Chapter 32
Family 6 - Boys
It doesn’t seem possible. Time must be playing tricks again.
For three decades Sue and I have been parents. I’ve just worked out that this means for virtually half my life, I’ve been a father. How did that happen? Where did the time go? Have we done a decent job as parents?
Actually, using the past tense doesn’t feel right; parental responsibilities may now be diluted, no longer a legal requirement, children apparently finding their own adult feet, settling down, making their own way, but there’s clearly something instinctive in the make-up of most human parents that prevents a casual jettison of duties or concerns. And observing from a distance, on Beta Arietis perhaps, we’re just one more family unit, not much different from the other 20 million in the UK, the 2 billion across the planet or the countless generations from the past. But zoom right in to a local level, to 16 Hurstwood Road, and it becomes far more personal. Here, allowing ourselves a focus on the last thirty years, it’s fair to say we’ve been fortunate. No major upsets, plenty of fun moments, lots of thing to be proud of, and a strong sense that it’s been worth all the effort (and cost!) Not that effort and cost were really factors we considered back in 1991 when we decided it was probably about time to try and start a family.
Two boys, two years apart. We obviously didn’t mind what we had, and found ourselves following the trend in our gang that saw a continuous stream of baby boys until Mike and Bridget’s Ella broke the mould, slightly redressing the balance. (If I define the gang as the 16 or so couples who came to my 40th, 50th and 60th, the offspring balance is an unusual 19 boys to 6 girls ratio).
We were fortunate: no health issues; Sue able to stop work for a few years; grandparents living only half-an-hour away and delighted to help out; decent nurseries and schools within a short walk; a social group in the same boat so no shortage of mutual advice and support. Our adventure wings may have been clipped but, sitting happily in our middle-class comfort zone, we didn’t really have too much to worry about. We’d paid for a necessary extension to the house with Sue’s BT redundancy money and my steady progress up the ranks ensured we had enough of an income to fund a variety of extra-curricular stuff and take a few holidays each year, even if most were cheap and cheerful trips in the camper van.
Let’s spin the dials again and take a look back at a few of the moments along the way, reflect on the emotions, the laughs, the things that have helped reinforce the bonds, the occasional tensions, the childhood personalities. And let’s also give ourselves a cut-off point; why not, at least for the time being, draw a line across their stories around the age of 18. About the time they left home, heading off in their own directions with minimal influence from us. After that, it’s much more their story to tell.
Stuart was a rosy-cheeked, blond haired toddler, wanting to have-a-go at everything, wanting to be involved in everything, wanting to have-a-say on everything. Smaller than many of his contemporaries until he started to close the gap in his mid-teens, his enthusiasm for anything and everything carried him towards the centre of most goings-on. Off to school he went happily enough, lucky that he’d a little bunch of post-natal group friends, off to Beavers, off to swimming lessons. Keeping up with friends’ kids, the slightly older Matt, Tom and Stefan, provided the further incentive to walk up hills, jump on a bike, fly a kite. Before we knew it, the little two-wheeler had morphed into a junior mountain-bike that, at first, he could hardly get on; Beavers had turned into Cubs; day walks in the countryside had evolved into short back-packing trips. He dabbled with football and gave cricket a go, but they weren’t quite his things. Enthusiasm and a moderate talent don’t ensure a regular team spot or a place up the batting order, especially when up against some naturally-gifted kids or a parent-manager with a ‘need to win’ rather than ‘squad rotation’ philosophy. And he couldn’t do everything, so the ball-sports route was superseded by swimming and triathlon and by his early teens, an alternative world of adventure sports would be calling. School, apparently holding few fears, progressed smoothly from Christchurch Infants to Juniors. Sue occasionally caught him trying to pull an ‘I’m not feeling very well’ fast one, but he rarely got away with it and he headed off to Downend Secondary School with all the basic academic and social skills in place.
Murray was not far behind. With mousey-hair and a cheeky grin, very much his own character. Sometimes he followed and sometimes he took his own path. From an early age he was clear whether he wanted to try something or give it a miss. Considerate, stubborn and determined. There were no issues at school; for a term or two he’d insist on waiting for friend Ryan to turn up before going in but before long he’d latched onto a little group of pals, most of whom were in the fledgling Downend Wanderers junior football team. Rarely intimidated by the older boys within the gang of friends’ kids, he was able to blend in thanks to his ability at ball games and his cheeky approach. He’d happily walk up and down the hills, play around in the surf, and perform acrobatics on the tag-a-long. It took a while longer to get the hang of a bike but he was in his element with anything involving a ball. Declining the option for Beavers or Cubs, he was happy with swimming, invariably refusing to get out at the end of the session, and by age seven he’d clearly decided that it would be football and cricket for him. There then followed an annual progression as improving skills and abilities were rewarded with a higher standard of team performance and commitment. Conscientious and, usually, focused, he too had little trouble moving steadily through the junior school system. Key Stages came and went with no concerns.
