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~ My Page ~
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[My Page] [Family History] [Memories of Glen Hills School] [Memories of Sheringham]
[Family Tree] [Foursights Rock Group 1964] [Foundry Rock Group 1971]
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I was born in Leicester on November 16th, 1944 and lived at 86 Leicester Rd, Glen Hills, Glen Parva (just up the hill from the County Arms) near Blaby. I attended Glen Hills Primary School (1950-56); South Wigston Secondary Modern (High) School (1956-1959); Guthlaxton Grammar (1959-1961) and Hinckley Technical College (1961-1963). The latter was during my apprenticeship at the English Electric Company in Whetstone (1961-1965). While working as an apprentice at the EEC in 1963, I met up with three old friends from my Glen Hills Primary days: Bill Coleman, Douglas Abbott and David Lindsey. Together, we formed a moderately successful pop group called the "Foursights" (originally the "Primates"). A picture of the group, from a book called "The End of Innocence," and further information about the Foursights, can be found by following this link --> [Link]. My memories of life at Glen Hills Infants and at that wonderfully nostalgic old wooden building (the Juniors school) can be found further down this page --> [link]. Glen Hills Juniors and Infants School: I remember my first days at that school; the children only one or two years ahead seamed like such big kids and the older ones like adults. Day one - 5 years old - Mrs. Biggs class: I had forgotten my lemon-curd sandwiches and little packet of sugared almonds, and as I stood behind the second-year kids in the assembly (held in Mrs. Hopkins classroom) crying, I distinctly remember looking through my tears at the enormous kids in front of me all of a 6 years old. The junior's school was made of wood and erected shortly before the second World War as a temporary measure - it's still there. Not many kids of my generation, let alone later ones, get to go to school in a wooden building. Common enough at one time in my new home of Canada, but not in suburban Leicester. I loved that school and still do and I cherish my memories of my time there. I will be devastated when they finally relent and modernise the whole site. It had such a unique smell, and when I last visited there in 1997, nothing much had changed, especially not that distinct wooden aroma. During my last year at Glen Hills I made the football team; we used to play our inter-school matches and some of the practices at the �grounds� right behind the prefabs at the end of Hillsborough Road. I was a dreadful player, yet I loved to play for my team (inside left) and was so proud of my uniform, that I frequently washed and ironed it myself. Some of my team mates at that time were Peter Adlam, Bill Coleman, Douglas Abbott, Tony Grey, Tony Cox, Richard Cole, Paul Everitt, Anthony Albert, Nigel Austin (he was a year younger) and, I think, Peter Green and David Whykes. The best of times were the Christmas parties; they were always the same format, and I think that's why we loved them so much. In later years at Glen Hills, when I was in the Juniors, at some point in the afternoon before the party, they would open up a sliding partition between two of the classes and we would get things underway with a few games. Later we would retire to the old canteen for sandwiches, blancmange, jelly, cake, pop, etc. (the menu never changed). Then it was back to the school building again for more games, and then, finally, once more over to the canteen for 3 or 4 cartoons on an old noisy projector - then home. Wonderful. I have written more extensively about my years at Glen Hills School in an article below [Link]. Peewit Hollow: The famous Leicester author Sue Townsend [Link] grew up in one of the "prefabs" not all that far from where I lived in Glen Hills. In an article she wrote called "Memories of a School Girl Age 4 1/4," she referred to having "grown up in paradise." Now I'm pretty sure she wasn't referring to Glen Hills as such, but probably more to the fact that as kids of our age, and in those days, we could go almost anywhere with relative safety. Our limits to wander through fields, woods, spinneys, abandoned quarries, or along riversides, canal banks, railway cuttings and embankments were only limited by how far our little legs could carry us, and how far we would wander before fatigue or hunger would send us scurrying home for a lump of bread pudding if tea or dinner wasn't ready. My favorite place in Glen Hills as a boy, and as a refuge from my dysfunctional parents, was to set off down the "Black Pad" to "Peewit Hollow." A romantic enough sounding place, but in reality, only an old abandoned clay pit or possibly what they call in Canada, a "borrow" pit. That is, a place to remove earth and clay for use on - in this case - the building of railway embankments for the Great Central Railway (GCR). The name notwithstanding, as far as we local kids from the Glen Hills were concerned - it had it all: trees, bushes, marshes, hills for sledding or biking, a vast expanse for launching model airplanes and, of course, the most important thing of all - a railway line. The Great Central Railway, the last main line built in Britain, ran right alongside the old clay pit, and we kids would clamber atop an old wooden railwayman's hut to watch the trains thunder by at great speed. In the hollow we could quietly spend most of our weekends and summer evenings and rarely be bothered by anyone. Even as we got older and into bolder and darn right dangerous pursuits, I can only once remember being challenged by an adult, and that was when a local farmer complained after we had once again set the embankments alight with our fire arrows. Of course we loved to play right on the railway lines, starting out relatively innocently by putting large English copper pennies on the line and letting the locomotives squash them until they were as thin as razor blades and about the size of a jam jar lid. This venture progressed in later years to the practice of putting railway ballast (rocks) on the line. I can remember my friend Peter Jepson and I - thinking that we had finally overdone it by putting too many rocks on the line at once - running screaming through the trees as the train pounded the rocks into dust with a tremendous clatter. It gets worse: By the time we were about ten years old, we would sit on the railway line and see who would be the last one to get off as express trains thundered down upon us. One time there