The back ginnel was unmade and very stony. Along the side where the houses are, there is a flagstone path. Over the years the ginnel had been slowly rain washed and worn away. So the flags were undercut at the kerb edge. A bloke moved into the end house. He had a large motorbike, which he insisted on pushing along the pavement. The weight of the bike was causing the stone flags to subside even more. Dad would mime to this bloke that the path was sinking and would he please push his bike in the road and not on the pavement. The bloke would smile and nod to indicate he understood and just merrily continue to push his bike on the collapsing path. It was quite clear he had no intention of taking any notice because he thought Dad couldn’t do anything about it. Till one morning on his way to work, he pushed his bike as usual, along the path and was confronted by Dad’s traffic calming solution. The Chinese had done it. The Romans had done it. Now my Dad had done it. In the night he’d built a small brick wall across the path. The bike bloke was beside himself with fury. He couldn’t get through. The wall was only a foot high so you could step over it but you’d have to really struggle to get a motorbike over. Of course this meant everyone who lived on the end of the row had to step over it, going to and fro and they weren’t pleased.

Doreen and me sitting with Timmy the dog Granny said was an 'House agent,'(Alsatian). This is the path Dad built the wall across to stop a neighbour pushing his motor bike along it.

The ginnel was unlit at night and the little wall was a worse hazard than a big wall, you don’t trip over big walls. They all insisted he remove the wall. The bike bloke thought he’d won the day. Dad removed most of the wall but left a section against the house. He explained it was a step for Mam to reach the hook for the clothes line. Everybody thought this was quite reasonable. The bike bloke could still push his bike on the path but because of the clothes line step he could only do it if he walked very awkwardly in the road. He soon tired of this and started using the road. I went back recently to see if the step was there. It’s gone and the ginnel's been covered in concrete.

Ginnel Enders are seldom guinea lenders. (E.A.Lodge. ‘Odds and Ends.’)

The house was a three-storey end terrace one. It was built into, not on a steep cobble stone hill called Capel Street. Because it was so steep it had to be cobbled. You needed the cobbles to get a grip coming up, even in fine weather. Going down you definitely needed them to stop you developing too much momentum and running into the traffic on Bramston Street, the main road at the bottom of the hill. It was so steep you didn’t need snow to sledge down it. One winter the father of a boy called Garth gave me a small purple sledge. What a wonderful man he was giving his kid a great name like Garth. Garth was my muscley strip cartoon hero from the ‘Daily Mirror’. True, my name was in the, ‘Mirror’ but it didn’t seem quite the same as ‘Pip, Squeak and Wilfred.’

I was thrilled to bits with the sledge. Needing childish instant gratification I’d got the sledge, I now needed a hill. Where was the nearest bill on my way home? Capel Street of course. I thought I’d sledge down to our house and show Doreen my prize. So I lay down on the sledge and instantly I was off like billio (very fast). It was like being on a pneumatic drill going at a hundred miles an hour. The cobbles almost rattled my teeth out. Before I could think, I’d not only passed our house but I’d crossed the main road at the bottom, mounted the pavement, coming to an abrupt halt when I hit the rocks round the gents toilets in the recreation ground. I’d missed the traffic crossing the road. I couldn’t believe I was still alive. I was ecstatic and fed up at the same time because no one but the cursing motorist on his way to Rastrick had seen me do it and he probably thought I was a fast moving hedgehog.

This lack of an audience happened again later in my life when I saw the U.F.O. outside the Junction Pub in Marsh and there wasn’t a soul about to tell. You get those knowing “Oh yes, pull the other one” looks. I had sledged down the hill and so I dared my friends to do it.