We’d luckily avoided any ‘could you possibly come in to see the Head’ type phone calls from the school and by 2005, we had two boys wandering up the road to secondary school each morning. Typically Murray would be late out of the door, rarely bothering with a coat, and needing to ‘step on it’ to get there on time. He’s not improved much since then and even now still faffs around or leaves it late. Not necessarily the best secondary school in the district, it did the job for our two. For starters, they could walk there, it was co-ed, the facilities were dated but adequate and, after a period in the doldrums, the staff and governors seemed to have turned the ship in the right direction and were re-imposing lapsed standards of behaviour, uniform and performance. Talents and interests, abilities and difficulties, good enthusiastic teachers and poor dull teachers, all combined to lead them along different paths on their academic journeys. Neither showed an aptitude for languages, drama or music, or warmed to Literature or History, but they emerged the other side of the GCSE gateway with strong results across the board. Stuart then headed off in a scientific direction (Geog’, Maths, Physics and Chem’) vaguely thinking of Engineering at university as a goal, whilst Murray chose something a little more general (Sport, Bio’, Geog, and Business) and had his mind set on Sport Science.
The increased difficulty and intensity of A-Levels was a bit of a shock and it took them, especially Stuart, a couple of terms to get on the pace; luckily a disappointing modular result - ‘D grade’! That can’t be right!’ - provided the catalyst and after that he was there or thereabouts. Just about balancing teenage freedoms, the reduced supervision of Sixth-Form, and a stack of outside interests, they made it through the two years. It wasn’t without the odd word of censure from the school. I took a call one day from Stuart’s Geography teacher who had caught him nodding off in class and expressed concern that he was doing too much outside of school. She probably had a point: Tri Club was three or four sessions a week, and Explorers, Ten Tors training, guitar lessons, and an expanding social life all had to be blended in with his studies. Not only that, he’d got a Sunday morning paper round; it wasn’t a success. I ended up doing it more often than not as he was invariably tied up with some event or other. It was soon junked for a more worthwhile job as a lifeguard at the pool.
Murray was a little less distracted. His main focus on football and cricket meant his week was more structured than his brother’s. On the other hand, he was now playing and training for Downend Wanderers, his local club, and the youth team of semi-pro team Yate Town who played in the Midlands League. And just to fill up his weekend, he’d qualified as a ref, so on Sunday mornings he’d be up early to officiate junior matches, dealing with petulant kids and the occasional vocal parent. And, to further top up his coffers, he too ended up working part-time at the pool. At school he was on top of his subjects even if, typically for him, project work always went in at the eleventh hour, and the only phone call from school was to let us know, along with a tongue-in-cheek admonishment, that although he’d told them he was away in Manchester at a University Open Day, they knew from another source that he’d gone to Rock Werchter, a rock festival in Belgium.
At the end of the day, the School and teachers had done their jobs and both boys emerged at the other end of the pipeline with good grades and would confidently head off to their first choice Universities. Our decision to place our faith in the state system and the local establishments had been justified. We were relieved there had been no real issues along the way and were proud of what the pair of them had achieved. And it wasn’t just about school and academic achievement. There were also plenty of other things we were happy about, smiled at, laughed at, and shouted at. Let’s pick out just a few.
Murray, as a youngster, had a mischievous streak. Numerous photos record him pulling a cheeky face, the ever-present baseball cap perched on his head at a jaunty angle. He’d be the one trying snow balls from the chair-lift or decorating birthday cards or exercise books with sketches of mythical beasts or cartoon characters. (He can actually draw pretty well and has continued to adorn cards with thoughtful images). Getting him to settle down at night could be frustratingly amusing. In the camper van they slept above us on a pull-out platform and invariably there’d be a head, or hand repeatedly, teasingly, dangled down into view, withdrawn and then reappearing. Or at home we’d have an ongoing dialogue between him at the top of the stairs and me at the bottom, urging him to ‘get back into bed’ which would annoy his brother who joined the debate from his own room with a less than helpful shout of, ‘Just tell him to shut up and go to sleep before I come and make him.’ If he did get in a mood, he’d opt for a silent grumpy approach, refusing to engage until he’d got it out his system. Once, when he was about eight, I had prevented him spending £15 on a Pokémon card he wanted. I just didn’t want him to be ripped-off but he didn’t see it that way and after a mini-scene in the shop, he cold-shouldered me for the rest of the day.
