One afternoon I had been outside at play with a friend; we had stopped by one of the trees on the main grassed area in the Home, facing some of the flats. Suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my knee; it was so sudden that I simply fell down. On getting up, there was blood coming from the inner part of my knee. The bet was that someone was quite close to us, with either a catapult or small toy gun that originally was meant to fire soft plaster pellets, and having run out of those, something like a small piece of flint was now used as ammo. The bushes were the most likely hiding place, but none of our enemies could be found. Escorted over to the small hospital, it might be best to get a plaster put over the cut; although the blood was not spurting out, there was a small constant trickle. The Nursing Sister was out, however I was soon attended to by one of the other staff. It was best not to say much about the cut being caused by something like a catapult, it would only cause problems. As the cut was clean, once the blood was wiped away, and a plaster put over the cut, all seemed fine. I headed back to the flat, my knee still stinging.

Sister was more unhappy over the blood that covered my sock than the cut to my knee; she remarked that for once, it was not the front of my knees that I was damaging. I was accused of climbing a tree to end up with this type of cut. It was best to let her have her own ideas of the injury; if I said that I thought one of the boys in the next block of flats had a catapult, she would have soon been on the warpath. The cut healed; there was a small lump under my skin which I took to be the remains of the scab. For some odd reason, once the scab had completely faded away there was still a little lump.

The adults only started to take more of an interest after I had been for several X-rays as part of our growth study tests in May. A morning off school meant several of us were very willing to be measured, weighed, X-rayed, photographed and generally prodded, every three months or so. 

Later the Nursing Sister, the Governor, and the local doctor became interested in my knee. They found I had a small piece of metal in my knee; their solution was that I ought to have whatever was in my knee out; it appeared to be a gun pellet. The little hard lump was really just below the skin; I expected the Nursing Sister or the doctor just to remove it like a splinter. However, I was taken to a hospital in the next town for more X-rays. It was December before they decided they wanted to take the gun pellet out. It was originally expected that I would have a local anaesthetic, but from what the Nursing Sister told me, and the attention I received, it appeared, I was going to be given a full anaesthetic and put completely out. To the Nursing Sister this seemed far too much bother. I could guess that if she had been allowed, a small cut with a knife and the pellet would have been taken out in her hospital.

The most annoying matter was that I had to miss breakfast, however as my appointment was quite early in the morning, I would be back at the Home for lunch, but would probably miss afternoon school. I did not have any worries over the operation; I was more interested in what else was going on. The most painful part of the visit to the hospital was to have an injection in the rear. This really hurt; this one was not to put you out but to relax you. Then I was taken on a trolley to the operating theatre. I was afraid that the next injection was going to be even more painful, but there was just a minor prick in my arm, and I was told to slowly count. On waking up after the operation, all I wanted to do was sit up, but the hospital staff kept pushing my head down and telling me to lie still; it seemed to feel like I was rolling over. When I was allowed to sit up, there was nothing to see as the cut that had been made to the side of my knee was covered up with a bandage. It seemed I was lucky having the Nursing Sister with me, as she would be able to see that the cut healed properly. On our way back to the Home, I was told that there had been four stitches to keep the cut closed. I was not to go out playing football or to run about for the next couple of weeks; swimming and other such activities were also forbidden. When the cut had healed a little more, the stitches would be taken out; until that time the cut should be kept dry. I would have a fresh bandage put on when we arrived back, but as soon as possible, it would be best to let the air get to it.

I had a souvenir of my hospital visit. This was a clear plastic container, with the pellet that had been removed from my leg. At the point we had left the hospital this had been taken from me; apparently the Governor wanted to see it.

When I did get to look at the cut, it was far larger than I thought it would have been. It was just over an inch in length. There was no real pain; it was just stiff to walk on. It was easier to keep the leg almost straight and hop on it; the cut was just on the point that the knee bent. This was the first opportunity that the Nursing Sister had to see the cut. Her comments were that she could not understand why they had made a large cut; she could have made a small cut and pulled the pellet out with a pair of tweezers, possibly not needing to put any stitches into my leg at all. But I would be able to show my friends my latest battle scar. Soon I hobbled back to the flat accompanied by her, not having eaten since the previous evening; I was more concerned with wanting something to eat rather than resting. It was decided that it was best if I went to bed and was still for the rest of the day. I was soon washed and changing into my pyjamas before I could offer any protest. Eventually some soup and bread was brought to me. It was thought best that I only had a light meal at this stage. Once finished, boredom encouraged me to have a nap. When the others returned, as I was wearing pyjamas and the cut was covered up, there was little to show off. At teatime, I was allowed out of bed, then for the rest of the evening I was allowed the most comfortable chair.

