A Pocketful of Holes and Dreams (12 page)

My mother’s predictions about television proved accurate. Everyone wanted one, and a proper aerial – but not everyone was able to pay the full price. So spotting a gap in the market, George and I went about filling it. We stocked up on the necessary equipment from a small local manufacturer and loaded it into the van alongside the equipment from Johnsons’. George and I were quick at installations, turning jobs around in less than fifteen minutes, so we had more than enough time to do ‘foreigners’ – a ‘foreigner’ being a job on the side. Everybody did them in those days, and as long as you met your targets, the bosses just turned a blind eye.

People would see us working and approach us in the street, so there was no shortage of business. And we were making good money. An aerial lad could expect to earn £4 a week working for a company like Johnson Brothers, the foreigners brought in at least an extra £25 a week, so there I was, a sixteen-year-old lad, earning as much as a qualified professional.

That extra money made such a difference, both to Mum and to me. I loved being able to spoil her, and not only was she no longer worried about paying bills and having debt collectors knocking at the door, she could treat herself to little luxuries. She had her hair done once a month, and I’d take her shopping, encouraging her to splash out on something for herself.

As for me, I started to drag Ronnie, my new best friend and next-door neighbour, to the ice rink at the weekends, where we’d meet up with Bernie. Now that we were sixteen, we were allowed into the Beehive disco.

We had one thing on our minds back then – girls! In order to get even to the first post, though, we had to look the part. Bernie, Ronnie and I were all Mods, so we took care with our clothes, and the way we walked, as well as being keen on a certain type of music.
Top of the Pops
at seven o’clock on Thursday evenings was essential teenage viewing in those days. Ronnie and I would watch carefully to see what our favourite bands were wearing and then spend Saturdays in Liverpool, scouring shops like the Army & Navy Stores and the odd boutique, looking for clothes that would fit the image and style. We started to go to a London Road tailor to be fitted for suits. There was nothing off-the-peg about being a Mod.

The most important thing, however, was having the hairstyle. There was a barbershop in Toxteth run by a bloke called Pee Wee, a jovial Jamaican character well known for his skill with a cut-throat razor. His place was
the
place to go, so one Saturday morning, Ronnie, Bernie and I went along. Bernie was called first.

As he sat down in the barber’s chair, he looked very small and afraid, and when he asked for a ‘skiffle’ cut with a ‘shaven part’, he did it so quietly he could hardly be heard. Pee Wee immediately got to work. Ronnie and I sat there in horrified silence as long chunks of Bernie’s hair fell away. Within four or five swipes he was as good as bald, the dark stubble on his head making his head an odd grey colour. Then it got really scary. Pee Wee discarded his trimmer in favour of a lethal-looking cut-throat, sharpening it on the leather strap hanging down from the back of the chair. We could see Bernie’s face reflected in the mirror. If he’d looked horrified at his new bald image, he now looked completely terrified.

Pee Wee held his head in a vice-like clamp with one hand while the other scraped a parting line down the left-hand side of his skull with the accuracy and precision of a surgeon. Bernie’s eyes welled up with tears, whether from fright or pain we didn’t know. We were soon to find out, though, when it came to our turn.

Coming out into the street and the daylight, the full impact of what we’d done suddenly hit us. We all hated our new hair, but none of us had the courage to say so. As I got closer to home a feeling of dread came over me. Grabbing Ronnie by the arm, I towed him up the path to the front door. ‘You’re coming in with me, mate,’ I said. ‘I need you there for support.’

Mum was in the kitchen when I walked in. She took one glance at me before slamming the cup she held in her hand down on the table, tea sloshing over the side. ‘Jeff, what have you done?’ she exclaimed.

‘Where are all your lovely curls?’

Ronnie got there first. ‘On the floor in Pee Wee’s, Mrs Pearce.’

When I was sixteen I developed a new obsession, learning to drive. I wasn’t legally old enough, but I didn’t want to have to wait another year. After much nagging, George finally relented, teaching me in our van on the quieter back roads of Liverpool and on Southport Beach, places where I could happily and safely drive up and down for hours without getting in trouble with the police.

Dad also had a car, a blue Ford Cortina. It was actually Barry’s, but he had decided to leave Liverpool and was going to work his way around Europe. Mum had a real battle convincing Barry to let Dad take over the payments, and although Barry hated the idea, he finally agreed, only because it mattered so much to Mum.

