IB - Chapter One

Now in my early forties, and having just been shocked by an outburst in the village pub, during which an irate local told me to go back home to England, it got me to thinking about my Father. He had spent most of his adult life wanting to go home, and was no doubt told many times in an unpleasant manner that he should do just that. 1

However, unlike my Father, I am living in the country I consider my home, or should I say I was. Maybe it is time for a revaluation.2

My Mother and Father moved to England in the mid 1950’s, from County Armagh, in the North of Ireland. Mum was a Protestant and Dad a Catholic, a fact that obviously made life very difficult for a young courting couple in a State that was dominated by sectarianism. Much of their early dating was done in secret, before eventually both moved to England, my Father through the British Army and my Mother initially to a sister in Birmingham, before moving to the North West to be near Dad who was stationed in High Leigh in Cheshire.3

They married just a couple of days before Dad went out to fight in Korea, and the wedding was only attended by themselves and two complete strangers who acted as witnesses.4

For some reason, I never questioned my Father in later years on his reason for joining the British Army, which was totally at odds with anything he ever believed in. I can only assume it was through a desire to get away to be with my Mother and also because there was no other possibility of work.5

When I look back now, I realise how astonishingly brave my Mother was, to leave her home and family, to move to a place where she knew nobody other than her future husband and at the point they were married he was leaving to go and fight in a war thousands of miles away. She would be without friends or family and would have undoubtedly suffered racism from the many anti-Irish in England and she would be left for an undetermined period to face all those difficulties on her own. She must have loved him dearly.6

To make matters worse, her family disowned her. She had married a ‘Taig’ and to do so had become one herself. This was totally unacceptable in the eyes of some of the bigots in her family at home in County Armagh. It was many years before her father and several of her sisters spoke to her again.7

After the Korean war, Dad returned to England and within a few years joined the Fire Service. This was at a time when the working week of a fireman was over seventy hours, but to make ends meet he also had to work as a part time window cleaner. He would often go straight from the night shift at the fire station to clean windows before getting a few hours sleep and then returning for the next twelve hour shift.8

A perk that came out of being a Fireman at that time was that an option was available to live in a ‘Fire Brigade House’. This was basically a council house, provided by the Fire Service on a weekly rental basis. It was in such a house that my early childhood was spent.9

The house was on a large council estate of several hundred houses, every one looking the same except that some had gardens that were nicely maintained and others had gardens that grew junk. It was always looked upon as being a rough area, though I think that was probably a bit unjust. If you put that many people together in a relatively confined space there are bound to be problems from time to time. It made no difference to me, there were loads of other kids to play with and a field with enough room for several football matches. The field was very imaginatively called Long Field. It was basically about 500 yards long and about 100 yards wide. It was bordered on one side by a very busy main road and on the other by the outer road of the estate, which was surprisingly called Long Field Avenue. 10

I don’t have too many memories from my early childhood, other than the general ones of going out to play football at every opportunity, watching the kid next door eating worms, being dragged to church every Sunday and a few good hidings for not a lot. There are however a couple of significant things that have stayed with me, both of which I am sure have shaped me as person. 11

For the first of these major happenings in my life, I will always be grateful to my older brother Barry. This was the mid 1960’s, long before the age of the replica football shirt, but one day our Dad came home from work with two football jerseys, bought from the local market in our home town on the outskirts of Manchester. The shirts were red with a white collar and cuffs. This was Bestie’s heyday and the Red’s of Manchester were flying high. I don’t actually remember having any allegiance at the time but I was delighted. I guess he never asked who we supported, we were Irish Catholics, and in that day and age that meant United. Dad’s elation at my excited face was short lived as Barry gave back the shirt and said “there’s no way I’m wearin’ that, I’m a Blue”. Believe me, that was brave. My father was not a cruel man but he was not averse to giving us a slap or even taking his belt to us if he, or more than likely my mother, felt we deserved it. But to be honest, I can’t remember what was said or done after that, other than the fact that very soon there were two new blue and white jerseys.12

I was a Blue by default, but a prouder one you could not have met. I lived in that shirt and every day down on the local field I could be seen, now Bell, Lee or Summerbee, scoring goals for City or Harry Dowd saving penalties from the now despised Charlton, Best or Law.13