The next school day was missed; it was felt that perhaps walking to school was a little too much for me. There was a visit to the Nursing Sister; the cut seemed to have healed enough to allow it to go without any covering, but again there was a warning not to play football. On returning to school, the cut and stitches were enough proof for the teachers to allow me to miss games lessons for the rest of the term, which disappointingly was very close.

At Christmas, there was a change to our bicycles. I had brought my own bicycle to the Home; this was now rather too small for me. The two oldest boys were getting a new bicycle each; this was partly paid from their paper round and in part by the Home as their Christmas present. As part of the deal, they would pass their two old bicycles down to two of us; these would now become our presents from the Home, and we would give our bicycles to the two younger boys; this deal seemed to work out the best for all.

Slowly my tastes in food changed. At tea and at other meals, I found the sweet spreads were actually to my liking. Marmite and peanut butter were still high on my lists of preferred tastes though. I was the only one who liked to put the OXO spread on my toast. Normally it would be used in gravy, but to me it was similar to Marmite in style although everyone else found it too salty. If you were the last one to scrape out the jar of any item, it gave you the privilege of opening the next jar. On starting the next jar of spread, it was the custom to engrave your initials into the top of the spread before taking the first spoonful.

Until coming to the Home, trips to the dentist had been quite a rare event. Losing most of my first teeth before the age of six, there was never any real chance for any decay to set in for most of my teeth. The few first teeth that were still in place soon started to decay within months of my arrival. If sweets were to blame, it was the increase in cheap boiled sweets, rather than the smaller quantities of more luxury sweets from my mother.

During the summer, I spent as much time as I could outside. If this was spent alone, it was more by choice rather than lack of friends. One of my favourite areas was near to the small cemetery; this was too far from the main area of the Home for many to bother with, so I could be left to my own thoughts. The quiet solitude was broken only by the sound of a train passing. If it made me feel sad, it was because the trains were heading in the direction of London, where I would have preferred to be. The other sound that seemed to carry for miles was the sound of an ice-cream van. Whilst in London it was a regular treat to have an ice cream from one of the many vans that passed. In the Home it was wishful thinking.

At the side of the administration block, a flight of steps led down to a cellar that was always flooded. The depth of the water depended on if it had recently rained. When I had first arrived, as a torture by the older boys, I had been made to go down the steps and into the water, then to walk into the cellar whilst the door was closed behind me. Eventually I was let out. This was a game according to the older boys. On the first trip inside, I was a little frightened as the only light that came in was from the gap around the closed door. There was the threat from the older boys that if I ever got them in trouble, they would bring me down here and shut me inside.

During my stay, I had found this a place of refuge; the water was normally only a few inches deep at the entrance so it was easy to go inside and hide. Few of my enemies were ever prepared for wading in water, even if it was only a few inches deep. When the water was deeper than normal, cold water running inside my wellingtons was not as bad as meeting ones foe face to face. The water was always dirty and stagnant. On leaving my hiding place I was occasionally in luck in finding that waste washing water was running from the laundry room. This was far nicer to wash with as it was often warm, rather than the cold water from the tap that the groundsman used. No attempt was made to solve the problem of the flooded cellar; to me it was simply a lucky place few others would venture into by choice

Our Sister had rather an old fashioned view of how the flats should be run. Her ideals were those of the early 1950s. There was nothing wrong in this as we were well cared for; however by the 1960s, the idea that we should integrate more with the outside world was now slowly coming to fruition. Perhaps children in other flats did have more activities outside the grounds, but for our flat and a few others that were run by the older Sisters, life had not changed that much over the last decade or so.

On a Sunday, our Sister believed that any play should be quiet and respectful for that day. Although we did go out to play in the late afternoon, any ideas we had of activities that most children were allowed, was discouraged. The older children in the flat were trusted over such matters, however the wearing of football boots and the like for active play was not allowed. The younger members of the family were really too young to obey such a directive. If our Sunday afternoons needed occupying, then Sunday school once afternoon lunch was over, kept us in order. During my time of torture of Sunday afternoons spent with a small group of other children in the administration block, it was possible to look out of the windows and see the majority of the children in the Home happily out at unrestricted play.

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