After much persuasion from Mum, Dad agreed to give me the occasional lesson. For the first time, he took an interest in me and what I was doing. And he seemed to be very happy giving me driving lessons. In many ways it was the beginning of a new relationship between us. Having been a taxi driver for years, he was a very good teacher, and it was not long before I was both confident and competent behind the wheel.

In return for the lessons it was agreed that I would give Dad’s car a full valet every Sunday morning, checking the oil and water and making sure that it was spotless inside and out. I enjoyed this, my involvement with cars making me feel I had climbed another rung up the ladder of adult life.

Early one sunny Sunday morning, I was out cleaning the Cortina, the radio blaring loudly as I worked away, when Ronnie came over and asked if I fancied going to Southport for the day. ‘Sorry, mate,’ I replied. ‘I have to finish cleaning the car. Perhaps we can go later?’

‘No, let’s go now. It will be too late later.’

‘You know Dad’ll go mad if I don’t finish it,’ I said.

‘Come on – we could even take the car,’ he said jokingly, patting the bonnet. ‘It’ll be good for picking up the birds; it’ll be a real pose!’

‘Forget it. I haven’t got a driver’s licence,’ I replied. ‘I’m not old enough to be driving, for one, and for two, Dad would kill me if he found out.’

Ronnie laughed. ‘He won’t know. He’s fast asleep. By the time he wakes up we’ll be back!’

The seed had been planted. Before I knew it, we were both dressed in our best gear and on our way to the seaside! The windows rolled down, the latest sounds playing loudly, we felt so cool as we cruised along – two young men on the lookout for some pretty girls.

We were enjoying ourselves, and were only a couple of miles from our destination when the car in front slowed to a halt. After a few minutes I asked Ronnie if he could see what the problem was.

‘Can’t see a thing,’ he said. ‘I’ll get out and have a look.’ After a few seconds, he was back in the car. ‘It’s trouble; there’s a policeman up ahead.’

My face went white. ‘What?’

‘There’s a copper up ahead stopping the cars.’

I looked around me. We were on a narrow country lane, with a car behind and one in front. I wanted to get out of there as fast as I could, but there was no room, and I was nowhere near confident enough to do a three-point turn and didn’t want to draw attention to myself by trying. I was stuck, and the only way to go was forward, past the policeman.

Ronnie sat fidgeting beside me, making matters worse. I was becoming more and more anxious. It was ridiculous for someone as small as me to be driving this car. I was bound to get pulled over. I’d lose my licence before I’d even got it! And the thought of having to tell my father was almost too much to think about.

‘Ronnie, what am I going to do?’

‘Look bigger!’ he said. I tried straightening up and puffing out my chest, but the more I tried to sit up, the more my foot kept slipping off the brake.

‘This isn’t working, Ronnie,’ I cried. ‘Do something!’ Ronnie noticed a checked blanket on the back seat and hastily folded it into a small cushion and shoved it under my backside.

‘That’s a bit better,’ I said, ‘but still not enough. I need something else.’ By this stage there were only ten cars between me and the policeman, who suddenly gestured for the queue to move forward. ‘For God’s sake, do something quickly, we’re moving.’

Ronnie was now searching around the car. I was staring though the windscreen, my eyes glued to the policeman ahead. Whipping off his jumper, Ronnie shoved it under the blanket.

‘How’s that?’ he asked.

‘I still need something else.’

‘There’s nothing! There’s nothing!’ he cried. ‘What do you want to do, sit on me?’ He then had a flash of inspiration and pulled off his shoes, adding them to the bottom of the pile.

I sat there, gripping the wheel as I drove forward. As luck would have it, the policemen held up his hand in front of me. I was so close I could almost see the colour of his eyes.

‘Jeff, keep cool,’ I heard Ronnie hissing at me. ‘Look old, look grown-up!’

‘How on earth am I supposed to do that?’ I hissed back. The sweat was pouring down my face, my hands were frozen to the wheel, and my legs were beginning to shake as they were stretched out full length so as to reach the brake pedal and hold it down. If my foot slipped, the car would roll forward and the copper would end up spreadeagled across the bonnet.