was about six of us (Peter Adlam, Doug Abbott, Tony Grey, myself and two others) sitting on the railway line as a train, south bound from Leicester Central Station, approached the area near the Spinny or "Woods" (another favorite area located at the end of The Bridle in Glen Hills). Nowadays I can but only imagine the horror on the driver and fireman's faces as slowly, one by one, we chickened out and leapt off the rails as the train got closer and closer. These encounters were usually followed up with great clouds of steam being let off and a shrill blast from the train whistle; occasionally, the driver or fireman would try to soak us with hot water from a hand-held hose. In recent years the whole area has been transformed after the closing of the GCR in the mid sixties. The Spinny is still there; however, the railway cutting leading into Peewit Hollow and the clay pit itself, have all been filled in with refuse - very sad. If I ever get to be King, I'm going to make them put it all back the way it was, and while they're at it, they can rebuild all the branch lines they tore up (bloody Beaching and his axe). There were other notable firsts in Peewit Hollow, but as I want to preserve my PICS/RSACi rating at zero, I will leave it at that. I will have a picture or two available of the Spinny and Peewit Hollow in due course. The Blaby Brickyards clay quarry (a working quarry at the time of my youth) was immediately to the east of Peewit Hollow. One Sunday afternoon, my cousin Martin and I, snuck down to the bottom of the pit to an area of pure natural sand in the form of a small, shear face or cliff. Sand Martins were nesting in the face of the cliff above the reach of our little bird-nesting hands, so we proceeded to try and undermine the nests by scooping out a horizontal trench at the bottom of the sand face to a depth of about the length of our forearms. All of a sudden, the entire face of the cliff gave way, and we were buried up to our chests. Two very lucky boys (aged about 10 and 12 respectively) dug themselves out and retreated from what could have been a terrible tragedy. No one new we were there and it could have been ages before we were found - if ever. The Sand Martin's nests remained in tact. Francis Barnet: No, not some historical figure, but the name of (or rather the type of) my first motorbike. What a boost to my confidence that was; to go from total obscurity at school, to being one of only two kids in the entire school who rode there (to Guthlaxton) on a motorbike. My dad bought it for me for �9 from some poor bloke who brought it round to our house and gave my Dad a sob story about how he was out of work and badly needed the money. He wanted over �20 for it, but my Dad, much to my embarrassment, coldly offered him �9 - take it or leave it. Always the business man me Dad. It was only 125 cc, but I was so proud of it, and when I came home from my first trip out, I even more proudly proclaimed to my Dad that "I got 48 mph out of it," to which he typically replied: "bloody fool." The girls called me "Putt Putt." - how unkind. At age fifteen, I ventured all the way to Birmingham (after school) to see Leicester City play Birmingham in a FA Cup match, but I got lost on the way and had to stand outside the grounds and just listen to the game. My first really big trip was to Hunstanton (95 miles) to visit my sister Angela. My Dad wanted me to promise that I would not go over 30 mph (yeh right). I remember being very honest and telling him that I just couldn't promise that. Amazingly he accepted it and let me go. The first part of the journey to Uppingham seemed to be an eternity. It was cold and wet, so I stopped for baked beans on toast and a cuppa at a little cafe there. Early in my apprenticeship (at the EEC in Whetstone) Dad traded in the Frannie Barnet for a 250 cc Greaves, and I was able to use it to travel both to work and to Hinckley for my apprenticeship tech school training. I promptly removed the baffles from the silencers and roared around Glen Hills, Blaby, Whetstone and the surrounding districts.This was much to the dismay of sleeping neighbours, when I made my late night exits from girlfriend's homes. I learned to coast home on these occasions, building up speed first, and then switching off the engine before arriving at our house. Once I rushed home to get ready to go out to a performance of the "Foursights" (see below). I laid the Greaves down on the ground in front of my Dad's Morris Minor (Shooting Brake) rushed in home, got changed, rushed out, and promptly drove over my motorbike. Later still I had a 250cc Ducati for a short time and what a clapped out and a bucket of bolts that was. My last bike, a 650cc BSA Gold Star, I bought entirely myself. I was too stupid to realise that it had been sprocketed for a side car and was therefore also clapped out; however, It still felt pretty good riding a big bike at last even though, because of the low gearing, it would only do 80 mph flat out. How I survived those days, I really don't know. My friends - those that had motorbikes - and I would roar around the country lanes between various villages around the Blaby and Lutterworth areas. And do so with scant regard for other motor vehicles or for safety in general. We would look for long bends where we would try and lean over far enough so as to drag the footrest along the ground just like our racing heroes Mike Hailwood and Phil Read. I fell off of my Greaves about four times, including once in Hinckley, where I got my "Cow Horn" handlebars in the groin. This was thanks to some fellow who turned right across my path while I was coming round a bend on a wet road - just opposite the Technical College. Even before getting my first motorbike, my friends and I would cycle all the way to Mallory Park to see the racing there (both car and motorcycle). I very much wanted to race myself, as had my Dad. I had had my eye on a 125cc racing Bultaco - a Spanish made bike - in a shop window on the Narborough Road not far from the West Bridge. But my Dad wouldn't here of it; he simply said that he "didn't want to see me killed." I must admit though, each time I fell off of my motorcycle, I got less and less brave, and a lot less foolish. So who knows how long I would have survived the racing game. Rupert's Gateway and Castle Gateway: Much as I like the images of these two locations by David Weston (see "About the Artist --> [Link]) my memories of this area are somewhat less than nostalgic: as a sixteen year old, I had to appear in court there for a fairly serious incident (B & E at the Blaby