VIEW UP CAPEL STREET

“You do it first.” They said.
I told them I'd already done it but no one had seen me, so they insisted I do it again. I of course declined. I'd done it once and once was one more time than them. They were ‘Duffers’. If you didn’t do the dare or what we called a ‘Duff’ you were a ‘A duffer.’ This lot might be duffers but they were not daft duffers.
Across Bramston Street at the bottom of Capel Street are three recreation grounds. They were bordered with strips of ground planted with bushes. Armed only with a matchbox I’d go hunting the dreaded Colorado Beetle. There were posters in school saying if you found one you had to take it to the police station. These striped invaders from America were threatening our potatoes. “So what?” we thought, till someone pointed out chips were made from potatoes. This made it serious. I longed to find one but I never did. Once I found an amazing four-foot high Dandelion growing through one of the bushes. It had forced its way to the light through the branches, which helped to support its long thin stem. I had my doubts that picking dandelions caused you to wet the bed. If it was true this lanky lad looked like he’d cause you to leak a lake. Better safe than soaking so I left the mutant where it was. Nowadays we'd it on blame radiation from Chernobyl.

The park borders were edged with large rocks. The soil was often dug over and weeded leaving nice clods of earth. We used these dried clods as pretend hand grenades. When they hit the back of some unsuspecting kid’s head. They exploded beautifully into clouds of dust. Saturday, the day after bath night was the best day to bomb kids. It was doubly satisfying knowing the kid would get a further shouting at because his hair had only just been washed.

The bottom recreation ground had the swings and roundabouts. There was the roundabout called the ‘Witches Hat’. It was a cone shaped open metal frame, balanced on a pole. Just like a witch’s hat on a stick. Round the base of the cone there were plank seats where the brim of the hat would have been. We’d stand all round it and gripping the seat we’d try to lift it off the pole. We never managed to do it so we had to be content just to use it as a roundabout. The other roundabout was a heavy wooden disc, low to the ground. The top of this was divided like a cake into sections by waist high handrails. Doreen would hold one of these handrails and push the thing round. Some times she’d hold the rail and with one foot on the roundabout she’d use the other to push us round rather like propelling a scooter. That was the lazy way; I preferred her to run round pushing it. Sometimes she got it going so fast that she couldn’t jump on. While she did this, I would be lying down in one of the sections and leaning over the edge holding a piece of sandstone against the concrete base. This was like a giant angle grinder. The stone was ground nice and smooth. We were making miniature tombstones for any dead creatures we might come across or tread on.

We were very fond of playing proper burials. I loved making these tombstones but Doreen wasn’t too keen. When she was enthusiastic pushing the roundabout I suspect she hoped the centrifugal force would throw me off and we could have a big boy burial.

‘BLESSED BE THE FATHER THE SON AND IN THE HOLE HE GOES.’

Another device on the rec. was an evil looking thing called the ‘Rant’. Why we called it the ‘Rant’ is a mystery to me. It was a long thick plank of wood, which you sat astride holding onto loop metal handle. The plank was supported at each end by swinging metal bars attached to supports. The whole thing was in fact similar to a swinging battering ram. To make it swing, kids would stand on the end of the plank holding on to the bars. They’d lean backwards and forwards, pulling and pushing against these bars. This would cause the plank to swing back and forth horizontally, like a ram. Perhaps ‘Rant’ was a corruption of ram. Girls were usually passengers. Not because of the weaker sex thing, they were reluctant to do the swinging because their skirts blew up and you could see their knickers. I understand that on posher recreation grounds young ladies rode the ‘Rant’ side-saddle.

The middle seat on this thing was ominously called the ‘Coffin’ because it was said that if you swung it high enough the occupant of the ‘Coffin’ would hit the top cross bar, smashing in his head. Knowing this it was generally thought a good idea to persuade smaller kids to sit in the ‘Coffin’. It would take two kids if they sat back to back and looking round it was clear there were plenty of little kids to spare. The kids would be promised, with much crossing of hearts and swearing to die that they would not swing the ‘Rant’ too high. On one occasion I was that kid.

