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  ‘Bet that’s the first bath he’s ever had,’ one of the boys taunted.

  The others laughed. To them it was all just innocent fun, a bit of a lark. True they didn’t like Arthur but they meant him no real harm; they just wanted to put him in his place, to let him know how things were. That’s what they did to all new boys.

  Arthur stood his ground, water dripping off his hair and on to his blazer. The boys broke up and moved on, ready to find another new kid, eager to repeat the ritual. He made his way to the basins and tried to dry his hair on the roller towel but it was already sodden so he had no choice but to make his way out on to the field, hoping to dry in the sun over what was left of his lunch time break.

  Inwardly, he raged against the boys who had done this to him. He racked his brains, if only there was some way to get even with them, but he could think of nothing. The smell stayed with him all the afternoon, constantly reminding him of his ordeal, and was still in his nostrils when he reached home.

  Arthur was growing up in a noisy house. The youngest of four boys and with two sisters, he seldom found peace or quiet at home. There were few comforts and no luxuries in his life.

  The family lived in a mid-terrace house, a falling down relic of the nineteenth century. To have called it a slum would have been too generous a description. With two bedrooms, one for his parents and the other for the kids, with no inside toilet or bathing facilities and with a smoking kitchen fire as the only source of heat, the house was freezing in winter and foetid in summer.

  The brothers constantly fought, pushing each other out of the bed at night. The three oldest boys slept at one end of the bed and the two girls at the other end. Arthur slept on a straw mattress on the floor next to the chamber pot. The walls were thin and when his father had been drinking at the miners' social club on Friday and Saturday evenings the sound of his snoring came into the room and kept them all awake.

  On Friday and Saturday nights the noise wasn’t restricted to inside the house; the sound of the neighbours arguing, with their shouting and screaming coming from either side, provided a counterpoint to his father’s snoring in the next room. The noise came in from the street too; drunken men returning home late at night, standing and swearing at each other as they peeled off, one by one, into their own houses.

  The daytime was little better. Kids running up and down kicking tins, boys fighting, girls chanting skipping rhymes, babies crying and women gossiping to their friends up and down the street — the noise never stopped and if he scored a goal in an improvised game of football then Arthur added his shouts to the rest. Over all this, the noise from the mine hung like a heavy cloud. The clocking on and clocking off sirens, the heavy machinery and the warning sirens were all woven into the pattern of his life.

  When his ears weren’t being battered then his eyes were smarting and his nose was streaming. Dust hung in the air. It settled on everything and was a constant, gritty part of Arthur’s life. Washing, hung out at mid-day on Monday, came back in almost as soiled as when it was put out to dry. The white part of the spectrum didn’t exist in Arthur’s street, everything was a pale shade of grey.

  Arthur's father was a coal miner; a big, burly man with a temper and voice to match his physique. William Campbell was convinced that he was a victim of the mine owners, the government, of his landlord and, particularly when he’d been drinking, of his wife. He was not slow to let people know what he thought. Not one for mincing words, he expressed himself freely and forcefully to anyone who would listen. Often his fists took over when he argued with his wife and then the children hid.

  South Street was in the part of town where most of the miners lived. They were a close-knit community and the houses, back to back and separated by small yards, were convenient for the mine and cheap to rent. At least it provided Arthur with a home. There were those in Arthur’s school who had no homes. With their fathers out of work as the farms became mechanised, they had to leave their tied cottages and often camped in one of the farmer’s deserted barns until they were finally put off the land.

  Although he was often terrified of his father and even though his childhood was tough, it was not an unhappy one. Until he knew what he was missing, Arthur wasn’t worried about the things that he didn’t have. Kicking a football in the street, playing on the slag heap, wild games of cowboys and then, as they grew older, of spies — these were the innocent pastimes of Arthur and his mates.

  It was a time of freedom. What did it matter if there were holes in your shoes when not everyone had shoes to wear? And if you were on a deadly secret mission, it mattered little that there were darns on your shirts and patches on your trousers. Everybody had mended clothes, hand-me-downs that were invariably either too large or too small, and which passed from child to child, family to family.

  They formed gangs according to the street in which they lived and battles were fought with their rivals. As they grew older the battles became more intense and even degenerated into fisticuffs. If Arthur got into difficulties his brothers came to his rescue and if Arthur came home with a black eye there would be several more in the next street the following day.

  Playing up on the hills you didn’t need fancy clothes to bathe in the stream; you simply waded into the cold water. When you were older and had learnt to swim, you dived into the stagnant pools of water and when you came out, frozen, you warmed up and dried off in the sun, before doing it all again.

  And yet Arthur hadn’t run completely wild throughout the first eleven years of his life. His parents adhered to a strict set of rules and taught their children their values. Thieving was wrong and lying was worse — at least, if you were caught — and bullying was not tolerated. You didn’t snitch on your friends or your enemies. Discipline was instant and harsh. A clip round the ear from his mother hurt but a thrashing from his father was a different matter. Once his father’s belt came off, Arthur knew he was in serious trouble and he soon learnt what it was like to go to bed hungry and in pain.

