Looking Back

 

For many years I had attempted to write an autobiography; a life that was little in diverse to a lot of boys-come-men. I played various innocent infant games with friends at school, like collecting ants from their colony by the teacher’s bicycle shed at Dixon Road Infant School with my best friend, Brian Hill, and then placing them in Judy Marshall’s hair just so we could hear her scream, which would naturally satisfy our amusement. And once we had been punished for our crimes and school was out for the day I would kick a ball over the wreck and then return home for tea. But each time I put pen to paper I froze. It also occurred to me that when you propose to tell people your story in words you feel obliged to open up your heart and empty the locker of the personal secrets that you have kept hidden away for so many years. So why is it that when you confabulate with someone in something rather personal, like, let's say, your first experience in masturbation, it is mostly regarded with a little embarrassment from the listening ear. But if you write your previously hidden secrets down in a book, then it becomes okay - everyone can accept it.

 

For example; imagine being on a bus and someone you know shouts out, “Hey Geoff, I loved your book, especially the part when you had your first wank”.

 

That would probably get a few laughs, and maybe before you alight at your stop you may become treated as some kind of a celebrity and even end up signing a few autographs. But if you were not a published author of autobiographical work and a conversation took place about your first experience of self sexual abuse, then a few peeks of disgust would unify in your direction. But this book is not concerned with my ungodly antics behind closed doors because it is embarrassing, and I can tell you that I have been embarrassed quite a number of times.

 

The basis for why I am jotting down my life story is for more the curious reason. I have always wondered what my forefathers did during their time on this planet. But unless they would have written a diary of some sorts it disappears into a pointless history. And apart from maybe finding out where we ourselves had come from of origin, we know very little or nothing of their personal background. So the reasoning for my own personal background to be put down in words is not necessarily for people to read immediately, it is for the likes of my grandchildren and thereafter to read beyond my passing, and therefore they can witness the niceties and the hardships that I had to endure before they were even considered for a life.

 

No matter what class of upbringing one may have entailed during their infancy, the eventual path in life is decided by themselves. Whether the path’s finishing line is the one in which you intended to find, those final steps await you. I have walked many a hopeful path during my lifetime but they all seem to end up at a pointless junction. I am 51 years old at the time of writing these lines and have accepted that there is no way forward, and regretfully, no way back. I will never fulfill the dreams that I had envisaged for half a century. Youthful dreams of maybe becoming a famous sportsman, or now that those dreams have dilapidated thanks to ageing time, an author perhaps. But I have accepted and believe that I am now closer to writing my obituary, rather than a classic. Granted, my grammar may not be that of the distinguished and more respected of writer’s, but I will continue to print black onto white regardless of my incapabilities.

 

I look back at my childhood and see a small boy who played relatively little with others of my age, and therefore I mainly kept myself to myself, just as I do today. When I was in my early teens I was never asked as to where I had been by my mother when I came strolling in at ungodly times. I guess she was happy to free the house of nuisances and human obstacles. My mother found the time to give birth to eight children, most of whom developed into reasonably honest adults. But with so many children, there is always the chance that a loose nut will appear of which the head spanner fails to tighten. But I am glad to say that my mother took every blow on the chin through all of what was placed in front of her and went on to live a contentedly happy life.

 

A few years ago while I was out of work and washed with boredom I decided to reminisce the day away by visiting the big white house at the top of Poplar Road in the town of Oldbury, deep in the heart of the Black Country where I lived with my grandmother for five years. After alighting the train at Sandwell it felt as though I had stepped out of a time machine, because apart from a few obvious changes due to modern development, everything was just how it was 37 years ago. But has I exited Bromford Road and turned to ascend the low gradient cul-de-sac of Poplar Road, the big white house had gone; demolished as collateral damage to introduce a new housing estate. Nevertheless, I walked up the hill to see this now extended cul-de-sac, only to discover that the fields from the derelict factories, where I had had so many lonely but happy times as a child had also made way for further homes. I stood for a while feeling a little disappointed at this unexpected find. But I had to respect today's technology and so I made the descent back down the road and passed the house where my late aunt Pearl used to live, and where my eldest sister Dawn also resided before she was shipped off to Belfast.

 

I made good use with the rest of the day, visiting my old schools and finding that they were no different from when I had left them all those many years ago. I slowly sipped a pint of Guinness in 'The Railway pub where my uncle Pete used to drink, and I then downed another before boarding the train back to Birmingham. It was whilst travelling home that day on the train that I thought it would be a good idea to write a few memories down for someone else’s future reading. Besides, I was out of work and had very little else to do. So after several attempts at becoming some sort of an author, and several hundred torn pages discarded into the bin due to my inept spelling and woeful grammar, Microsoft Word and a little practice (a lot actually) had finally convinced me that I should just write down my darned history and throw caution to the wind, hiding very little in the way of secrets and truth.