Cricket Club). I got off very lightly with a small fine (�5) and a warning from the magistrate that he "never wanted to see me appear before him again." Unfortunately and somewhat ironically his very next case was me again - up for a minor motorcycle infraction (riding around Blaby Park). Even some of the officials in the court had a smile on their face as I immediately walked back in to the court after having received that stern warning. The lowest point in my teenage years, that incident, and it very much upset my parents; however, things later turned around with my involvement in the early sixties rock group, the "Foursights," and later still, with a chance visit to Arizona at the age of nineteen. Tucson, Arizona: My father constantly badgered me to emigrate (but dad I'm only five!). Even as a teenager he would tell me that I "should get out of this country." However, my response was also typical teenager - "I don't want to leave me friends." And yet, as often happens in life, events were to conspire to change my mind. My sister Angela had married an American serviceman and had emigrated to Oklahoma in 1962. She went out alone with two small children aboard the Queen Mary. My Mum later joined her in Tucson in early 1964 and I pretty well figured I had seen the last of both - or at least my sister. Dad surprised me by offering to pay for a trip to Arizona in July of 1964. I was an apprentice at the EEC in Whetstone and it was not easy to get the time off; they didn't call our apprenticeship "indentured" for nothing and the atmosphere there, in the training school especially, was quite strict and a lot like school. But they relented, and three weeks after I was married, my Dad and I headed for our first stop - New York. I had the typical British attitude that America was an inordinately violent place and I can remember getting off the plane with my fists up (metaphorically speaking). Apart from experiencing a little bit of New York bus driver rudeness - I had asked how much it was to the next terminal and of course throughout North America the fares are standard regardless of distance - nothing bad happened throughout the trip. Ironically, after visiting the States now perhaps thirty times and never having experienced any violence, crime or any other untoward event (immigration officials notwithstanding - I hate them all), I now feel more paranoid and unsafe in Britain. Later as we circled Tucson shortly before our arrival at about 9:00 p.m., the first thing that struck me about North American cities in general and Tucson in particular was the brightness of the city from the air. Tucson shone like a diamond in the desert, and as we left the plane and walked across the tarmac, the overpowering smell of the desert and the desert blooms (it had just rained) and the incredible heat for that time of the day, were the next things to be indelibly etched in a teenage Leicester-boys memory. It was the monsoon season and my poor sister was so embarrassed that it rained for the first three days. The flash floods, common in that area in those days, flooded into the City and turned it in to a desert Venice - unforgettable. Tucson is surrounded by mountains and throughout our stay we were treated to almost daily lightning displays all around us even when the weather in the City was good - and it really was very good for the most part. After the first three days the sun appeared and the temperatures soon hit the hundreds and stayed there. And the sunsets - they were unbelievable. I just fell in love with the place and wanted to stay there for ever - right there and then. Unfortunately that wasn't possible. I had to finish my apprenticeship and I had a three week-old marriage; the separate honeymoons (in effect) had not gone down well for some reason. Upon my return to Leicester, I became obsessed with the idea of returning to Arizona and drove my new wife nuts by constantly going on about it. But I had never been more sure about anything in my life, at least to that point anyway; I was bound and determined to emigrate. As it turned out, getting to the States was a lot harder than I had anticipated, so I eventually compromised and decided on Western Canada, with the initial thought that I might go down to live in the States later. It never happened; however, Tucson remains a very special memory and one of my favorite places. Emigration to Canada: I was married to a Lynne Blick (a Blaby gal) who was just 16; I was only 19 myself. We sailed for Canada, about twenty months later, from Liverpool in April of 1966 aboard "The Empress of Canada" and endured near hurricane-force gales (actually force 9) in the mid Atlantic. We had a baby girl, Karen, age 18 months, and Lynne was about six months pregnant. During the storm, there were many broken limbs, toppled high-chairs, dumped table settings at mealtimes and bars cleared of all glassware. There were ropes everywhere to hang on to, and just general mayhem - I loved it and didn't get the least bit sick. However, Lynne had a terrible time and was sick for three days. When the ship arrived at Montreal, volunteers had to unload the ship due to longshoreman strike. A two-day train journey to Calgary in western Canada followed. Lynne and I were divorced in 1979; she still lives in Calgary. I have known Lynne since she was 14 years old and was still at South Wigston High School. As for me, I have lived fairly happily (for the most part) in Alberta, ever since; that is, with the following exceptions: I lived in the wilderness location of Rainbow Lake (in the far NW corner of Alberta) between 1967 and 1969; back in Leicester (Glenfield) between 1973 and 1975; and, finally, in Leicester again (Aylestone) between 1983 and 1985. In 1969, in Rainbow Lake, I became involved in rock music again. You can get a look at that group by following this link: [Foundry]. Second Marriage: I remarried in 1982 and not long after (August 83) headed for another two-year stint in Leicester for what was supposed to be a working-holiday, my wife Carol (a Calgary gal) and I met and stayed with a wonderful family in Aylestone - The Mackleys at 16, Lutterworth Road. We became part of the Aylestone Baptist Church community for two very happy years. During that time, I mostly worked at Goodwin Barsby in the centre of Leicester, and Carol spent our last year in Leicester working at the Leicester Building Society in Oadby. Also during that time at the Mackley's house I took up playing a brass instrument again, as well as rebuilding a 1958 MG Magnette. Carol took tap dancing lessons in the village, and we were both youth-group leaders in Aylestone . �Shurrup
