A childhood memoir of life before polio, and immediately after, and my magical childhood adventures in and out of a wheelchair
Our Gang
Our gang consisted of Croyse White, me, my younger sister Melly, Peter McKay, and our cousin Alan. Trailing along behind was our kid brother, Kevin. If we were lucky Chris Bailey (brother of the delicious Janet) would join us, but only on a temporary basis, temporary because he was either on your side or the side of the enemy. He wasn't fussy. Chris was violent. A bomb ready to explode and he didn't care who got the fallout or whose gang was what. Chris was as near a psychopath as we could make him. That is, if you didn't mind a bit of senseless violence.
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There was only one other that clearly was a psychopath and that was Jimmy Foster. When he grew up Jimmy Foster had only to glimpse a policeman and he would have to be restrained. After a fight in a pub, it took around six policemen to arrest him. The police went in fear of him. Even as a child violence would shimmer around Jimmy like a heat-haze. He was to be avoided at all costs. Yet girls he drew like a magnet.
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After the Flood 
Our gang would meet in the cellar that ran underneath our restaurant. Although I went out in a fixed-wheeled wheelchair when on the hunt for a rival gang, I could still stand and stagger down the stone steps that led to the cellar. I rigged up a light so that every time one of the gang entered he or she would have to press a button and a little light would flash in the main body of the cellar.
I had converted this room into a gym: a punch ball was fixed into the beams of the low ceiling and into the floor. I had a boxing ring, 6 foot by 4 foot, where I trained my gang into fighting perfection. Croyse White, whose parents were Welsh (where else would you get a name like Croyse?), lived in the restaurant next door. He provided us with a flag. It had the Welsh Dragon on it. We didn't care. A flag was a flag. Besides you couldn't get more fearsome than a dragon.
We never let Chris Bailey see our gym. He would have just laughed.
(Years later, when my parents had split up, my sister Josie and I were lumbered with the job of running THE TUDOR, where during the flood of the early 50's a fridge belonging to Mr White of the Cardinal Restaurant (Croyse's father) ended up [see photo]. THE TUDOR was a pub and dance hall which we ran whilst my dad went quietly bankrupt. We managed to keep the place going by holding live rock n' roll dances. That is until the ancient heating system gave out. The image of the previous owner, a gas poker strapped to his neck and a bag over his head, who took his own life in the old boiler house, ran images of horror every time we entered the place.
Even MORE years later, THE TUDOR had new owners, that very same dance hall where Josie and I had failed so miserably. Where rock n' roll was played 'live' to coach-loads of fans brought in from the Medway towns. But the failure of the heating system spelled out the death knoll.
Now THIS was the 70's and Peter McKay and I persuaded the new owners that what was needed was a disco. So we rented the TUDOR! And who, amongst others, was more qualified for the job of bouncer but… CHRIS BAILEY.
I was on the door when the incident occurred. At 11pm the pub was emptied and the punters, for an extra 25p entrance fee, could drink and dance the night into oblivion. One bloke came stumbling in from the pub with his girlfriend and wandered past me without paying. ''Er, excuse me, man, but you have to pay an extra 25p if……'' He reeled around, face contorted with rage and evil. ''Don't fuckin' call me 'man'. I don't fuckin' like it, okay? And you can stick yer 25p up yer fuckin' arse. You read me?''
He said these words with such venom that he almost spat them out. I could feel the vapour of his words clutch me, drench me. I had to admit that I was not prepared for this outburst. He staggered off into the gloom, girlfriend in tow like a lost sheep. I could tell by the way her eyes met mine that even she was shocked. I hadn't expected it and I was shaking.
Chris Bailey appeared from nowhere. ''You got problems, man?'' he said. ''Yeh,'' I said, '' that bloke over there wouldn't pay and he gave me a mouthful. I'm still shaking.'' ''I'll go over and sort 'im out,' 'said Chris. ''NO! no,'' I said, ''no violence Chris, for God's sake!'' ''You just leave it to me,'' said Chris. Before I could stop him, Chris strode into the murk and was swallowed up. I could just make out the figure of Chris whispering something in the drunk's ear.
Instantly the drunk shot to his feet. An amazing detoxification took place. The drunk was no longer drunk. He was as sober as I was. He made his way quickly to my pay desk. ''Look mate, I'm sorry. It's the gin wot does me in, when I've 'ad a few something takes over. I get aggressive. Know what I mean? Now 'ow much do I owe yer?''
Later, I said to Chris, ''What on earth did you say to him?'' Chris looked at me, touched the side of his nose, and winked. To this day I never found out. But he must have threatened him in such a way that…well, it doesn't bear thinking about, unless of course he was married. And I don't mean to that particular lost sheep of a girl.)
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