Brave little soldier.

When I was a kid I lived in Roseberry Street in the heart of Gorton, life was simple, you ate, you slept, and you played. Winters were spent round a roaring fire in the hearth planing for Christmas, and the summer was a time to play with your friends. Dodging Migs* from the mill at the top of our street, drenching each other with the hosepipe they used to swill out the mill yard, exploring strange new places or just playing like the clappers in the hot sun as kids do.

Making throwing darts from lollypop sticks; nails and black pitch from the roadside was a popular pastime for boys. Girls of course did sissy things like reciting silly rhymes whilst jumping in and out of skipping ropes or playing hopscotch. I would occasionally sit on the kerbside pretending to be interested in what the girls were doing but it was just an excuse really to catch a glimpse of knickers so that I could tell the other boys what colour they were. There was a little song that went with this pastime; I can’t remember it now but if anyone knows how it went please comment.

Making throwing darts was an art; first you had to plead with your mum for the money to buy a penny ice-lolly so that you could use the stick. As I said darts were popular and the sticks were at a premium in and around my street. If you found one abandoned in the gutter you were lucky. For flights the more dextrous of us would use pigeon feathers, the more kack handed used the cardboard from a cigarette packet. A suitable nail, not to big, not too small could be acquired from silly Sid who had a huge collection of nails (Don’t ask me why) he had an equally large collection of screws too, and without missing a beat could reel of information about any screw on the planet. The last and most important item was pitch (Road tar) this ingredient held everything together and was also the means by which the dart was weighted correctly.

The pointy end was pretty simple, just a nail held there by pitch not too much though or it wouldn’t set, later more pitch would be added to balance the dart. The flights were a little trickier; the stick would have to be carefully slit along the length for about and inch. Then a blob of pitch each side was allowed to set so that the stick wouldn’t split any further. The pigeon feathers were cut to size and weaved together at right angles, then carefully slid onto the stick, after which a blob of pitch to seal the end was added and allowed to set.

Flight feathers were trimmed, more pitch was added to balance it and the dart was ready for its maiden flight. The park was our favourite test pilot area because the ground was soft and wouldn’t damage the dart too much. However the parky* who rarely left his little room attached to the summer shed (See storm) would be out like a shot chasing us off at the slightest hint of airborne activity. So most of the time we were relegated to the croft at the back of our house. The ground was well worn and hard there from years of kids using it as a playground.

One Saturday morning found Geoff from across the road, my best pal Turnip and my brother and I gathering all the components to make darts. The best pitch to be had was from Crossly Street so after acquiring a goodly supply (Most of it stuck to our clothes) we all set about the ancient art of dart making. All that is except Geoff, who couldn’t make a dart to save his life, He wouldn’t admit that though, instead he would forage for pieces of slate that he claimed could be thrown further than darts and were more accurate. I offered to make him one, but he told me to shove it, “My slate will beat your darts anyday” we were about to find out.

We erected a target at the end of the croft and took turns trying to hit it, my Brother, Turnip and I with our darts and Geaff with his collection of slates. We were all getting near the target except for Geoff whose slate missiles curved through the air like Frisbees and went in whatever direction they pleased. It was my turn to throw again, my beautifully made dart sailed high into the air then gracefully arced downward on its way to a direct hit on the target. I threw my arms into the air and shouted a triumphant “Yeeeeeeessss” as it hit the target bang in the centre. To the shouts of “easy, easy, easy” I ran to retrieve it and as I bent down to pull it out. I felt a stinging pain above my left eye, everything started to spin and I became dizzy.

Everyone became quiet as I stood there with my hand on my forehead, blood oozing through my fingers and running down my arm. Geoff in exasperation had thrown a slate, which had buried itself in my forehead. I pulled it out and ran home as fast as I could. Meanwhile the others were hastily getting rid of the evidence, whilst Geoff began to scream like a banshee imploring God not to punish him for killing me.

My Dad wrapped a towel round my head and took me to the family doctor a few streets away, he told me that I looked like an Indian wearing a turban. Indians wearing turbans were a bit thin on the ground in those days so I asked him what they were. This gave him the chance to reminisce about his army days spent in Deli in India with the Lancashire Fusiliers, “Six VC’s* before breakfast son” was one of his favourite sayings when he got on to that subject.

The surgery was empty when we arrived so I was soon sat on the doctor’s table having my wound prodded and cleaned, which smarted a great deal. “Hmmm looks pretty nasty that” the doctor prodded my head some more. “It’s going to need a stitch,” he said. “Trouble is, don’t have any anesthetic around at the moment” He prodded my head again, “So you can either take him up to the hospital or I can do it here without, Might hurt a tad”.

I knew what hurt meant, that was scary enough but what the hell did tad mean. My dad looked at me and asked, “What do you think lad, here or the hospital” they both waited silently for me to speak. What should I do? drag my dad all the way to the hospital or brave the pain of one measly little stitch. After listening to my dad extolling the bravery of the Lancashire Fusiliers and their six bleeding VC’s before breakfast there was little choice.

The doctor brought out his bag of spanners and told me to make myself comfortable, I shifted position on the table lining my foot up with the his groin, if I was going down I was going take him with me. I felt a sharp pain as the needle went in and an even sharper pain as it came out the other side. I was just about to make contact with his wedding tackle when the meaning of tad was brought home to me. The needle was nothing compared to the excruciating rhythms of agony I endured whilst he practised tying bloody sailors knots with my forehead. There was a quick flash of scissors as he cut the ends of the stitch and before I could stick the boot in he was at the sink washing his hands.

The doctor sensibly dried his hands well out of range and said “Bring him back in a week and I’ll take it out” My dad looked at me and nodded his head in the direction of the doctor “Well, what do you say”
I begrudgingly thanked him for putting me through hell and slouched out of the surgery. As I neared the door the doctor said “Oh I almost forgot, I have something for brave boys like you” he rummaged around in his drawer and brought out a bag of liquorice allsorts, “There you go son, well done”.

Apparently Geoff told his parents that he had thrown the slate at a bee that was about to attack me, quite why he thought he could hit a bee in flight when he couldn’t even get near a target approximately five million times larger that a bee escapes me. But then he was prone to exaggeration, in any event he was deemed a hero by his doting parents for trying to save my life. I remember thinking at the time that if the shit ever did hit the fan it would be a blessing if that lying little bugger wasn’t around to help.

I was proud of my stitch, for me it was as well earned as any Victoria Cross, for some reason the rest of that week I limped, a limp seemed to go well with a head wound so I used it to good effect. The only down side was the knot the Doctor had tied in it. As I said before he had been a trifle overzealous with this and consequently my eyebrow had been pulled up giving me a quizzical look which the girls seemed to rather like, so much so I have used it ever since.

And I did get a bag of liquorice allsorts for my trouble.

* Migs: Small three wheel vehicles used to carry sacks of flower.
* VC Victoria Cross, highest award given to a soldier for bravery. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lancashire_Fusiliers