you lot, I can�t 'ear me tele�: In the fall of 1983 I joined a local community brass band and by Christmas of that year I was ready to join them on one or two of their fund-raising Christmas Carol ventures. On one occasion, we set up and played outside the Town Hall, on another less gratifying occasion, we were playing door to door in the Aylestone Park area. We were just along the Cavendish Road directly opposite the old municipal swimming baths, when suddenly a row-house front door flew open. An irate man yelled �Shurrup you lot, I can�t 'ere me tele.� As we slinked off along the road towards the railway bridge, he added: �Anyway, Christmas is for kids not you bloody lot.� By this remark I gather that he thought we were either a Salvation Army band or some other kind of a church-related band. Ironic in a sense, considering that this band was just out for the funds it could generate and was about as secular and mercenary as you could get. Coincidence or Providence: The following section is the story of a wonderful coincidence - or maybe providence, it depends on your point of view - that played itself out over a period of 25 years and came to fruition at the Mackleys' house when we first moved in. So, coincidence or providence, you decide; this is the genesis of that story: When I was fifteen (around 1959) I played the baritone horn for both the South Wigston School Band and for the Wigston Temperance Silver Prize Band. In the latter, I sat in front of one of only two girls in the band; her name was Mary, she played the trombone, she was quite attractive, and she was two years older than I was. Consequently, given the dynamics between a 17 year-old good-looking girl, and a 15 year old chubby boy, she didn't find it necessary to talk to me; not even once as I recall. On one occasion, the band played at a garden fete in Aylestone, and I can recall the location: a large Victorian house on the Lutterworth Road, just across from the newsagents (which is still there) and possessing a large orchard where the band played and the fete was held. Now, fast forward to Calgary, Alberta in 1983. I have just re-married and lost a responsible job all within a period of about two months. I am fed up, and since my wife Carol, has had enough of her job, we decide to go to England on a working holiday. We head for a friend of Carols in Bristol, and we have no intention at that time of settling in Leicester. However, events were to again conspire to change our minds: On our first tour of England, some weeks later, after showing Carol Sheringham (my home from home as a boy), we headed west for Leicester to spend a few days looking round my old haunts. We visited my Aunt Kath in Duncan Rd and started discussing family history. She mentioned that she thought that my Grandfather and Grandmother had attended the Aylestone Baptist Chapel, so since it was a Sunday, we headed over there to see if we could get a look at their records after the service. We were introduced to Stan Mackley who went and got the record book. It only went back to the thirties; but in any case, it later turned out that my grandparents had actually attended Aylestone Park Methodist. The Mackley's invited us home for tea, and at their house, we learned that they had a flat for rent: a single room over the detached garage with a small kitchen on the ground level. However, someone else was in the running for it, an older lady, and so we headed back to Bristol disappointed and hoping that the other person would change their mind. Unbeknownst to us, so did Stan and Dorothy's four children, Beth (11), Lucy (9) Hannah (3) and Manoj their adopted teenage son. Well we got the place as it turned out, and so we headed back to Leicester and moved in. Now the fruition of the long, played-out coincidence: One day, not long after we had moved in, I was out in the Mackley's front yard and noticed two sets of steps that seemed to lead nowhere. In fact, they just led up to the neighbours fence, and behind that fence was a relatively new semi-detached house. As I stood there pondering the odd situation, that scene of the garden fete in 1959 started to come back to me and I realised that this was the large Victorian house of my distant memory, and that those steps, which now led nowhere, had at one time, led into the large orchard where our band had played all those years ago. I rushed into tell Dorothy of my revelation and how I had played in the Wigston Temperance Silver Prize Band. Dorothy calmly said: "Oh my sister Mary used to play in that band." Back to Canada: As mentioned, during these two years back in Leicester, I restored a 1958 MG Magnette four door saloon from the ground up. We shipped it back to Canada aboard the Polish liner the Stephan Batory. It was a very emotional farewell as several people from the Aylestone Baptist Community, including the Mackleys, of course, and the Pastor and his wife (Brian and Beryl) came to wave us good bye at Tilbury Docks. The band played Auld Lang Syne as we departed down the Thames. This time I was quite sick. Only for a day and a half, but Carol fared a lot worse than me with a three-day stint ill in her bunk. But apart from that it was a good trip with lots of fine Polish meals, but the passage was sooow slow. They unloaded the MG (from the hold) at Montreal, and we drove it back to Calgary via upper New York State, staying at Lake Placid, and then back in to Canada at Niagara Falls and on to Calgary arriving several days later after experiencing a blizzard in Winnipeg. After spending most of 26 years doing either machine-shop work, fitting, fabrication or welding, I had really had just about enough of the dirt, danger and injuries, so I took a year and a half off from work (to be a Mr. Mom) and then went back to school (college) in late 1988. I took Chemical Technology, graduating with honours and with the highest mark for the year (I was also the oldest). I found employment as a lab analyst, soon after graduating, with Bio-Chem Consulting Services in Calgary, and I have been there ever since. About four years ago I was promoted to Quality Control Supervisor and now spend most of my days behind a computer doing office work. It is somewhat ironic, considering that before I went back to college, I swore that I would never touch one of those dam computers. The work I do now includes quality control, quality assurance and Canadian and US regulatory work. This type of work is all connected to OTC pharmaceuticals, vitamin-mineral products and traditional herbal