Fortunately he’d latched onto a local football team that he stuck with all through his teenage years as they progressed up the divisions. Even as a youngster, in baggy kit far too big for him, he’d shown the attributes that defined his play. In central defence he was forever organising and leading, anticipating and covering. Not many kids are keen on heading, especially when it comes to getting on the end of goal-kicks or corners, but he was an exception and he captained the team through every season. Calmer on the pitch than many of his more boisterous, temperamental teammates, they seemed to appreciate his steadying influence and Andy, the manager, increasingly used him as a sounding board for opinions on performance and tactics. In their last couple of years in the youth league, they managed to top the division, win a tournament down in Devon, and narrowly lose in the final of the Cup; a great effort considering the greater resources and heritage of some of the other well-established teams they were up against. We were proud parents when he collected the various trophies, and especially after he managed to make a little speech at the annual presentation buffet/disco evening. His Great-Grandad Harry would also have acknowledged his abilities; just like himself 80 years earlier, Murray would occasionally get a mention in the local press. One week he was declared the ‘star player’ in a particularly tight top-of-the-table clash and, along with a couple of photos of him in action, received an invite to the Bristol Evening Post end-of-season presentation evening.
The step up to a higher level with Yate Town was a worthwhile experience; bigger, faster, more skilful opponents, different training and tactics, better quality pitches. Amongst others they took on the Southampton, Yeovil and Villa youth teams and playing at a higher standard enabled him to get things in perspective, see in reality the progression in abilities, talent and coaching that he was beginning to learn about in his studies. He wasn’t out of his depth at this level but neither did he stand out and he was smart enough to realise it, opting not to continue playing at this higher level beyond the U17s.
Stuart dabbled with cricket for a few seasons but it was Murray who was a regular in the Downend junior teams. Imagine playing your youth cricket for a club and at a ground, just a five minute walk up the road, where WG had regularly played 150 years earlier and where the walls of the small pavilion were adorned with grainy photographs of previous Test Match heroes and touring Australian teams. Of course the boys didn’t really appreciate it at the time but their parents and grandparents, certainly did on their behalf. Murray’s usual cautious reticence meant he didn’t push himself forward but eventually, a couple of instances ensured that the blokes running the team noticed him, once of course they’d acknowledged that their own sons couldn’t do all the batting and bowling.
One evening, the young kid stuck out on the boundary in a team of older lads, found himself under a really high skier from the opposition big hitter. Most kids would have run around in circles, doing anything to avoid trying to get under the catch rather than drop it or hurt their fingers. To the general surprise of most spectators, Murray got there, waited and snaffled it. ’Effin hell! I wouldn’t have fancied that!’ said Steve Nicholls, the manager, and acknowledged it in the dressing room later with a ’Bloody good catch, kid! What’s your name again?’ Once they also realised that Murray could throw the ball a huge distance for his age, he was assigned the whole mid-wicket outfield as his territory. A couple of weeks later, coming in at No. 11 when all seemed lost, he stuck around with the one of the older, more accomplished batsman for the half-dozen overs necessary to win the game. ‘Well batted, kid! What’s your name again?’
A couple of years later, I found myself organising the team and Andy Bromley (see Ironman chapter) a former Downed captain, was the coach. We’d like to think it was picked on a more equitable mix of fairness and ability. Winter nets at Colston School would be followed straight after Easter by Saturday morning sessions at the ground and the junior evening match fixtures commenced at the start of May, running through until the end of July. Cricket’s a good sport for teaching kids they can’t have it all their own way; if you’re ‘out’ you’re ‘out’ and there’s no arguing. There were a few innings when he failed and would be grumpy for the rest of the night but fortunately, Murray usually managed to score some runs, or bag some wickets, before he was dismissed or had bowled his allocation of overs.
One evening, Sue and I were there, feeling quite proud, when he scored a fifty; it wasn’t the most fearsome of bowling attacks but it was an impressive sequence of half-decent cricket strokes that got him there and it warranted a mention in the Evening Post match reports. At seventeen, once he’d outgrown the junior system, he decided that the step-up to adult cricket wasn’t what he wanted at the time. A good eye and being handy with the bat didn’t necessarily ensure success at the next level. Without more work on technique, more practice in the nets, the higher risk of a brief innings and a longer spell stuck in the pavilion or back out on the boundary didn’t hold sufficient appeal.
And Stuart: walker, kayaker, mountain biker.
The Ten Tors is a tough challenge: two days of walking across Dartmoor; teams of six, carrying all the kit, navigating across the bogs, streams and featureless landscape, 35, 45, or 55 miles, depending on age and experience. In each year (aged 14,15 and 16) he was part of the Downend Explorers’ team that included Alex and Adam, mates he’d known since post-natal days. One good thing was the ability to track progress between the various tors online and we’d usually drive down on the Sunday afternoon to watch them come in. In 2008, by the time they’d pitched camp on the 45 mile challenge, they were over halfway and second of 25 teams. Overnight a storm blew in and the weather turned nasty. On Dartmoor that meant really nasty. Visibility disappeared; streams became torrents; temperatures plummeted. During the night, as some teams abandoned, calling on their emergency-only radios, the army organisers called it off and initiated a full-on evacuation. Some teams were pulled out by helicopter, others escorted off the moor by the military. The Downend boys were deemed in good shape and competent enough to make their own way to a pick-up point. We didn’t travel down, avoiding getting in the way of a major operation in foul conditions. It made the evening news; some army guy, when interviewed, praised the fortitude, common sense, skills and selflessness of some of the kids. Clearly, pleasingly, our boys had been within the group he’d referred to. The following year they were back and, in heatwave conditions, we clapped them into the finish of the 55 miler.
