Memories from 1970's Childhood.

Copyright © Mark R Kelly 2025

This morning, whilst brushing my teeth, and getting ready for work, my mind - for reasons unknown -  tugged out a childhood memory from under the dusty covers of a seldom visited corner of my mind.

Oddly enough, it was a memory of one of the kids that lived in the same street, on the opposite side, about ten doors down.

We grew up in an area of Cardiff called Canton. The street itself - Hanover Street - was a Victorian terrace, one of hundreds. Built from red brick and limestone, each tiled porch's limestone arch was ornately carved, the inner walls of which had glazed tiles mid-height, then white-washed to where a central sconce secured a light operated from within the hallway inside the house behind the front door. 

These bay-fronted houses had a cellar, with a coal chute grate in front of the porch, which, back in those days, the coalman would lift and pour down sacks of coal, an avalanche of sound as cascading lumps of shining black, all shapes and sizes, ranging from a conker to a large swede, tumbled and crashed into the coal room below, always ending with a billowing cloud of coal dust, that sometimes glittered and twinkled if there was a morning sun.

Even today, I have this vision of a burly man, thick black leather waistcoat over his once-white shirt, sleeves rolled past the elbow, leather wrist straps, belt drawn around the waist, baggy trousers sagging around big, bulky-looking boots. I recall his dazzling smile, made more impressive by the coal soot that covered him from head to foot, including his clothing. His eyes shone bright, the whites like the purest marble, and his flat cap sat at a jaunty angle, leaning away from the shoulder, over-which he'd swing the sacks of coal from truck to coal chute.

But I digress. The specific memory I dipped into was of this lad - for sake of protecting his identity, I'll call him 'Peter'. Peter loved his football. And out of our street gang of ten children, his was fast like a mouse and controlled the ball with a certain amount of natural skill. His black hair was straight and hung around his head like a helmet. Peter spoke with a pronounced lisp and wore - for descriptive convenience - Harry Potter-style glasses. He always had a little too much spittle around his mouth when he spoke for my liking. Maybe this is why we always fought.

Street of my childhood - Hanover St.

I couldn't tell you why we would end up fighting, but we were like cat and dog when we did. Picture the scene from a Looney Tunes cartoon, where two characters are fighting in a whirlwind of air, with fists and feet poking out every now and then. That was us. Scrapping on the floor, rolling around, going at it hammer and nail. Once over, there would be name calling as we each stalked away. Next day we'd be back on the street playing as if nothing had happened. Our games were many: 'Goalie When', 'Bulldogs', 'Three-and-in', 'Touch', 'Hide and Seek', and 'Runouts' - we had so many different street games, that we were never bored.

One game in particular that got the neighbours banging their front windows was, 'Off the Ground' - the idea being we had to travel up one side of the street, cross over and then travel down the other side. Only catch, we had to use everyone's front wall and railings. Part of the rules being, you fell off and touched the ground you were out. Crossing to get to the other side wasn't counted. The best part, was jumping the gap for the entrance of each house - another feature of these Victorian houses was a projected frontage of leg-high (measured against an adult) brick, capped off with slabs of hand carved stone of a particular subtle shade of aged green. Some houses either chose not to have railings or couldn't afford them. 

Interesting fact: all houses showed signs of once possessing cast iron railings. During the Second World War a massive campaign across Britain was launched to collect all scrap metal of iron and steel - railings, gates, pots, pans, old machinery, even ornamental garden ironwork. The idea being they would be melted down for the war effort. Our house, along with the rest in the street, had its railings sawn off and removed to provide iron for the production of ships, tanks and armaments.

I think the issue I had with Peter was that he had a mean streak in him and he would say mean things, which, for some reason would trigger my anger, and like the ringside bell at a boxing match, it signalled fight time. We would have made excellent Ice Hockey players, punching the living daylights out of each other.

Peter's best pal was a sickly looking kid, whom I'll call 'Paul'. He was a scrawny and short for his age. Thin of limb, and possessed of a lazy eye and drooping eyelid. His skin was a sallow complexion and his head seemed a little too big for his body. As he lived next door to Peter, the two were invariably together.

One particular day, Peter, Paul and I were outside Peter's house, stood in the gutter, facing the house, throwing darts at the base of Peter's front wall - somehow we'd discovered (as kids do) that if you hit the right spots, the darts created sparks. We thought it was amazing.

Copyright Getty Images.

I can say what happened next was a total fluke, the only kind that happens when you combine kids and potentially life threatening objects - I threw my dart. No sparks. Just as Peter drew back his arm to throw, Paul decides he needs to get to his house. Running in front of dart throwers was Paul's biggest mistake.

As a throw it was perfectly timed, and the resulting yelp was shocking and incredibly funny at the same time. Paul, like a wounded deer, hopped and squealed, then partially collapsed, dart embedded in his left calf. I was amazed when he stood and hopped to his front door, wailing as he went, dart still buried muscle deep.

Peter and I exchanged looks. I did what any sensible kid did in a situation like this, I turned and scarpered, even though it wasn't my dart stuck in Paul's leg. Street kid survival took over, and sod getting a wallop for something I didn't do.

Strange how these memories rise up, seemingly unbidden and out of nowhere, but rise they do. The irony being, I avoid physical conflict at all costs, so different to the childhood me. Although, that side of me was only ever roused by Peter, and vice-versa.

Decades later, at some point during the 80's I had occasion to wander into the Virgin Megastore in Cardiff city centre. And that's where I saw him - Peter - serving behind the counter. For a fleeting moment we locked eyes, and I know he recognises me by the way he dropped his head. I didn't press the situation, as it was obvious he didn't wish to re-live old times - God forbid we'd end up scrapping on the floor of the Virgin Megastore.

So I turned and carried on my business of browsing, eventually leaving the store, and possibly a very relieved Peter. 

My tale of childhood is over, and so I leave you to enjoy the gentle melody from Nils Frahm, and the aptly entitled track - "Canton".