medicines. If Thine Eyes Deceive Thee: In part of June and July of 1997, Carol, the kids and I went back to Leicester (for a whole month) for the first time in 10 years. It was that long for Carol and me, but not for the kids as they were not born 1n 1987, although Stefanie technically went over there in her Mother's tummy. While I was over there, I had a bit of a run in with the law: It all started after a nice weekend with the family in York. I had gone to a swanky banquet at the Railway Museum, and the rest of the family (with our friends - the Mackleys - from Aylestone) had gone off to the Whitby (Robin Hood Bay) area. Before the banquet, I had made the decision that to go in a suit was risky as I didn't want to be overdressed. Instead, although I did wear a shirt and tie, I chose to dispense with the suit in favour of my new leather jacket and dress pants. As it turned out (to my embarrassment) out of the hundreds of people there, I was the most under dressed person milling about in the Great Hall where the reception part of the evening was being held. Anyway, several glasses of champagne later, and I really didn't care anymore. The next day I took off alone (in a car borrowed from the Mackleys) to do some family research in the Cowan Bridge area near Tunstal in Lancs. My Great Grandfather back to my GGG Grandfather came from, or lived in, that tiny Hamlet. Family research used to be a big hobby of mine (no I�m not a Mormon - moron perhaps) before I started flirting with my new mistress - the web page. Up around Tunstal, I had been poking around in various village church graveyards. Some of them were quite overgrown with weeds, and I soon developed the worse case of hay fever I have ever experienced in my whole life. It started suddenly with eyes itching like crazy, and then they proceeding to swell up eventually giving me massive bags under the eyes. I looked dreadful. Deciding to cut my visit to the area short and head back to Leicester, I figured I could make just one more stop on the way home. The village of Wennington was also of ancestral interest to me, so I headed there, stopped the car, hopped out and stood in the middle of the village green (horrifying visage an all). There I proceeded to video tape a panoramic view of the whole village before I hopped back in the vehicle and headed home down the M6 - eyes wide shut and streaming with tears. Near midnight that evening (thank heaven we were all up) there is a knock at the Mackley's door; our host answers it, and there stands two members of the local constabulary (one policeman and one policewoman). The policeman proceeds with a spiel that seemed right off some cliche-ridden TV show: �Excuse me Sir, is this your car?� �Yes that's right,� says Stan. �Well we �ad a report, earlier this afternoon, of suspicious activity involving this vehicle in the village of Wennington in Lancashire. Apparently, someone driving this vehicle was seen video-taping the �ouses in that village.� At this point, I stepped forward to explain everything (ugly eyes an all). At least they found it mildly amusing, but I still had to go into a room with them alone and give details regarding what I was doing up there. Family History: I am somewhat fortunate in this area, as I have four cousins in Leicester who have done extensive family research. However, before learning of their efforts, I had done a great deal of work in that regard myself. Together we have traced the Airey name back through about six generations to the little Hamlet of Cowan Bridge, near Tunstal, in Lancashire (as already mentioned above) where William Airey resided. He was born in 1743. My maternal Grandmother's family were "Steeples" and Leicester through and through. Because many generations of the Steeples' males were "Freeman of the City of Leicester," tracing them right back to 1608 was relatively easy. Mum's side was London all the way back; however, I was not able to get back very far and soon ran into a brick wall at about the Great, Great Grandparent level. One interesting find however, was that of the marine artist John Cecil Clay (one of my maternal GG Grandfathers). He was born in Ramsgate, Kent, and was a member of the Royal Society of British Artists. He exhibited at the British Institute (Fishing and Sailing Boats on the Coast - sold for 168 pounds, London, 1968); The Royal Academy (Coast Scene 1844); The Suffolk Street Galleries (Landscape and Figures 1837, French Fishing Boats in a Squall 1837, Shipping 1844, A Stiff Breeze 1856). If you have an interest in genealogy, I have documented my ancestry in an article called "Family History" [Link], with a further link to "Family Tree" [Link]. More to come of recent years... I would like to hear from anyone who knew me in the past; meanwhile, it is my hope that many ex-pats from the Leicester area will make use of the Guest Book, the Log Book and the section called Memory Lane to try and make their own contacts and/or post their own (short) stories. |
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My earliest memories are of Sheringham Link -->[Link]. I can remember them dismantling the wartime fortifications and I must not have been any older than about two or three years old. My Grandma had a lovely home (rose cottage) near the seafront in one of the traditional Norfolk flint-faced cottages. It was located (still is) at the Vee junction (opposite Cliff Road) where Beeston Road splits into Beach Road and Wyndham Street. Although my Mum was born in India, she spent most of her youth in Sheringham living there from about the age of six (before WWI) to some time in the thirties; her Father ran the telephone exchange and died during WWII as the result of a heart attack brought on by a bombing raid. After the war, at a location just down Beach Rd and just off of the promenade, my Dad owned an amusement arcade and the flat just above it. Across the road was Woodman�s Caf� and they were family friends. One day, after helping myself to change in the arcade and putting it in the slot machines, my dad put me over is knee and gave me a good spanking. I can see the mitt full of change going in every direction across the floor. Another very early memory;
however, most were good, and many happy summers were spent in
Sheringham. Most summers in fact, or at least apart of them,
were spent at the cottage or at the flat. When I was about
eleven, I met an American boy, Glen Sullivan from Montana, and
we became good friends for many years.
One summer, I travelled to Sheringham on the train by
myself to spend two or three weeks with the Sullivan family.