 

It is said that you have little in the way of memories during your infancy. But I remember once being terrified whilst out playing with my sister Dawn, screaming for her to take me away from a stampede of approaching monsters. I used to think that that story was just a dream, but the detail of the event were pinpoint to perfect accuracy when explaining that moment to my mother some time back. She told me that the monsters that were stampeding way back then were, in fact, horses from a nearby farm, and regularly ran wild through the estate where we lived in Bartley Green. The remarkable thing about this incident was the fact that I was only eighteen months old. But apart from that one incident I was generally oblivious and ignorant to anything of interest from the age of four until my move to the Black Country five years later. Those five years that I did spend in Oldbury and its environs were possibly the best days of my natural infancy and I still get an emotional lump even now each time I pass through the old town. What is most hurtful in life, is that you can never physically revisit your past - one can only reminisce about it. This is probably why I decided to write my memoirs, just to take one more stroll down memory lane.

 

 

 

Childhood.

Childhood

 

On the 25th of March 1961 my mother gave birth to a little boy in a rented room at Vicarage Road in King’s Heath, Birmingham. Now with two children it made perfect sense to call it quits on kids. A lonely 16 month old girl had now become sister to a baby brother, which was no doubt a most joyous occasion, and no doubt my dad went out to wet the baby’s head for the second and naturally last time. But Dawn and Geoffrey were soon to be followed by John and Gregg, and it seemed a mixed family basketball team was in rapid development. We had naturally called on Pickford’s assistance on several occasions, due to the growth in population concerning the Peyton household. By the time Gregg had been born we eventually settled for a house on Bolton Road, Small Heath, only a stone’s throw from St Andrews, the home of Birmingham City Football Club. Surely now we can settle down and make ourselves a permanent fixture in this street, rather than a truncated one.

 

It had taken very little time before Dawn and I were in Dixon Road Junior & Infants, and by the time John had joined the merry playground, England were in their second year as Champions of the World at football. I remember absolutely nothing of that momentous occasion, as I am sure that I was out doing what little boys do when there’s sod all on TV (that's if you could afford one). But it didn’t matter, England would apparently rule the world at the beautiful game forthwith, and maybe I can then understand and respect football a little better when Bobby Moore lifts the trophy again at Mexico 1970.

 

Being so young and careless, adult problems, such as worrying about minor details concerning when is my dad's going to find a job, was of little relevance as far as I was concerned, and I wasn’t. There were plenty of people of whom I was uncertain as to where they had come from, or in fact who they were. But there was a lot of drinking and dancing, so I guess they were celebrating something like my mom being pregnant again. Many of these occasions must have been really good, as even the Police became ubiquitous visitors.

 

Whether my dad had eventually found a job somewhere, I don’t know. But if he did, it was so far away that he had little time to visit us. Someone had also kidnapped my big sister Dawn, and for some reason another child was born, and I had a new dad. With Dawn not being able to be found was not such a big problem, and before long, my mom was pregnant again, and I did indeed have a new dad. We were to call him Micky, and he seemed better then my old dad because he was always there. When my old dad did come to see us, he at least bought us gifts, where Micky bought us sod all.

 

It was now that I was a fully grown seven year old, that I began to realize that Micky weren’t my dad, and that my real dad weren’t coming back to live with us ever again. I began to miss my dad a lot during my time at Bolton Road because  he never hit me, my brothers, or my mom, but Micky did. Micky introduced me to the art of having pointless fights with a neighboring lad who was once my friend. He dragged me to the waste ground at the rear of our house and shouted for Brian Hill to come face to face for fisticuffs with me. Sure enough Brian came out, accompanied by his dad, and the prize, should I win, would be a cup of tea. But I was not going to win, simply because I was shaking too much with fright. But I needn’t have been so scared, as the fight was over with one single blow. Whilst I was lying on the floor I looked at Micky, who seemed a little disappointed that I only came second. Needless to say, My cup of tea never materialized; in fact I was put on involuntary hunger strike and there would be no food for my brother Johnny either, as he was to be punished too for my failure in pugilistic matters. It seemed that I was fighting Brian Hill to feed my innocent brother as well as me. Gregg was too young to worry whether I got beaten or not, as he was still innocent in nappies.

