who challenged us to a game. The game took place in the playground of the infants’ school; the average age of the combatants was about seven and as far as I can remember there were about fifteen of us. The game ended in a glorious punch-up, after which all the marbles of both sides were confiscated. The head teacher lined us up, read the riot act, told us to hold out our hands and then belted each one of us with a wooden ruler. That finished me with marbles. There had to be other ways to get rich.
John was now at the infants’, too, and when Gran came round to collect us she had to endure a full account of the marbles incident and her grandson’s addiction to violence in the playground. I remember Gran told the teacher that unless she held her tongue when speaking about Victor, who never did anything wrong, she would feel the back of my gran’s hand. Luckily for me Gran failed to tell Granddad what had happened; he had a very heavy hand and believed strongly in the saying ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’.
7
Big Boys Donât Cry
One evening sometime around July, we were all sitting near the window, little Emily safely ensconced on our mumâs lap, when the bell rang out on the landing and we heard the sound of several pairs of footsteps climbing the stairs. The door was wide open so there was no need to knock. The next thing our mum was greeting the local rep from the Salvation Army. He was dressed up in his uniform complete with cap and gold braid and accompanied by a young lady in a similar uniform, and another couple in ordinary clothes. The room was full to bursting. John and I sat on the floor ogling these strange people who had suddenly come into
Together John and I used to have a lot of fun pushing little Emmy around in the pram, which to us was nothing more than an outsize toy. Luckily Emmy never suffered any injuries from our many escapades.
6
Losing My Marbles
I was now nearly seven and becoming aware of life outside of the walls of our house. The kids from Wakefield Street played together, likewise the kids from other streets, and as a natural course of events I drifted towards the street nearest to our house, Wakefield Street. The boys I spent my time playing with became my companions for the next ten years.
My first insight into the power of property came when I was standing alone in the playground watching some of the Wakefield kids playing marbles.
Playing marbles was less important than owning a bigger bag of marbles than anyone else. In the game you aimed your own marble at your opponent’s and, if you hit one, that marble became yours. Arguments arose in the wink of an eye; no marble was handed over without resort to a show of fists. I knew that I had to get my hands on some marbles as soon as possible. That evening I asked my mum if I could have a penny to spend. ‘What for?’ ‘I want to buy some marbles, Mum.’ ‘Well, yer won’t get many for a penny’, and she gave me twopence.
The next morning before school started I went to the sweetshop next to the school where you could buy marbles of every kind, from the cheap clay coloured ones to the more popular glass ‘glarnys’ and the grand, ornamental glass ‘Wizards’. The clay marbles sold for about ten for a penny while the real posh ones cost as much as sixpence each. Once acquired, the marbles became a source of riches. If you owned a bag of fifty marbles you could barter them for almost anything; all that was necessary was the initial stake and the ability to get your hands on as many of the other kids’ marbles as you could without losing any of your own.
After a couple of weeks I was the proud possessor of a collection of more than two hundred which I used to take home, and with Mum’s help count them over and over again.
By now I had the full backing of the Wakefield Street kids, but had aroused the envy of the Harrison Street lot who challenged us to a game. The game took place in the playground of the infants’ school; the average age of the combatants was about seven and as far as I can remember there were about fifteen of us. The game ended in a glorious punch-up, after which all the marbles of both sides were confiscated. The head teacher lined us up, read the riot act, told us to hold out our hands and then belted each one of us with a wooden ruler. That finished me with marbles. There had to be other ways to get rich.
John was now at the infants’, too, and when Gran came round to collect us she had to endure a full account of the marbles incident and her grandson’s addiction to violence in the playground. I remember Gran told the teacher that unless she held her tongue when speaking about Victor, who never did anything wrong, she would feel the back of my gran’s hand. Luckily for me Gran failed to tell Granddad what had happened; he had a very heavy hand and believed strongly in the saying ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’.
7
Big Boys Donât Cry
One evening sometime around July, we were all sitting near the window, little Emily safely ensconced on our mumâs lap, when the bell rang out on the landing and we heard the sound of several pairs of footsteps climbing the stairs. The door was wide open so there was no need to knock. The next thing our mum was greeting the local rep from the Salvation Army. He was dressed up in his uniform complete with cap and gold braid and accompanied by a young lady in a similar uniform, and another couple in ordinary clothes. The room was full to bursting. John and I sat on the floor ogling these strange people who had suddenly come into
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