His dad used to take us to the US airbase (officially it was
still RAF) at Sculthorpe and there I had my first real
hamburger; I can still remember the dill pickles and my first
French Fries. There were always Americans around my family in
those times, as my Mum and Dad had American friends and my
sister Angela was dating servicemen (and later married one).
This all helped sow the seeds of later desires to emigrate. What wonderful freedoms we enjoyed in those days: Free to wander all day long along the cliffs, beaches and seafronts, to watch the fishermen launching or bringing in and unloading the crab boats, to try and shoot bats along the cliff tops with our catapults (an impossibility) or to sail model sailing boats on the pond in front of the Grand Hotel. The Grand, by then, had been turned into apartments for the American service families; now, sadly the hotel is no longer there (just the boating pond remains). I still have a scar on my left forearm from crashing into (or through) a glass door of an apartment in that building. I had been chasing an American girl through the door at a party when she slammed it shut behind her. I can also recall the iodine I received as a result of my injuries. There were dozens of large crab boats in those days and we used to love to watch them winch the boats up the shingle beach; what a unique sound that is, the sound the flint pebbles make as you walk across them. When a bad gale was forecast, the fishermen would drag all the boats off of the beach and put them all along Beach road; sometimes they stretched as far as my Grandma�s cottage. The large boats have all gone now, as has much of the crab fishery. But Sheringham remains, and always will be, one of my very favourite places. |
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I grew up in Glen Hills and spent my first 19 years at that location. In the article, "Memories of a School Girl Age 4 1/4," by Sue Townsend [Link] refers to growing up in paradise; however, this, I am sure, is not a reference to Glen Hills as such, but to the fact that as kids of our age and in those days, we could go anywhere with relative safety. Our limits
to wander through fields, woods, spinneys, abandoned quarries
(such as Pee-Wit hollow), or along riversides, canal banks,
railway cuttings and embankments was only limited by how far
our little legs could carry us before fatigue or hunger would
send us scurrying home. The
�fifties� seemed so peaceful ordered and safe.
And yes, there were what seemed like long hot summers
and real snow falls in the winter.
We kids would toboggan on bits of cardboard down the
slopes leading into the Blaby Brickyards quarry and do so in
short pants and with one or two pairs of old socks on our
hands to try and keep out the cold. I was particularly interested in finding out that Sue Townsend was at Glen Hills during the period 1951-58 as I was there myself at about the same time (1950-1956). I have tried to force myself remember her but of course I can�t. Do you remember me Sue? (yeah right). I started in January of 1950 so we were, in fact, two years apart; however, at that age, that is an insurmountable gulf. I remember
my first days at that school and the children one or two years
ahead seamed like such big kids and the older ones like
adults. Day one -
5 years old - Mrs. Biggs class: I had forgotten my lemon-curd sandwiches and little packet of
sugared almonds, and as I stood behind the second-year kids in
the assembly (held in Mrs. Hopkins classroom) crying, I
distinctly remember looking through my tears at the enormous
kids in front of me all of a 6 years old. Well
that is about 20% older at that age and I was always small
anyway. Sue refers to the prefabs where she lived - I remember them well. Day two - playground - just outside Mrs. Biggs' classroom: A second-year boy from the prefabs where Sue lived punched me in the stomach for absolutely no reason other than for his own pleasure. That boy later achieved some notoriety when in his last year at Glen Hills, he was one of three boys witness to a murder in the �Woods� which is still there at the end of The Bridle (by the location of the old Great Central Railway). He and his two pals were - or so the rumour had it - up a tree when they saw a young 14 year-old girl by the name of Pat Warner murdered by Joseph Christopher Reynolds using his tie to strangle his poor victim. He was an Irish labourer who tried to escape to Ireland, but was picked up at Liverpool. He was returned to Leicester, tried, and hung on the 17th of November 1953 (I'm not sure where). This was one day after my 9th birthday. Reynolds had gone on a rampage, apparently (again a rumour), because he had been jilted by a girl friend who had not shown up for a date earlier that same day. He had been left standing at the bus stop near The Bridle opposite the "Red House." The poor girl was a completely random choice by the murderer. Ironically
the family of the deceased girl lived at the �Red House�
and it used to
be (no longer there now) at the corner of Leicester Road (A426) and Red House Road.
The latter now leads onto the Eyres Monsell and is on
the opposite side of the road to The Bridle.
You can see a map of this area (or your own old area
for that matter) at the handy little online map at
multimap.com [Link].
My sister Angela
used to go riding with Pat Warner;
her
younger brother was about my age and was also at Glen Hills at
that time; later we were both at South Wigston Secondary
Modern and Guthlaxton Grammar school. My
Father, who was somewhat of a reactionary at the best of
times, joined in some kind of vigilante action directed at
trying to catch the murderer. In addition, he packed my Mum,
my sister and I off to our flat in Sheringham until they had
apprehended the culprit. Years later (1967) in a remote Northern Alberta oil
town (Rainbow Lake) I ran into an ex-Leicester prison guard
(working as a camp cook) who was at Leicester Gaol when the
man was arrested and imprisoned there. The
full details of the case continue to allude me - yet fascinate
me still. If
anyone reading this has more information on this murder please
E-mail me at [Link]. Getting back
to Sue�s memories of those first years at Glen Hills, she
mentions the class divide at that time. I was on the other side of that divide as my parents were -
although not exactly snobby - very conscious of accent;
none-the-less, at about the age of eight or nine, I did have
friends from the prefabs (David Wykes comes to mind) and I
used to go swimming at the Cavendish Road municipal swimming
pool with a group of boys from the prefabs. During my
last year at Glen Hills I made the football team; we used to
play our inter-school matches and some of the practices at a
�grounds� right behind the prefabs.