The seconds ticked slowly by. Ronnie had lowered the sun visor in front of me to try and hide my face, but it didn’t make any difference. Suddenly the policeman turned, beckoning me to move forward. I panicked again. What would happen if I stalled the car? Would he come over to see what was wrong? Trying desperately to remember everything I had learnt, I put the car into gear, eased off on the clutch and gave it some throttle. The Cortina moved forward, slowly and smoothly, and we drove safely by.

Once we were out of sight, I pulled into a lay-by. I opened my door, almost falling off the top of my improvised perch as I got out of the car, the items tumbling to the ground around me. I felt sick and leaned on the bonnet, gulping down huge breaths of fresh air, trying to calm my nerves. Looking up, I saw Ronnie laughing at me through the windscreen.

‘Pass me my shoes, mate,’ he called out. His request broke the tension. As I picked them up, I realized that his size eights had well and truly saved the day.

I continued my driving lessons with Dad and George right up to my seventeenth birthday, when I could officially apply for my driving test. Mum read the Highway Code to me every night and very soon the big day dawned and I passed with flying colours. I couldn’t wait to ask Frank Johnson for my own van.

Going into his office the next day, I felt very confident, like a real adult, so I decided to use his first name, as all the other drivers did. ‘Hey Frank,’ I said, ‘I’ve passed my driving test. Is there any chance of my own van and my own lad now?’

He almost choked with astonishment. ‘You can’t be serious,’ he said. ‘You’re only … er? How old are you?’

‘I’m seventeen, Frank,’ I told him proudly.

‘No, Jeff, I’m sorry. You need to be at least twenty, if not twenty-one. Just keep on as you are until you’re older.’

George told me he wasn’t surprised I’d passed my test but that I was expecting too much to have my own van at my age.

But what was the point of passing if I wasn’t allowed to drive? There was no way I could wait another four years – I had plans. I carried on working as normal for a couple of weeks, but then I could bear it no longer. Having convinced Mum it was a good idea to start my own aerials business, she agreed to help me by answering the telephone and booking in the jobs.

First, I needed a van. I went to a motor auction out in the suburbs, and bid on an old dark-blue Ford Anglia with a roof rack. It was my first auction and I didn’t have a clue what to do, but I watched the other people bidding and by the time the van came under the hammer, I was ready to give it a go.

A few tense minutes and £60 later, the van was mine. I christened her Blue Betty and when I started to drive away, her engine sounded good, and she was driving very nicely. But as soon as I built up speed and put her into fourth gear, she revealed her true personality. She refused to stay in fourth, spitting the gear stick back into neutral with a little clanking noise. It meant I had to physically hold the gear stick to keep it in fourth, and use the other hand to steer.

Finishing work the following evening, I went and bought a good set of second-hand aluminium ladders for £15. They were pretty old but would still do the job, and the bloke I bought them off threw in a box of old tools, too, which would come in handy. Once I’d tied the ladders on to the roof rack, I felt so proud, and stood back to admire my van. It all looked so professional. I was ready to go into business.

13. Postcards from Europe

By the summer of 1972, my aerial business was doing well, and I was enjoying myself, working hard and making good money, but I was beginning to feel a bit restless. Barry, in the meantime, had been planning another trip to Europe with a friend of his. A few days before he was due to leave, however, his friend pulled out and Barry asked me if I wanted to go with him. It came as a bit of a shock, as he and I weren’t particularly close, but having heard about his earlier adventures, I didn’t take too much persuading, as in the summer months trade went quiet.

Within a couple of days, we were waving good-bye to Mum and June. The last thing I heard as we headed off was Mum calling out, ‘Barry, whatever you do, look after Jeff; you know how accident-prone he is. Please bring him back in one piece!’

Barry had bought and fitted out a Land Rover as a very basic mobile home. There was just enough room for the two of us to stretch out full length in the back, our kitchen was a gas camping stove and our bathroom jerry cans of water and a plastic bowl. We headed down to Dover, and looking back at the White Cliffs as the ferry pulled away, I was overwhelmed with anticipation. I’d hardly explored England, let alone anywhere abroad. It was going to be a real adventure.

The age difference between me and Barry had kept us apart when we were growing up, but now that I was nineteen and and he was twenty-five, the gap seemed to have closed and we talked endlessly, learning more and more about each other as the Land Rover ate up the miles through France. Travelling around Europe and stopping off to look for work was the first time we discovered how special a relationship between brothers could be.