I was active for almost every minute of the day. If my mother decided to go in one direction and I had decided that the other direction looked more interesting for whatever reason, a battle of wills would then ensue. I was an expert at throwing a tantrum. In an open park, there were few others to hear my demands; in a crowded street or bus then I had an audience, and knew on most occasions I would be able to wear her down and get my own way. On odd occasions however I came off worse – a quick swipe across my rear soon had me falling into line.

My school education should have started at the age of about four. I was quite a handful, and although my grandmother could quite easily cope with me, it was felt that if I could go to nursery school I would be able to mix with those of my own age rather than be surrounded by adults as I was now. There was an ideal nursery school a five-minute walk away. However, there were no available places, no matter how deserving the child was. Had my name been put down a couple of years earlier there might have been room: by applying now I would get to the top of the list in about a year and a half, just at the point when I would be going to infant school. So my life during my fourth year was very similar to my third. I devised more ways of getting adult attention – my quick ability to move and my short temper did not really change.

Sweets came as a reward for good behaviour or after a punishment. I was soon able to work out the amount of time I needed to be perfect to get a reward. Once the sweets were mine and finished, I was able to return to my true self. My grandfather was also the source of the occasional sweet. A small child might have rejected his selection, but I soon developed a liking for his limited choice: Victory V lozenges, Bronchial Cough Sweets and on occasions Winter Mixture boiled sweets.

  Left to my own devices I could quite happily amuse myself for short periods. It was wise of my grandmother to make occasional visits to see what I was up to; I could use my imagination. At an early age, a large strong box could become an inexpensive plaything; the only problem would be at the end of its life getting rid of the thing. Around the ages of three and four whilst out shopping with my grandmother, spotting a large unwanted box was an excuse to plead to be allowed to take it home.

On some occasions on our return journey, if the box was thought to be clean and manageable, it was allowed. If it fitted on the pushchair with the shopping inside, then it was quite an easy matter to take it home. If it was too large, it had to be fairly close to home to stand any chance of becoming mine. Other general safe playthings could range from discarded rolls of bus tickets to a host of items that to an adult were simply rubbish, but to a child with imagination they were wonderful possessions.

The wireless or television could amuse me for a short time each day. The early afternoon would bring the afternoon story for children; late in the afternoon there would be a short period of television before my tea and eventual bed. One series that I did find interesting was a regular short story series featuring horses. ‘Tum’ in later life had a lot to answer for. If I wanted to listen to the wireless, there were two choices –– stay with my grandmother and accept her mostly dull talking matters on the Home Service, or go into my uncle’s room. This was slowly turning into my playroom, as it had a nice smooth linoleum surface where I could play with my cars, and turn on his wireless. I was too young to be able to tune into many of the stations that could be found on his set. However the station it would first lock onto that gave clear sound was Hilversum. As it was mainly music, I was quite happy with that.

  On a few occasions, my grandmother forgot to check on the progress of my playing, it always ended in trouble. Having watched a children’s television programme about hair-cutting at a barber’s, I decided that perhaps I could amuse myself on that theme. Keeping scissors and sharp instruments out of my hands was a regular matter. Unlike most children at the age of about four, cutting my hair or scalping some object that resembled hair did not immediately spring to mind.

  The fashion for men in the early 1960s was to have neat hair held in place with modern white hair cream. My uncle had decided on economy in purchasing his supply: it came in a quite large dispenser with a pump handle. When the adults found my  play activity they had little idea of what had gone through my mind. I had neatly squeezed the white rather greasy cream onto the tops of chairs, doubling for the imaginary people that could have been sitting there. Once the top of the chair backs had been covered I set about using any other surface for the rest of the cream. If the white dollops had been joined together, it would have stretched a couple of feet or so. Spread over several items of furniture, the coverage was far more. Apart from wasting a large tub of hair cream, cleaning up the mess was the main problem. On the areas that were solid wood and the like there was no real problem; on the tops of chairs that were covered with cloth and on parts of the walls, the large greasy stains were immovable. Confined to my bedroom in tears was the general result after such forms of play.