  You didn’t ask too many questions when your father brought home a surprise, a rabbit or two for a stew or a crate of potatoes, and you learnt to eat a jam sandwich while you played football. He and his friends shared their sweets, the fruit of their labours in collecting empty bottles and taking them back to the shop.

  Arthur grew up in a politically charged atmosphere where Union business occupied most of his father’s free time. Discussions and arguments were part of Arthur’s staple fare, both in the house and at the miners’ club where his father took him each Saturday night.

  William promised himself that none of his sons would have to go down the mine unless it was their choice. He saw nothing wrong with honest labour but at the same time he wanted a better life for them. He knew just how hard and dangerous the work was; he had been down the mine from the age of fourteen and was determined to do what he could to spare his sons from that.

  But what else was there for young men to do? There was only one employer in Sligh Hill and that was the mine. One by one, Arthur’s elder brothers each went down the mine.

  Arthur had his father’s build and something of his bluster. Dark of hair and thickset even when still a boy, he was clever and passed his eleven-plus examination. His father didn’t say much but secretly he was delighted; it was the first step on the ladder for Arthur; he wouldn’t have to go down the mine. Going to the local Grammar school would open his eyes to a whole new world.

  If his father thought it would make Arthur’s life easier, he was wrong. In fact, it had the opposite effect.

  The instant Arthur arrived in his new school for his first day he felt out of place. His parents were too poor to buy him a new uniform and so they assembled a variety of hand me down items from people they knew. Arthur’s uniform was worn and shabby, it didn’t fit and he stood out from the other new boys like a sore thumb.

  Within minutes of being in school 'Soupy' became his nick-name. He was bullied by his classmates who looked down on him because of his rough accent
.

  ‘What flavour are you?’ they teased.

  It got worse; when they learnt that his father worked in the coal mine they changed his name to ‘Campbell miner’. They thought it was a great joke since they also had Phillips minor in their class.

  ‘What do you burn on your fire?’ Arthur asked, turning on them.

  One bright spark said logs and got a kicking for his efforts.

  ‘If my Dad and his mates didn’t work in the mines,’ Arthur said stoutly, ‘you would go cold, there would be no coal to generate electricity and the country would grind to a halt.’

  One of the more stuck up boys sneered at him.

  ‘You don’t belong here,’ he said scornfully. ‘Why don’t you get back in your hole? I’m sure the whole country depends on you.’

  He received a bloody nose and Arthur earned his first detention. That was the least of his problems. At lunch time the following day he was set on by a group of older boys.

  ‘He smells,’ one of them said. ‘ Stinker Campbell. Let’s give him a wash.’

  Arthur struggled but he was no match for them. They hauled him off to the toilet block and unceremoniously lifted him up and stuck his head into the toilet. One of them pulled the chain. They let him go and Arthur struggled to his feet, coughing and spluttering.

  ‘Next time …’ one of them said menacingly.

  They laughed and left him. His shirt was soaked and he felt dirty. What could he do? Anger was boiling inside him but he was powerless against so many. If his teachers noticed they said nothing, the other boys in his class said nothing — no one cared. Or so it seemed.

  His mother told him off when he reached home. She took his shirt, washed it and hung it by the fire to dry. Unlike his mother, his father seemed to understand.

  ‘You have to grit your teeth and put up with it,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing you can do against so many except remember. The time will come when you can get your own back.’

  It couldn’t come quickly enough for Arthur. He spent the next day’s lunch hour skulking on his own, staying close to the buildings and near the teacher on duty. Nobody noticed him and everything seemed to have quietened down. He felt cheerful when afternoon school began; he’d escaped. The bell rang for the end of school and Arthur made his way to the cloakroom to get his coat.

  They started by knocking his cap off and throwing it to one another. Once again Arthur seemed powerless to stop them. What could one small boy do against so many determined older boys? They grabbed his arms and hauled him over to the coat racks. Pulling his arms out, they bent the top of the pegs down over his wrists. He was crucified, his arms nearly pulled out of their sockets. They laughed at him as he struggled. Other boys came to fetch their coats but no one helped him. He was incapable of freeing himself and one by one the other boys left. Finally, he was alone.

  Later, a cleaner found him.

  ‘Well, what have we here?’ he said. ‘They've been picking on you, then.’

  Arthur was close to tears.

  ‘Don’t worry young ’un, it gets better. Next year you can do it to the newbies!’

  He came over to Arthur and bent the hooks up.

  ‘They’ll probably do it again,’ he said, ‘but I come round every afternoon so don’t worry.’

  Arthur rubbed his wrists; they were almost too stiff to move.

  Homework was yet another problem. There was nowhere quiet to do it in Arthur’s overcrowded house and so he was forced to use the cold front room where he was constantly plagued by his brothers and sisters. Struggling with new subjects, he was on his own; no one at home could help him. Many of the other boys at school already had some knowledge of Latin and French and he had a lot to learn in order to catch up with them.

