Through the big window #24

James Roger Pointon is my next to oldest brother. He was born in Glasgow back in 1944. PAYE (Pay as you earn) was first introduced, the last heavy air raids fell on London, although those plucky Cockneys never knew it at the time, and the Normandy Landings (D-Day) to end World War 2 commenced in the June. German V1 flying bombs were causing havoc in London and surrounding areas slaughtering thousands before creeping north reaching as far as Manchester. Dad was still serving in the Army and arranged for our mother Georgina to move to Manchester with their two boys (Billy, the oldest was born in Dunoon the year previous) and move in with his sisters in Ardwick. Was the turmoil in Europe during the time of birth of these baby boys a harbinger of events to come later in life? Or simply a matter of bad planning by two adults in love yet unable to perform faultless coitus interruptus. Billy’s untimely death back in 1963 is well documented in my first 2 memoir. Our mother always worried about him, probably more than any other of the 13 children she gave birth to, which is paradoxically strange and difficult to explain considering he was probably the toughest of the lot. His death to her was portentous in so much that she had already experienced tragedy on more than one occasion when her children died tragically, but the grief I witnessed as a teenager seemed deepest and foreshadowed all that went before.

Jimmy, short for James Roger, was a different type altogether. Growing up in East Manchester was an experience to behold, especially because we were encouraged to stick together; ‘safety in numbers’ mam used to say. Yet Jimmy soon showed a multi-faceted ability in his everyday life to enjoy alternative adventures while always seeming to be around; we often wondered if he had a twin brother. He became a Boy Scout, that is until after leaving the house early to deliver his newspapers one Sunday morning we requisitioned his treasured Bugle and proceeded to wake the district of Ardwick from their hard-earned slumber whilst our parents were out at work. That was when we discovered they hadn’t yet made a scout badge for ‘anti-social blarting,’ and were threatened by irate neighbours with ‘being disappeared.’ He could be depended on to fill in for any oversleeping or school detention serving paperboy as well as completing his own ‘walk’ for the thankful newsagent, his ability to remember street names and house numbers incredible, so much so that when he began Saturday working for nearby Edwards the Butchers and handed his notice in to Mr Barnes it is alleged the newsagent burst into tears.

My brother tended to gain weight, I never understood why him forever on the move, sedulous in his attention to detail, always the boy who lit a campfire whichever place we stopped to create havoc. The Snipe, Lime Hills, 7 Wonders, Red River, Platt Fields, his lungs were enormous, and when we made paper boats from empty cigarette packets to sail across the lake one could have water-skied behind those Jimmy made, his cheeks like red balloons puffing out and me with my fingers in my ears fearing they might burst. On windy days Billy would give him just one match and threaten harm should the schoolboy arsonist fail, but it never happened, he could have lit a fire on the summit of Everest.

Our brother Robert, younger than Jimmy and also employed at the same newsagents assiduously saved his ‘wages’ to buy himself a bicycle, a beauty it was too. He would ride around the district like the wind, defying gravity taking corners and scaring the life out of me when searching me out bivouacked in some friends house waiting to be fed for free. He would sit me on his narrow cycle seat and set off, his legs pumping like wagon pistons and me holding on, my knuckles white with terror, him never stopping even at crossroads. Eventually I decided I wanted a bike of my own or I might never reach my ninth birthday; unfortunately, I was too young to find remunerative work, and spent my sixpence per week pocket money at the Saturday matinee, so how could my dream come true?

“I know where there is one!” Jimmy piped up as we were sat around the dinner table reading the newspaper tablecloth and dipping sticky fingers in the sugar bowl, (mam used to say, ‘you’ll get worms.’ And I’d think, ‘good, I’ll catch more fish!’)

“There’s a belter doing nothing at work in the backyard, I’ll ask Louie if you can have it and bring it home next weekend.” I couldn’t believe my ears, dad said the matter was settled, and I never slept during that following week of anticipation. I was lost in my thoughts, ‘Marple first, then Hayfield, Glossop and one day Southport, I will visit them all when I can ride it,’ daydreaming constantly, nobody could get through. I was so excited that Friday evening I never ate any bread and margarine with my chippy tea, mam kept feeling my forehead; the longest week of my life was nearly over.

‘Empire! Get yer Empire!’ Could be heard in the distance as I eagerly looked east along Broom Street expecting Jimmy to appear through the railway arch at the top of the street. I instinctively knew time had passed 6 o’clock when the Empire News bloke toured the streets on a Saturday evening selling his ‘late scores newspaper’ and Robert, being fleet of foot would usually be sent to track him down so dad’s Pools coupon could be checked. But Robert was missing, and I was given the job, dad reminding me to ‘hurry up before he sells out.’

I ran as fast as my little legs could carry me, listening intently as the seller’s voice began to fade through distance, and moved to intercept him before he vanished into the local pubs on the Old Road. I asked a couple of lads walking past and they told me they’d seen him go into the 7 Stars which was just around the corner, so I made my way there and impatiently waited at the Saloon Door. The noise from inside was already merry.

“What are you doing stood there Podder?” It was our Jimmy pushing an old Butcher’s bike with 2 flat tyres, a broken chain and squeaking brakes, but worst of all, a massive rectangular framework built on the front for the basket to carry goods. I was mortified, in fact so shocked I missed the ‘Empire Man,’ walk out and disappear down a side street. Robert was walking alongside pushing his two-tone Raleigh drop handlebar super-sprint racer which looked a million dollars and made mine look ready for the scrapyard.