I was a dreadful player yet I loved to play for my team
(inside left) and was so proud of my uniform, that I frequently
washed and ironed it myself. Some
of my team mates at that time were Peter Adlam, Bill Coleman,
Douglas Abbott, Tony Grey, Tony Cox, Richard Cole, Paul
Everitt, Anthony Albert, Nigel Austin (he was a year younger)
and, I think, Peter Green and David Whykes. Years
later, Bill Coleman, Doug Abbott, David Lindsay (who was one
class below us - in age not status) and I teamed up as
teenagers to form the moderately successful pop group known as
the �Foursights,� but more of that later. In my first
year or two at school our Headmistress was one Miss Shepherd
and she was quite terrifying. I
remember the Platted hair done up on top of her head and I
remember her trying to drag me down the corridor towards her
office for the crime of �beaning� a girl by swinging on
that heavy green gate that lead into the field at the back of
the Infants classrooms.
She was shortly thereafter replaced by Mr. Looker, the
Welshman, who was a decent enough headmaster.
In my last year, I remember his constant yelling at our
football games: �kick it man,� along with Anthony Albert�s
Dad: �pass it to Anthony.� During the
second year at Glen Hills Infants, our teacher was Mrs.
Hopkins (or Mrs. Popcorn as we quietly called her), and she
was a very nice lady.
Once, on my summer holidays in the Isle of Wight, who
should come walking up the driveway of the hotel but my very
own teacher, Mrs. Hopkins. The
third year, we got Mrs. Ralph, what a difference. She once thumped me in the back for bending the wax crayons
into arcs one hot summer day. I can never
remember clearly if I did six or seven years total at Glen
Hills.
It is for that reason that I am a bit fuzzy about my
fourth year. There was a new teacher for that year, taking over from Miss
Walker, but I am unclear if that was after I was already in
Mr. Cartright�s class (5th year).
I really liked this teacher, and later (my last year),
he took us for soccer; he was always very kind to me.
Fifth year - my fortunes reverse again and I get the
horrible Miss Scott. She truly added to the misery of my tenth year, which, due to
events at home, was already so traumatic that I have blocked
most of it out of my mind. She
delighted in humiliating me in front of the class and she was
also very mean to each of my three sisters who also attended
that school.
In class, she would call my younger sister �the big
mouth American� just because she had spent about a year or two in
schools in the States and had perhaps the mildest of
accents. For the last
year we had Mr. Mole (I kid you not) and we were back to
another fine and kind teacher.
I can�t remember anything specific about old �Moley,�
but it was during his class that I got a tennis ball in the
eye during a cricket game (at playtime after school dinner)
and ended up in the Leicester Infirmary for a week or more.
It was apparently quite a dangerous injury as I had
developed a blood clot behind the eye and had to stay on my
back for a week. Looking back over my six (or was it seven) years at Glen Hills I have very fond memories particularly of the years in the wooden building (Miss Scott notwithstanding). I particularly cherish the smell of the wood and it is still as distinct today. The playing field behind the school was entirely different in those days and a wonderful place for young kids. The only smooth part was where we had a small football pitch (West side); the rest was rugged and unleveled. In the SW corner were bushes to hide in, along the South edge from about the centre to the East side of the field were large trees and more bushes. Towards the East side running the length of the field was what looked like an old stream bed. The bushes were handy for games of kiss-catch which, by our last year, we were becoming more interested in playing. The best of times were the Christmas parties; they were always the same format, and I think that's why we loved them so much. In later years at Glen Hills, when I was in the Juniors, at some point in the afternoon before the party, they would open up a sliding partition between two of the classes and we would get things underway with a few games. Later we would retire to the old canteen for sandwiches, blancmange, jelly, cake, pop, etc. (the menu never changed). Then it was back to the school building again for more games, and then, finally, once more over to the canteen for 3 or 4 cartoons on an old noisy projector - then home. Wonderful. The list of
classes from the school ledger for 1950 seem to indicate that
there were, in fact, seven classes, but I can only remember
six: Juniors: Class 1, Miss Sheppard; Class 2, Miss Scott, Class 3 Mr. Taylor; Class 4 Miss Walker. Infants: Class 5, Mrs. Ralph, Class 6, Mrs. Hopkins; Class 7 Mrs. Biggs. I have already mentioned some of the boys in my class - those who were on the football team. Others children, whose names I can still remember, (with the help of a copy of the school ledger) were as follows: Some of the girls I remember were: Carol Callis: Carol was from Braunstone and was at Glen Hills for the last year only. Carole Woodcock, 68 Cork Lane. I was very fond of Carole (good at kiss-catch). Susan Bollard, 51 Hillsborough Rd. Susan was crippled and quite retarded but went through all those years with us; we teased her unmercifully but usually in a fairly good-natured way. Jacqueline Barlow, 50 Hillsborough Rd. Jackie fell of the horizontal bars during dinner break on the 2nd of Oct, 1950 and broke both arms (wow what a memory I have - actually I've seen the old ledger recently). I was also at Guthlaxton with Jackie and saw her on