That day the rec. wasn’t too busy. Most of the kids were at the ‘Rant’. Being curious I gravitated towards where the action was. The seats on the ‘Rant’ were all occupied except one. It was like ‘All aboard the Skylark. We’re ready to go just one seat left’.
“Get on kid,” they said.
Then to reassure me, ‘We’re not going too high, swear to God hope to die”.
I didn’t want to appear scared in front of these older kids so I got on. The kids on either side were facing inwards, towards me, which was strange. They were watching me with great interest. Then I realised I was in the middle. I was in the ‘Coffin’. Slowly the ‘Rant’ swayed back and forth. Should I get off? It gathered momentum. Then it dawned on me, could this be the day they intended to find out if the legend of the ‘Rant’ was true. It was now too late to jump off. All my cries of, “You promised”, and “God’ll get you,” were ignored as, crouched as low as I could against the handle, I swung towards the head-crushing crossbar.
“God’ll get you, God’ll get you” I shrieked.
It looked like God would be getting me first. Swinging up closer and closer to the bar was terrifying but swinging back, which you’d think would give temporary relief, was worse. I was swinging backwards towards the other bar that was swiftly approaching the back of my head, unseen. I closed my eyes waiting for the end. Then suddenly I realised I was swinging away from it, back down. The relief, I was alive, I hadn’t hit. I opened my eyes. It wasn’t over; I was swinging back to the other bar, right up close. I'd then swing away, down in an arc and backwards up to the other crossbar.

Up close I could see on either side of the bar were metal plates thick with black grease except where they rubbed against each other they were shiny like the blades of new scissors opening and shutting. Back and forth I went. ‘ The Pit and the Pendulum’ had nothing on this. The lads working the ‘Rant’ had now got it so high that they were almost bashing their heads on the kids crouched in the end seats. On the ordeal went back and forth, back and forth. They really tried but they just couldn’t get my head any nearer the bars. They used up all their strength and eventually had to give up to rest. Gradually the ‘Rant’ slowed down. Not waiting for it to stop I lifted my leg over as if I was on a moving horse and on the forward swing jumped off. The momentum caused me to run in the direction of home so I continued that way without looking back. I knew it wasn’t beyond this lot now they’d smelled blood to tie me on and have another go. They were after all from Brook Street. Much later I realised the metal plates were a kind of governor that made it impossible for the ‘Coffin’ to smash against the bars.

There was a sign on the swings saying no one over the age of fourteen could use them. In the earlier days they were all chained up at night. So fifteen-year-old kids couldn’t sneak out and swing in the dark. Happiness was rationed too.

One day in the summer of 1951 two workmen appeared on the bottom rec., and started building a large mysterious object with green metal tubes, setting them into concrete. This activity gathered a crowd of kids fascinated by this strange construction. We couldn’t work out what it was. We all debated in loud voices what it might be; hoping one of the workmen would hear and tell us. The men appeared to be hard of hearing and just carried on building. So we started shouting suggestions.
“It’s a rocket launcher”.
“No! It's for hanging bandits”.
“It’s for hanging clothes. It’s a clothes drier”. This last remark shut us all up.
We turned to look at the little girl who’d said this and in the ensuing silence one of the workmen, turned and said, “You’re all wrong, it’s a wim-wam for ducks to perk on”.
This completely baffled us; none of us knew what a wim-wam was. I had never ever seen a live duck anywhere not even on Uncle Bob’s farm and what on earth was ‘perking’. The workmen ignored all further pleas for information. We all were desperate to know when the ducks were coming so we could find out what perking was. All we got were smiles knowing nods from the workmen and an occasional ‘Wait and see”.

Two days later it was finished. The workmen silently walked away and left it like the Trojan horse. We all stood round looking up at it in wonder. The less worldly wise amongst us thought the men had gone to fetch the ducks. Others said that was stupid and were looking expectantly to the sky waiting for the ducks to fly in. We older ones realised they waited in vain. The ducks would not be coming. The men had fibbed to us.
This ‘Wim-wam for ducks to perk on’, looked suspiciously like a large playground slide. We looked at it, wondering what to do. Daring each other to climb the steps and have a go.
I said, “I’m not flaid”(scared).

While some of the kids that couldn’t believe adults lied, watched out for attacking ducks. I gripped the handrail tightly and slowly climbed the steep steps to the sky. The kids all shouted and cheered me on. When I got near the top I peeped over the edge and looked down the shiny brass slide disappearing below me,
“Ummer”, I thought, “It’s blooming high”.