It must have been because of that shirt that a neighbour asked my Mum and Dad if I would like to go and watch City play. City had just won the championship, again something I have no recollection of, and a friendly had been arranged against Bury to show off the trophy. It was decided that I could go as a birthday treat and what a treat it was, the noise, the atmosphere, the joy and jubilation. I have no idea what the crowd was that night, but I had never seen anything like that number of people in one place, all of whom were spectacularly happy. Everybody was laughing and talking to each other, singing together, hugging and slapping each other on the back. It was truly amazing. After that there could only ever be one team for me. Eight years old but without any doubt I already knew that I was “City ‘till I die”. 14

The second recollection that has stuck with me is of a very different nature and led to an early understanding of injustice and I think probably made me wary of those in authority from that point on.15

I went to a Catholic primary school, which was about 3 miles away from home. There were not too many other Catholics on the estate that I lived on and even fewer Irish families and I didn’t go to school with anybody in the direct neighbourhood, other than my brother Barry. 16

The school was new, in fact it only opened the year before I started, and it had a large catchment area. A significant number of children going to the school were from Irish families and I guess it was because of this that both the Headmaster and his deputy were also Irish. They were vicious too.17

I had been invited to the birthday party of a friend, which was to take place after school. When I left home for school that morning I took his birthday card with me, with some money in the sealed envelope. The plan was for me to meet my Dad after school, who was working at his window cleaning round a short distance away, and he would drive me to the party.18

Whilst I was walking down the school path at the end of the day, one of the other kids came up to me with a shilling and said that I had dropped it. I insisted that I hadn’t, because I did not have any money and away he went “happy as Larry” with his find.19

Within five minutes, outside the shops at the top of the estate where I was meeting Dad, a woman came rushing up to me with another shilling and said I had just dropped it. I was adamant that I hadn’t, but this time she insisted and I ended up with the money. Now, whilst this must seem bizarre, it just didn’t occur to me that the money was from the birthday envelope. I just thought it was my lucky day. So into the shop I went and it was sweets all round.20

After polishing off the last of the goodies, I went on to meet Dad and I was off to the party. Sure enough, when young Stephen opens the card, expecting some dosh, nothing. Not only that, but there is an incriminating slit along the length of the envelope. There is no doubt in anybodies mind that I stole the money. By the time it dawns on me what has happened, I am burning red, upset and crying and in too much of a mess to explain. Definitely guilty.21

So, I’m sent home from the party and his Mum tells my Mum. Jesus what a bollocking, not because she doesn’t believe my story or even for being thick, but because I embarrassed her in front of the neighbours. That always brought out the worst in my Mother. She didn’t bother calling in Dad, she just got stuck in herself and then sent me to bed. I remember lying in bed thinking at least the worst of it is over, nobody else from the party went to St. Hugh’s school so it wouldn’t be an issue tomorrow.22

How wrong could I be. The lads parents had contacted the school and told them I had stolen the money. To this day, I can’t for the life of me understand why they did that. Was it because we were Catholics or Irish, were they trying to prove some point about us being crooks or them being better than us. God alone knows, but for whatever reason they did it, the headmaster was as embarrassed as my Mother and he positively relished the chance to instil some honesty into me.23

This man, who had been well trained in the art of scaring and hurting young children, together with his female deputy, who was even more fearsome, frightened the life out of me and had me convinced I would be in hell before the day was out. There was no good guy, bad guy routine here, they were both just plain bloody nasty. I left the head teachers office that morning bloodied and bruised, but I would not say that I knowingly took the money and that in their eyes was an even bigger crime. 24

Silly as it might seem, despite the fact that I was a very good pupil academically, and that I took part in school sports, plays, the choir and other activities, those two adults punished me at every opportunity after that until the day I left.25

I suppose at the tender age of 9, I had no idea that this was something significant in my life and so in no time at all life was back to normal, though I suspect that my not being allowed to go to the 1969 F.A. Cup Final, City versus Leicester, was attributable to it. Having said that, I wasn’t allowed to go to the 1970 League Cup Final, City versus West Brom, either and I can’t believe my Mum and Dad were still thinking about it then.26

The 1969 F.A. Cup Final was the first game I can ever remember seeing on Television. A bus had been hired to take people from the estate to Wembley and the neighbours who were by now taking me regularly to City’s home games at Maine Road asked if I could go. Unfortunately the answer was no and I was utterly disappointed. I had to settle for the BBC. Leicester had just been relegated from the First Division and City were big favourites and though now I recognise it wasn’t a classic I was mesmerised by the whole occasion and was “over the moon” when Neil ‘Nelly’ Young scored the winner. I danced in the street that night, along with many others young City fans and their parents and I stayed out much later than was normally allowed. I was however long in my bed by the time the double decker bus arrived back in the very early hours, after breaking down twice on the journey home from London.27