 

Micky kept on punishing me and Johnny for reasons of which we had no idea. I don’t actually remember him smacking any of us too often while we were at Bolton Road, but he probably did. My mom would smuggle food up to the attic where our bedroom was, whilst Micky had a drink and watched TV in the front room. I would devour my food hungrily whilst Johnny nibbled at his, so as to make his offerings last a little longer.

 

My time at Bolton Road weren’t all doom and gloom, because when my mom went out for the night with Micky, my uncle Tommy would look after us. He was my dad’s younger brother, and when he came to babysit, he regularly fed me beer and also let me have a draw on his cigarette. Johnny and Gregg would eventually fall asleep in their beds but I refused to budge until I was given more beer. Besides, I was the eldest boy. I did receive a good smack on my legs by Tommy, but I just stayed where I was, unflinched and ignorant of any pain. This did annoy him somewhat, and eventually he gave in and would let me stay up until movement from the returning Micky and mom could be heard outside. I liked it when Tommy came to visit, as he was funny and always played with us.

 

During the football season, and the fact that we were only a short stroll from the Blues (Birmingham City) ground, supporters were in need of parking spaces. Whenever someone would park outside our house I asked whoever was in charge of the vehicle, if he or she would like me to keep an eye on it while he was at the game. He could have said no, but that would mean a lot of possible damage to his pride and joy. I would usually receive payment of up to a thruppenny bit piece, which was ample from each of the three cars that parked outside the house. I did share the sweets that I bought from the shop equally with my brothers. I of course never looked after anyone’s car during the game, but I made sure that I was outside at 4.45pm every other Saturday to collect the loot from the vehicle owner.

 

As I was becoming very old and all the wiser, I could now sense that all was not what they seemed in the household. After all, there was a lot of mouths to feed, and this house ain’t big enough for the whole lot of us, and it looks like me who’s gonna leave (isn't that a song by Sparks). My mom asked me if I wouldn’t mind spending a few days with my nan in Oldbury. Reluctantly I said yes, but spending time with a grandmother usually means lots of luxuries that I wern't getting here. So just to keep my mom happy I added a smile to her invite for me to stay with my nan. My brother, Johnny, would be visiting my other nan - the one who is my dad's mom. This method would elliminate a lot of nuisance children that Micky really didn't need about the place. Gregg, however, was to stay with my mom - possibly because he was too young to be adopted out.

 

Leaving Bolton Road for a few weeks was more of a holiday for me. I did go on a vacation once with Johnny, my dad, Tommy and someone else when I was very little, but all I could remember is that there was a lot of water and sand, and recall very little of the occasion. But as I had stated earlier, I am nine and very old, and the kids around here are far too young for me to play with, as too are my brothers. And besides, I am sure that my nan won’t make me fight for the right to have a cup of tea and some food to eat.

 

Why my mom was crying on the evening of my expected vacation to my nan’s, I don’t know. Maybe  someone had upset her. Nobody was coming to collect me, especially on a cold and wintery evening, so my Mom would have to take me by bus herself. She was carrying a bag full of clothes, just to see me through the few days that I would be away. I was hoping to go by train but mom insisted that we go by bus. We sat upstairs at the front of the empty Double Decker bus, so I could pretend to drive.

 

I asked my mom if she would come and visit me every day, and through a lot more tears, she replied with hugs, “I’ll try”.

 

I trusted her trying promises, because moms don’t lie.

 

We walked down some dark roads until we came to a corner shop. I thought that maybe my mom was going to treat me to a bag of sweets, but instead I was met grimly by my auntie Pearl, who led me and my mom into a room at the back. My mouth dribbled as I past a confectionary stand and wondered if some of them would be brought through to me in due course. Well, I am a guest here.

 

Sitting in front of the television was my grandmother. She did not pester me with hugs and kisses like a normal granny, but instead made space for me and my mom to sit down. My items of clothing were soon taken upstairs by some bloke that I had never seen before (and for the life of me, cannot remember his name, but can be briefly known as Dave). He was in partnership with aunt Pearl at this convenient store, and was extremely kind to me during my extremely short stay in this confectionary wonderland. For Christmas he bought me a mouth harp, and I was to cherish it for many years after, well into my teens (I never mastered it). His girlfriend Liz (alias) was possibly the first girl to introduce amorous thoughts to my once innocent and fragile infancy. She was blonde and slim, and on many occasions kissed me on the lips, telling me how handsome I was. I of course took all of this on board, with the obvious impression that we were madly in love with each other.