In the local parlance I ‘Ockered’ in other words I paused to consider. I then retreated down the steps. The kids all booed and said I was ‘Flaid’. I was a duffer. I daren’t go down the slide l was a ‘Scaredycat’.
To which I replied, “One of you sods shouted ducks. Who shouted ducks?”
Before I got a reply Brefni had set off up the steps he was quickly at the top and ignoring my shout of “Ducks” without pausing he slid down the slide. After that everybody had a go. So Brefni was the first to go down the Bramston Street slide. He was ‘Chuffed’ and I was ‘Sluffed’, he was pleased and I was not. No one can ever take that triumph away from Brefni. He was first to go down the slide but I was the first to come down the steps and no one can take that away from me.

The middle recreation ground I was told had been tennis courts. It must have been real hard man tennis because the ground was covered in crushed red bricks. We called it the red rec., it wasn’t used as a tennis court any more, I wonder why.

They say everybody remembers where they were when Kennedy was assassinated. I don’t. I do remember the 6th of Feb 1952 at junior school when a lady teacher opened the door and announced King George had died. In 1953 I remember some stranger in the distance shouting to tell me that sweet rationing had ended. What he actually shouted was,
“Spice ration’s off.”

Living amongst the close packed houses and hills nothing was along way off. There was no sense of things far away. There were no distant views. Adventure, mystery and danger were near. The red rec was a largest empty space around it demanded that something should be done with it. So I was standing alone in the middle of the red rec. sucking an Oxo cube ‘Nature abhors a vacuum’. All our mams knew an empty mantelpiece was easier to dust but it was an abomination and must be filled. Minimalism was definitely not the thing. This large empty space jarred with me, it had to be filled. As a little boy all I could do to solve this urge was to stand in the middle with my arms stretched out as far as they would go. Whoever shouted to me must have thought he’s out of touch he won’t know rationing ended and I didn’t. I set off running to the wooden hut sweet shop, not too fast. If you fell on the red rec. you knew about it. I can’t think why I ran. I hadn’t any money but somehow I couldn’t just stand there. I felt obliged to react to the news.

The Saint John’s Ambulance Band used all the red rec. they practised marching and playing. They were the smartest band I’d ever seen in their black and white uniforms. Our most famous band was of course ‘The Brighouse and Rastrick Brass Band’ I never heard them they were on the wireless.

In the corner of this red rec., were the public toilets. The top rec. was the one where football was played. We came down here from Longroyd School to play football. I was goalie once. I didn’t save a single goal. I made out I’d let them in on purpose. The truth was I couldn’t concentrate on the game because I was worried. Mam had made me wear my cousin’s Edwards football boots that he’d grown out of. She’d so put the fear of catching disease into me from wearing other peoples stuff that when she said it was all right to wear my cousin’s Edward’s football boots, I wasn’t convinced. I suspected she was willing to put my life at risk rather than buy a new pair of boots. All the time l had them on I imagined little corn and verruca germs attacking my feet inside them. The outside of the boots had to be regularly smeared with great gobbits of some sticky grease called ‘Dubbing’ this was supposed to preserve and waterproof them. I imagined all the germs sticking on it like flypaper. Every time I see a film credits with the name of the person that does the ‘Dubbing’ I think of some poor sod greasing everybody’s shoes.

Between the red rec. and the football field was a road, which led to the bottom of the steps to Brook Street. At the bottom of the steps to the right was a small building everyone called the ‘Old Men’s Parliament.’ When we moved to Crown Street there was one on the recreation ground there too. The old men used to meet there to smoke, read ‘The Brighouse and Elland Echo’ and drink tea. One day they got more smoke than they wanted in fact they all got well kippered. We climbed on the roof and put a sod on the coke-stove chimney. We’d seen it done on cowboy films. It worked, just like in the films all the old men came staggering out coughing. We were disappointed that being under age we didn’t have access to firearms so we couldn’t carry out the second part of the plan and shoot them all. Who said films don’t influence kids? We didn’t run away we watched all innocence.

View down Capel Street, looking towards the recreation grounds, Brook Street and the cliffs. The large rocks and toilets have been removed.

When they asked if we’d seen who’d done it we nodded and pointed up the steps towards Brook Street.
“I might a’known.” One old geezer gasped looking up the steps.
At the top of the steps lived the dreaded Brook Street gang, anyway they were dreaded by us. The steps also led to the secondary modern school, Rastrick Common. You need say no more, who else but one of them would put a sod on an ‘Old Man’s Parliament’ chimney.

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