Always up for a thrill, it was almost inevitable that he’d latch onto kayaking. There were still a few of us in the gang who had maintained an involvement with paddling and, once a few of our kids started to dabble, Stuart wanted a bit of the action. By age 10 he’d be down on the River Avon on Tuesday summer evenings, learning the basics, or during the winter, practising rolling techniques at a local swimming pool. Over the next few years he’d follow a path familiar to Sue and me; Avon, Wye, Usk, Barle, Dart. But it didn’t stop there. Encouraged by the North Avon Club, and egged on by Josh (Chris and Anna’s eldest) and Sam (Nige and Steph’s), they progressed to bigger things. Freestyle practice on winter days on the big Thames weirs, looping and flipping in the freezing water, big drops on the boulder-strewn, tumbling rapids of the Trweryn and Dee in Snowdonia and bouncy runs down the made-made white-water at Holme Pierrepoint. By the time he was fourteen, I’d been left behind, happy to just get down the river in one piece and watch the action from the safety of an eddy. Anna and Nige were braver, or more capable, but even they couldn’t keep up. And it needed some bravery not to be scared or intimated. I watched him one time, sizing up the big drop on the Nene white-water course; for an inexperienced youngster it needed bottle and I was impressed that he opted to go for it. Within a year or two he’d signed up, alongside Josh and Sam, for an Easter week white-water course in Scotland. It had rained heavily beforehand and it was with a degree of apprehension that we waved him off with Chris and Anna, his lift north. I didn’t know whether to be proud, impressed or appalled when we saw the photos after his safe return.
But let’s be honest it’s not really all about how clever they are, how talented, how competitive, how successful. It’s rewarding when they achieve a goal, enjoy themselves, acquire a skill and so on, but there are equally important aspects to consider. It’s the softer stuff that also counts; their behaviour, their respect and consideration for others, and so on. Luckily we’ve not had too much angst in these areas. No run-ins with the law, no boozing, no drugs, no tales of bullying, no school upsets, and relatively few teenage tantrums. Okay, so although Murray could sometimes be grumpy, and Stuart occasionally rude and insolent, this was only ever with us. With friends and other members of the family, they have always been polite, friendly and respectful. (I’ve still to understand quite why kids, just occasionally, think their parents don’t count when it comes to respect.)
So, after two decades in charge, we’re grateful, relieved and content with how things played out.
Whirlwind? Yes.
Over too fast? Yes.
Memories? Priceless
Thank God for photographs, and an extra-special thank-you for digital photos. And even a thank-you to the coronavirus lockdown which gave us the opportunity to sift through everything and create a decent, edited collection that spans the years. Now we can easily scroll through their childhood, highlighting with a simple click the images that take us straight back to toddlers in dungarees, to youngsters at birthday parties or standing semi-smartly in over-sized school uniforms, or onto teenagers in sports kit or standing in a photo at a family gathering when suddenly you realise that they’ve grown taller than you are. You remember the clothes, now long passed on to a charity shop: that favourite hat, those red stripy shorts, the t-shirt…
It’s not just the photos. Up in the loft, boxed and labelled by Sue in anticipation of a possible day in the future when they might be needed again, are the books and toys.
Hungry Caterpillars and Bear Hunts to Mr Men and Magic Beach and then on to Horrible Histories, Harry and Hermione.
Duplo to Lego and on to Airfix, Pokémon to Action Man, Thunderbirds to Star Wars.
Happy Families to Mouse Trap. Dinosaurs to Scalextric.
Around the house it’s now harder to find those traces of younger days. The Calpol has gone from the bathroom cabinet, replaced by gels and deodorants. The pictures on the bedroom wall of Man U now superseded by arty graffiti posters. The CD’s of S-Club-7 and Busted lost at the bottom of a pile now ruled over by Iron Maiden, Guns’n’Roses and Green Day. In the garage, the sledge still hangs on a hook and there’s a plastic box tucked away in a corner that still contains the buckets, spades and beach cricket set.
Photos and things; tangible items to help fight Time, the enemy that nibbles away, diluting the memories.
Though, when it comes to the Boys, I doubt we’ll ever forget; the impact of parenthood, the good fortune and fun, is just embedded itself too deeply in our souls ever to be lost.