“Is…is that mine Jimmy,” I spluttered.

He laughed and answered “Yes! Why what’s up? Pump the tyres, fix the chain, dab a bit of Echo margarine here and there to stop the squeaks and you’re ready to roll,” His grin as wide as the goalposts on the Donkey Common. “I’ve pushed it from the wide flags, don’t tell me you don’t want it now.” But before I could answer Robert guessed I was running his usual errand and took the coin from my hand to pursue our quarry.

“Here carry that,” my older brother snapped nowtily whilst shoving a parcel into my chest. “It’s a small leg of lamb for dinner tomorrow, but you won’t be eating any after I’ve knocked yer ungrateful teeth out,” He snarled. But before I could respond Robert was back with the evening sports paper under his arm and my vision of not being around to ride my new bike slowly disappearing with the evening light.

Needless to say, I overcame my churlish demeanour, grasped the nettle, begged his forgiveness and asked could I push it instead of carrying the cold meat parcel. The wheels squeaked loudly with each revolution and so I demanded we cut off the main road and hit the side streets. While my brothers chatted and threw the odd sarcastic remark I slowed to a virtual crawl in the hope they would walk on and I could dump the thing near the park as the light began to fade, but I think they had me sussed and chivvied me along. There was a small scrap business at the back of Markham Street I recalled, but the boneshaker was impossible to ride and before I knew it we were near home. Robert always took his bike to the backyard, and he laughingly encouraged me to follow suit, ‘in case somebody pinched it’ ha ha!

Admittedly I slept well that night, and staring down from above through the back bedroom window the next morning the bike didn’t look too bad, and so I gobbled down my ‘dip butty’ breakfast and pretended to be making good with alacrity. Many hands made light work and after a mix of maintenance, preservation, pump-pump and bang-bang in our backyard our dad gripped the seat, sat me on board and pushed me around the terraced streets; just like the Pied Piper of Hamelin we soon had a following and couldn’t shake them off.

“Keep looking straight ahead not down, pedal fast and ignore the cheering,” dad demanded before eventually leaving go, and within minutes I was riding my bike. Thankfully the rattles could not be heard above the cobblestones, but the jokes flew thick and fast, ‘gerroff and milk it,’ being top of the ‘quip parade,’ but I didn’t care, self-preservation was at the forefront of my mind and avoiding ending up on top of the builders yard sand-hill my sole aim. Soon enough I could be seen flying about the place with at least one of my friends sat back in the basket frame, legs splayed over the front and hanging on for dear life. What a laugh, and how well that Butchers Bike served me before eventually falling apart.

Why did I insist on writing about this one episode in a lifetime of friendship and brotherly love you might ask? Well, Jimmy walked out from Birley Street school in the August of 1959 and before September ended had given up any thoughts of being a Butcher and joined the Royal Navy. His early training stood him in good stead us having flitted to West Gorton without anybody thinking to tell him, and the bricked-up doorways and windows helped convince him it was for good. Our Aunt Ethel who lived nearby provided the new address and soon enough he was back in the bosom of his family. He brought both my nearest sibling Neil and me a gift of a Torch each on that first leave, and his penchant for giving friends and family regular presents has never deserted that giving demeanour; his nephews and nieces regular recipients through time.

My brother, who we recently visited to help celebrate his 79th birthday has been diagnosed with Vascular Dementia having recently undergone quite invasive surgery to rid him of Bowel Cancer. He insists the dementia is directly attributed to his waking during surgery and exacerbated by one or two more hospital confinements due to complications. I recall advising him that he had cause for litigation, but he dismissed the idea immediately reminding me curtly “the NHS saved my life.” That’s our Jim. It is awful to bear witness to such a generous character gradually sinking into an existence of forgetfulness and fear. He has travelled the world, fought in the Burmese Jungle, earnt his First Officer’s ticket for the Merchant Navy and took his first wife around the World with him. I say first wife him being wed 4 times, and Karen his fourth is the finest of them all. He worked on Trawlers, Oil Rigs fitting Sonar, employed local South African township people to fit gambling machines in the most dangerous of areas, and finished of an adventurous employment career managing Slot Machine Palaces and Funfairs. Such a vast number of memories for anybody to accidentally lose along the way. What has happened to him can also happen to anybody with the same devastating effects, but science is a wonderful leveller and the medication he now takes has delayed the onset somewhat. And those fleeting moments when he switches between today and the past are still to be treasured.

Dear Reader. Thank you for listening. I’m so pleased to have been able to tell his story.

Compared to my rust bucket this bike is gorgeous. Simple, utilitarian and bloody gorgeous.

*You can hear about our Flit in George’s story, Heard Storytelling. Youtube.

*You can read about our childhood days in my best-selling memoir: Small Victories & Inner Smiles.

Just a few reviews:

‘An amazing book about post-war life in working-class England. Very hard times and very strong people fighting for better lives. Supreme.’ Caroline Hoyt USA

‘I was gripped by the way he lived his life.’ Rosietoes UK

‘Interesting and funny, I even shed a tear.’ Amazon customer UK

‘An open and honest introspective of an East Manchester man’s life journey.’ Christina Marsden UK.