  Arthur knew how to kick a football. It didn’t help him with rugby but he was a quick learner. He was robust and strong, qualities that stood him in good stead when he was in a scrum. One by one he hacked the other boys in his class who had picked on him; it’s surprising what a rugby boot can accidentally do to a shin in a scrum. He soon gained a reputation; he was not a player to be trifled with.

  As he studied other subjects, literature and science, history and geography, he discovered that the rest of the world didn’t live in a slum and that there were plenty of good things to be had. He had moved into a world in which poverty and the poor were despised. If he worked hard, his teachers told him, there was no limit to what he could achieve.

  Somehow he weathered the trials of his first term. His accent and his uniform made him stand out from the rest of his class but his prowess on the rugby field went some way to balancing things out. When house matches came along he was picked for his house and played a significant part in their victory.

  Gradually the rough edges of his accent became less noticeable and his writing started to take on a more polished style — he was learning fast. He found that he had friends. Boys who had laughed at him when he’d been strung up in the cloakroom began to include him in their group as open warfare broke out between the rival new classes. Arthur was fearless and all too ready to use his fists when needed.

  Chapter 3

  The early evening air was so still and quiet that Robert Fielder was certain Kerry could hear his heart thumping and the sound of his blood rushing through his head made up for the lack of wind. They were holding hands, walking along a country road in the cool of a mid-summer evening and the turmoil that gripped Robert was in sharp contrast to the serenity of the surrounding countryside. Trying to remain calm was taking all his self control and he was rapidly running out of trivial things to talk about.

  He was a tall, earnest young man in his early twenties and walked with a slight stoop, inclining his head towards Kerry. He was intimidated by her carefree and happy manner and was beginning to wonder if tonight was the right time for him to broach such an important matter with her. He was loathe to disturb the tranquility of the evening and the last thing he wanted to do was to ruin the moment.

  To say that he loved Kerry would have been too trivial. She filled his life, every thinking second of it, with happiness and excitement. Burning in the heat of true love, he was certain that the sole reason for his existence was to worship and adore her. The time apart from her seemed empty and barren compared with the few hours each day that they could spend together.

  Today, he had promised himself, was going to be special. He had called for her just after lunch and they had gone into town to do some shopping. Kerry had bought a new dress and was wearing it this evening; with her hair swept back over her shoulders she looked stunning. It still amazed him that she went out with him. Kerry was everything that he admired in a woman. She was lively and had an infectious sense of humour with which she was constantly wrong-footing him.

  He adored her teasing him and her cheerfulness lifted him from what he considered to be his humdrum life. As an accountant he spent long hours every day in solitude working his way through columns of figures, checking and cross checking. He liked his work but he knew there was more to life than a balanced account.

  Kerry was pretty. How much that thrilled him. When he was out with her he saw the world admiring her and that gave him such a great feeling. She had chosen to be with him and so surely that meant he must be worthy of her attention.

  Last week he had managed to see David Greenway, Kerry’s father, without her knowing it and he’d asked her father’s permission to marry Kerry. His old fashioned courtesy had payed off. He had a good job as an accountant with a large firm where he’d already made his mark and had earned promotion. His future looked promising and he had enough money saved up to put a deposit on a house. He was a young man with excellent prospects for the future and Kerry’s father had been only too pleased to grant his permission.

  At first Robert was so full of relief that he nearly burst out and asked Kerry to marry him the next time he saw her but ever cautious, as befits a good accountant, and weighing up the situation, he held himself in check, waiting for
the right moment.

  And tonight, he decided, was going to be the right moment. They’d been out all the afternoon and now they were walking through the country roads towards a little pub where he’d ordered a special dinner. They came to a gate and stopped, leaning over the top rail and looking down the valley towards the sheep that were grazing at the far end of the field. Robert’s heart was still thumping wildly in his chest. He felt ready for the moment but the words wouldn’t come.

  Kerry sensed that something was on his mind. He had been quiet all the afternoon, brooding over something, and he was still quiet this evening.

  ‘Are you in trouble at work?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Why would you think that?’

  ‘You’re very quiet. I thought that you had something on your mind.’

  Robert looked at her. She was slim, nearly half a head shorter than he was, and had the most beautiful shoulder length hair. It picked up the rays of the early evening sun like the corn drying in the fields. The look of concern on her face melted his heart.

  ‘I suppose there is something troubling me,’ he began.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, interrupting, ‘perhaps I can help.’

  ‘I hope you can,’ Robert replied. He paused.

  ‘Well, go on, tell me.’

  ‘It’s just that I was wondering if you’d like to change your name?’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with my name,? Kerry prickled, suddenly offended.

  ‘Nothing, except that it’s not Fielder. Will you marry me, Kerry?’

  Chapter 4

  It was a long afternoon, hot and boring. Cricket was not Arthur’s favourite game and although he was not unskilled as a bowler and batsman, he was finding it monumentally tedious. It came nowhere near matching the excitement he felt on the rugby pitch. He quite liked athletics but the long games afternoons of cricket seemed interminable, and when Jack suggested that Arthur should go home with him after school Arthur readily agreed. Anything new to break the tedium of the afternoon seemed attractive.