Out of the Woods But Not Over the Hill Read Free Page B

him. He believed, as did my mother, that the key to success lay not in wealth but in education. Education opened doors and he was determined that his children should take every opportunity to receive the best education on offer. He had seen first hand, during his army service and latterly working in the steelworks, what a gulf there existed in the world in opportunity, wealth and education – how the officers and the managers were set apart from others by dint of what he called ‘their schooling’.
    Following my father’s death, when I broached the subject of his scholarship examination with my mother, she told me that my father was quite content with his lot in life and never aspired to anything more. He loved his family and provided for us, enjoyed the simple things in life but was unambitious. I cannot believe that. I cannot believe that he was happy working in the steel-works with all the noise, heat, oil, dust and dirt. As a boy, on my way to watch Sheffield United I remember well the bumpy bus rides from Rotherham to Sheffield via Attercliffe, past the dark and dirty place where he worked for thirty or more years. As I looked down from the top deck of the bus on that grim environment, as young as I was, I knew I wanted more out of life than this.
    My parents were of ‘the old school’ when it came to education. Unless I was at death’s door, I had to attend school, do my homework, listen to my teachers and do as they said, and if I were to get into any trouble at school I would be in twice as much trouble at home. Sometimes I felt they supported the school a little too much. I recall once, when I was about ten, I was presented with my school dinner on a plastic plate and wouldn’t eat it. There was a slice of pale cold meat edged in fat, a dollop of cold mashed potatoes and sliced carrots swimming in greasy gravy. None of the healthy fare served up in schools today and none of the choices. I folded my arms and resolutely refused to pick up my knife and fork. I was made to remain in the corner of the hall when it had been cleared after dinnertime, with the plate on a table in front of me. I was told I would not be allowed to go until it was eaten. I finally did as I was told and then went to the boys’ toilet and was promptly sick. When I relayed this dreadful injustice to my parents at tea time, my father, looking over his glasses, merely remarked, ‘Put it down to experience, son. Now eat your tea.’
    On the Road to Reading
    Thinking over what gave me the most pleasure in my childhood, I should place, first and foremost, reading. My mother, a natural storyteller, taught me nursery rhymes and read from picture books. I knew all the old favourites – Chicken Licken , The Gingerbread Man , The Giant Turnip , Rumpelstiltskin , The Magic Porridge Pot and many more – before I started school. Most evenings, before I went to bed, she would read aloud with me snuggled up next to her. I loved listening to the story, following the words on the page as she read and feeling that special physical closeness. Sometimes she would change a word, take a bit out or add something, and I could tell and told her so. I might not be able to read those black marks on the page but I knew the stories so well. Later, when the story was told and the light turned off, I would close my eyes and dream of a world peopled with the magical characters I had encountered in the book.
    My father too captured my imagination with his stories. He would bring back books from Rotherham Library to read, or buy a couple of old tattered versions of the classics from the market, taking out his finds from the brown paper carrier bag where they had been hiding between the vegetables and fruit. Once, he arrived from the market with a large hard-backed tome called King of the Fighting Scouts , which depicted on the front cover a garish illustration of a soldier on a rearing horse, hacking his way through a horde of