and off during my teen years especially at the Foursights' dances. Barbara B. I can�t for the life of me recall her second name; she was also at Guthlaxton and we both went on a school trip to Spain (who was that red-headed girl?) She was Barbara's friend on the trip to Spain and my girl friend for about one day on the train trip home). Cartwright - this one I can't remember the first name; she lived almost opposite the rear of the school. However, I do remember that she was a member of the kiss-catch fraternity. Bridget Hackney, Hillsborough Rd (I think). Bridget must have started sometime after the first year as she is not mentioned in the ledger I saw in 1997. Tina Baker, 9 Grange Dr; Christine Brewer, 11 Stanhope Ave; Theresa Croft, 39 Little Glen Rd; Janet Deacon, 100, Hillsborough Rd; Diane Stones, 56 Howard Rd; Enid Mason, 42 Dorothy Ave. Patte Warren, 40 Henray Ave; Sandra Newcomb, 14 Henray Avenue. And the boys: Douglas Abbott, 11 West View Ave. I was in the �Foursights� with Doug and was in regular contact with him up until about 15 years ago; he was best man at both of my weddings. Doug now lives in North Carolina and is a successful furniture designer with his own business. Bill Coleman, Blairmore, Court Rd. I was also in the �Foursights� with Bill; last saw Bill in 1977 at a pub near Bruntingthorpe. I believe he now lives in Nottingham and is still involved professionally in music. Peter Jepson, 96 Leicester Rd. Peter was my best friend even before starting at Glen Hills; he lived just a few houses up the road from me. He moved away to Whalley Bridge, Lancs, before the school could take advantage of his great football skills. I met up with Peter once in 1984 at his home in Stockport near Manchester. Tony Grey, 22 Little Glen Rd. Tony was my other best friend; he, Peter and I played together (and fell out regularly) for years. Tony was a great angler for his age and his house conveniently backed onto the Grand Union Canal. Richard Coles, Grange Dr. I was at South Wigston with Richard and we were both on the school trip to Switzerland; I remember that trip cost 13 pounds � all in. Malcolm Pick, Little Glen Road. I think Malcolm must have come to the school later on. I last saw him with his big BSA single cylinder outside the old "El Casa Bolero" in the early sixties. Paul Everitt, 10 Newbridge Rd. Paul was a friend of mine as well. Peter Adlam, 1 West View Ave. I was also at South Wigston and Guthlaxton with Peter. Anthony Albert, Grange Dr. I was at Wigston and Guthlaxton with Anthony. Peter Kyle, 92 Hillsborough Rd; David Whykes, 26 Henray Ave; Geoffrey Phipps, 16 Howard Rd; Tony Cox, 5 Newbridge Rd; Neil McCullum, 5 Greendale Rd; Peter Green, 96 Hillsborough Rd. Richard Mason, 32 Greendale Rd.
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George Reginald
(Reg) Airey was the middle son of
George Alfred Airey an Ada Jane (nee Steeples), born on the 27th of
January, 1902 at Grace Road, Aylestone Park in
Leicester. He
died at a house on the Upperton Road in Leicester on the
28th of May, 1978.
Reg was a motorcycle (grass track) racer and onetime champion of
the East Midlands (1928-29 season). Reg and his brother
"Pip" were at one time managers at Dunlops - St Mary's Mills. Their
father George Alfred was Managing Director there. Later on, and for
many years, Reg had his own haulage business based in
Blaby called "Associated Services." He was
first married to Catherine Gilbey in Bristol in 1933. His
2nd wife was Stella Beatrice Walters and they had Angela Elaine (born
22-8-1938, lives in Nevada), Timothy
Baron (born 16-11-1944, lives in Calgary, Alberta), and Sally Amanda (born
19-5-1954, lives in Coalville, Leicestershire). The eldest,
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George's brothers and sisters were: Clarice Annie Laurie: Born in 1896 at Grace Road, Aylestone Park in Leicester and died in a Nursing Home at or near Wells ca. 1985. Clarice married Leslie Clerk and had one child, Yvonne. Alfred
James (Tim): Born on the 23rd of October,1900 at Grace Road, Aylestone
Park in Leicester and died in Birmingham ca
1947. He married Ena before
moving to Birmingham and they had two sons, Michel and
Peter. Alfred
was badly gassed during service in W.W.1. He served with the 10th Hussars and 16th Lancers. Laurence
Arthur (Pip):
Born on the 2nd of May, 1905 at 27 Chestnut Street
in Leicester and died on the 2nd of September in 1979. He married Constance
(Connie) Mary Hairby and they had three children:
Dianne, born 29-3-34;
Paul, born 26-4-1940; Veronica, born 1-9-1946. Katherine
Ethel Beatrice Lillian:
Born on the 30th of
December, 1908 at 27 Chestnut Street in Leicester
and died at 16 Duncan Road on the 22nd of February in
1994.
She married Joseph Edward Swinfield and they
had two children: Derek, born 31-1-1928;
Pat, born 22-11-1930. |
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Stella Beatrice Airey was born in India at the Station Hospital, Command 1st Battalion, The Scots Guards, Allahabad, on October 8, 1911). Stella was Britain's first Glamorous Grandmother (Circa 1955) beating the Granny competition nationwide, first at Butlin's (Skeggy) and then at the finals in Brighton (or Hove) at the Butlin's Hotel. Stella now resides in a nursing home in Placerville, California, USA. Stella once shared a railway carriage with a suave and sinister ex-RAF pilot, later know as the notorious killer "Neville Heath [Link], during a train journey from the east coast in WWII - he had just been cashiered. More to come. Photos of Mum as a Glamorous Grandma to follow (some day - when I get 'em scanned; when I find them first). |
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