  The other major mess I managed to cause was with paint. Usually any painting I attempted was on the kitchen table, providing there was no laundry or clothing around that would suffer the odd spillage. If the table was not free, my bed with its blankets and sheets removed made a flat surface; the mattress was protected with a rubber sheet, so little damage could be caused by any mess I might make. With a small container of water and a selection of paints I could be left alone on my own without the ability to cause much of a nuisance, and with no need to clean everything up until it was time for bed I could have several short sessions at painting to prevent boredom.

One afternoon I decided that I wanted to be like some other children in the park and have coloured wellingtons rather than the standard black pair that had been purchased for me. I was bright enough to realise that if I painted my boots with the paints I normally used, the first puddle I went through would wash the colour off. I headed for the confines of my uncle’s bedroom. He was a keen model-maker and I knew he kept a supply of model paints that didn’t wash off. There was a disappointment in the colours he possessed,  due to his need for accuracy in colouring the trains and buses he constructed. Instead of a nice bright red, I would have had to settle for maroon, but an attractive shade of blue compensated for the lack of red. While most of his pots of paint were very small, a few were slightly larger, and the blue shade was one of these.

Knowing that if I returned to my room with the paint I might get into trouble, I hid under his bed after finding a small paintbrush and something to take the top off the tin of paint. Actually painting my wellingtons took more time than I imagined; the small modeller’s brush only allowed tiny amounts of paint to be applied. I speeded up the process by pouring part of the paint onto the sides of the boots and then using the brush to make the painted area larger. I soon found that modelling enamel is a very sticky paint and managed to get some on my hands and a small amount on the floor. I was disappointed in my efforts as I had been unable to cover my two boots entirely. I carefully put the top back on the tin and placed it on the shelf with the other tins, and left my boots under the bed to dry. Not wanting to get any paint on my clothes, I went off to wash my hands. I found that unlike the paint I normally used, washing my hands with water did not work. Eventually after several attempts to remove the paint from my hands I went in search of my grandmother. The amount of paint was nothing major but it took her a little while to bring my hands back to their normal state. Being quite wise to my forms of play she now asked where I had found the paint. Eventually I led her back to my uncle’s room and showed her the paint tin. Looking around the room there was little sign of me spilling paint or actually painting anything. My bedroom and the other areas I might have taken the paint to were also checked, as there were no signs of any problems, my grandmother just took it that I was playing with one of the tins where a top had not been put fully back. I was told off for touching the paint and was given to understand that in future it would be best to stick to my own paints.

Later in the afternoon when my mother returned I was keen to show her my painting results. My wellingtons had not entirely dried off and although the paint was no longer in its runny state it was still a little tacky. A second cleaning session was now called for. My grandmother now found out that my activity having been out of sight was the reason for not being found out. Getting a second telling-off was not fair; it was not as if I had been naughty again. I was sent off to bed in tears. My wellingtons were past saving and were consigned to the dustbin. The small area of blue paint under my uncle’s bed dried off and was on the linoleum forever. The following day, I appeared to be of good enough behaviour to be taken by my grandmother for a replacement pair of wellingtons. I might have asked for a red pair but I had not been good enough to have any choice. An ordinary pair of black wellingtons were purchased for me with a warning not to paint them.

The other area of trouble I regularly became involved in was trying to find out how things worked. To the adults it was being destructive with my possessions; to me it was merely an attempt to take an item apart to find out how it worked and then put it back together again. It was this last activity that normally ended in failure. A kaleidoscope with its small plastic coloured inserts makes interesting shapes when viewed. All I wanted to do was find out how the plastic pieces went together. With a small accordion, it was how the air moved the small reeds that was of interest; with a small metal xylophone, the two metal bars that made each note made no sound when taken apart. How they worked was interesting.

Most of these experiments ended with the plaything confiscated and thrown away, as it appeared to be useless after I had taken it apart. If I only had been allowed to keep it, I might have been able to find out more on how it worked. Once an item had been attacked, replacement articles were seldom purchased. I just moved onto the next item that caught my eye. Play sessions like these often ended with me being sent to bed in tears to mull over my actions. Around this time I was warned by my mother that there were schools that took bad boys and if I did not stop my bad behaviour, I would be going to one.

Continued

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