 

As I had predicted, sweets were placed in front of me, and it looked as though I was indeed the guest of honour. This gracious living could be the start of a whole new life for me, and my scratchy past can disappear into its pointless juvenile history. And with all this fuss and pestering about my feet, I was totally unaware that auntie Pearl had taken my mom home. Oh well, I will see her in a couple of days no doubt.

 

I was ordered to bed at the un-ghostly time of 7.00pm. What this was all about, I had no idea. But I must make a good example of being the guest of honour, refrain from defaming my nan’s honour, and abide this one off ruling. The only grace about this unexpected request for my early night, is that it was well into winter and the dark nights were prolonged. Even today, I find sleeping while it is light outside, very difficult.

 

Naturally my early night meant that I would wake up early, which of course is what happened. Many people manage to sleep until hunger, work, a piddle, or other natural causes force them to jump out from slumberland. I on the other hand, fall into only one of those categories, and that is a bite to eat. But being new here, I was not acquainted with the pantry, or in fact, where the kitchen was. Nevertheless, I did know where the candy was kept. I was oblivious to the time, but even a lad just shy of ten years could tell that it was the middle of the night. My brain was well awake and booming overdrive with indecent thoughts of everything sugary. I lent an ear for anything resembling sounds of even a mice’s fart, but all was still. My hungry belly begged for help, and I was determined to assist it in maybe a Milky Bar and so on. ‘How well does my Nan sleep? I wondered. ‘Does she snore? I hoped so, because at least then, I would know that she was asleep. Another thing then crossed my mind. ‘Does anybody else live here? I was cross examining myself with question after question, all of which I was unable to answer. Another plea from my empty tummy, and I knew I had to help it. The confectionary heist was on.

 

Everything seemed to be going hunky-dory negotiating the spiraled staircase, well the top few steps anyway. But once I encountered the final few steps, the inevitable discrepancy of creaking occurred, forcing me to revert to gritting my teeth in the expectancy that it would silence any sounds forthwith. This caused a stock-still moment at the most censorious part of what had by now become a committed task. Turning back was pointless now. If I have to go back up, it may as well be fully loaded with sweets and chocolate, ‘Oh beloved chocolate’

 

As I finally felt the door handle to the backroom, I expected it to be another obstacle, in that it would squeak, but happily it did not. I reached out in the hope of finding a light switch, which I found, and then there was light. I had possibly negotiated a third of my quest, even though I was oblivious of what a third was then. Without a look around the musty smelling room, I made haste towards the shop area, another door was met, but by now, doors were ubiquitous immaterialisms for the boy who would evade capture.

 

To reap the rewards of my adventure, I would naturally need to turn on the light. But I was spared this hiccup, as a streetlamp assisted me with a sufficient enough beam that haloed heavenly upon the array of infant delights. I was in no position to be over choosy with confectionary delights right now, as I had braved the quest thus far, and would be pushing my luck a little. And besides, I was dribbling like a Golden retriever.

 

Two handfuls of whatever were on display, and I was on the return trip back to my room for introductory festivities. But I almost dropped the whole hoard when I saw a man asleep on the dining room couch. “Who the hell’s that?" I wondered. Whoever it was, was fast asleep and so I made haste with stealth before turning off the light and returning to my room and subsequently bed. I lay there for a few moments to regain a steady heartbeat and unnerve my system. Moments later, I was feasting on Milky Bars and other dental concerning warfare. It is really nice here you know.

 

Due to a full belly, I managed to go back to sleep. It was light outside by the time I awoke, and this gave me the opportunity to take a look out of the window and see what spectacular scenery was to be bestowed before my lucky eyes. I was a little disappointed to be

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 24.02.2014
ISBN: 978-3-7396-1027-6

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Widmung:
To my Grandmother, who took care of me for the few years that I was with her. To my Mother, who hid the scars of domestic violence, and also to her persistence bravery in bringing up eight children. To my Sister Dawn, who kept belief that she would someday achieve her goal. To Brothers John and Gregg for being loyal and loving siblings. And to Rion for having a good laugh with me when we drank a few beers in the wilds of some of our rural hiding places. love to all of my friends and family that have since passed on to another world, for whom these lines would have been shorter if it weren't for their input into my life. To my dear Sister Gail. Well done for making a better life for yourself from the life of degradation. To my beautiful Daughter Kerry Davina (Baby-Dee). I love you more than anyone else could possibly imagine, and thanks for making me a Granddad. To the true friend of Caroline Lucy Tomlins. R.I.P. Finally to my son Geoffrey. See you soon; love Dad.