But each year, Mum and Dad and I would set out for ‘home’. This was a trip back to Ireland for two or three weeks. While my pals were enjoying Brighton beach, I would be spending my time with the family, either in Ennis or at my Dad’s village, Boris in Ossery, in the county of Laois in the midlands of Ireland. I would usually return to Brighton, pale as death in contrast to my sun-tanned pals, having suffered from the wet Hibernian climate.
When in Ennis, I would go to my grandfather’s forge and spend hours pulling the bellows to heat up the fire for smelting the horseshoes. There, I would listen to stories and jokes as the men got about their work. I learned not to be afraid of horses, but never to stand behind them. The forge seemed to be the meeting place for many boys after school or on Saturdays, and I remember a great atmosphere of camaraderie. I was now occasionally ribbed for my English accent. What a turnaround.
On Sundays it was off to Mass, then lunch and either a trip to the country or, more likely, down to Cusack Park to watch a hurling or Gaelic football match. My grandfather was known to everyone and his former sporting prowess earned him a good deal of respect. He proudly introduced me to people, and being ‘Packo’s’ grandson seemed to give me some reflected glory. I learned how to use a hurly stick and, a lifetime later, I was walking in Richmond Park one day when I came across two Irish boys smacking a ball between them with hurlies. ‘Can I have a go?’ I asked. They were amazed that I could pick up the ball with the stick, control it at speed, and fire it to them accurately.
I loved being in Ennis, but would also spend a while at the home of my paternal grandparents, Joseph and Bridget Lynam. Joe was a signalman on the railway, a task he combined with running a small farm. Between them they produced no fewer than fifteen children, most of whom survived into old age, a couple of them into their late nineties.
Once, when I was about fourteen, I cheekily suggested to my Dad that grandfather must have been a sex maniac. Dad, rather amused, reckoned that his father might only have had sex fifteen times. Can you imagine bringing up that many children in a small farmhouse, with no modern conveniences, on low pay and no benefits? Well they all ate well, all went to school, all ended up with responsible jobs, and the only case of lawbreaking in the family was when Uncle Gerald was had up for a bit of poaching. My grandparents set standards for their children that were adhered to throughout their lives.
I was always frightened in the house at night. My parents, with my grandmother (who liked a Guinness) and other family members and friends, would go off to one of the many pubs in the village. I would be left in the house with my teetotal grandfather. I was always given a room that had a picture of Jesus Christ on the Cross wearing the crown of thorns; his eyes always seemed to be staring right at me. Whichever way I turned in the bed, the eyes never left me. I never slept a wink until daybreak. Then I could never get up.
Bridget and Joe Lynam were as different as chalk and cheese, underlining the old adage that opposites attract. Joe was straightforward, hardworking, and very literate. He could quote Shakespeare readily, and enjoyed most of the plays. He particularly liked George Bernard Shaw, a man of his own vintage. Bridget was somewhat capricious, with a ready wit. She liked a drink and whenever a visitor with similar tastes arrived at the house, she would ensconce herself in the ‘parlour’ to pour the guest a glass of Guinness. Then she would liberally imbibe herself. The theory was that Joe knew nothing of this habit, but of course he wasn’t that stupid and left her to her own devices.
To this day I remember some of Granny’s sayings. About someone always complaining about their aches and pains, she would say, ‘He’s never without an arse or an elbow’. If she saw an odd looking couple, she would remark that ‘Every old shoe meets an old sock’; or on seeing someone strange she might say, ‘It’s amazing what you see when you haven’t got a gun.’
She told stories about the village cheapskate, a lady who, when it was her round, would describe the Guinness as having got ‘very bitter’ until it was someone else’s round. Her favourite one was when someone came up with something she had missed. ‘You’re an eejit but you’re right,’ she’d say. Bridget was quite a lady, a lady who had endured being pregnant over nineteen summers of her life.
But it was back in England that I remember enjoying one of the best days of my life. I was ten years of age and it was Christmas morning. I had received a great array of presents, everything I could have wished for, when Dad called me from the kitchen. ‘There’s something here in a big parcel,’ he said. ‘What can this be?’
I ran in, and there underneath the cardboard wrappings was a brand new Raleigh bicycle. I don’t think at any time in my life since have I exceeded the happiness of that moment.
But that morning, a boy who lived across the road learned that his mother, who was probably only in her early thirties, had suddenly died – on Christmas Day. I could see his pale face looking through the window of his house, tears streaming down. I took my bike several streets away to ride it. I didn’t want to display my happiness in front of his abject misery.
As I went through my years at junior school, it became clear that I had a good chance of passing the Eleven-Plus examination. In every test I usually came top or near the top of the class. When the examination came round, Dad promised me a cricket bat if I passed, which I did. I still have the bat, with the signature of the then famous England captain Len Hutton inscribed on it. Years later when I interviewed Len, who had long been retired, he asked me to sign an autograph for him, for his grandchild. How could I have imagined at eleven years of age such a turn of events? Dad told me later that the bat would have been mine even if I had not passed the exam. ‘You would have had it for trying your best,’ he said.
Janice Prossor was also successful. My pal Micky Weller was not. He was distraught and deemed to be a failure at that tender age. Whenever I hear arguments in favour of that life-changing test, I think of Micky’s tears.
And so, in September 1954, I was off to Varndean Grammar School for Boys along with Pat Dale, Ron Cavadeschi and Geoff Macklin, who had also picked up enough information at St John the Baptist – in addition to the catechism and the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception – to win places to Varndean.
I was now the proud possessor of a red blazer with black piping and a ‘Just William’ style cap, similarly decorated. The blazer was a bit on the large side. It had to last. I found myself studying subjects like Latin and Chemistry and Physics, playing sports on Thursday afternoons on the spacious playing fields, and being introduced to the marvellous game of chess, which I enjoy to this day.
For a time I was a member of the Army section of the Combined Cadet Force, which was compulsory for a year. I learned how to fire a rifle and a Bren gun and march up and down. On our first day a boy called Douglas Pitt, later a university professor, volunteered to show us how to march at the request of the officer in charge. He did so with his left arm and left leg in unison rather than right arm, left leg. We were hysterical with laughter, and so was the officer/master in charge of us. Another cadet, Eric Cager, when asked what he thought camouflage meant, replied, ‘Is it when we put trees on our heads, sir?’ I enjoyed all that; but what I hated was getting on the school bus on ‘Cadet’s Day’ in my army gaiters and heavy boots and being the subject of much ridicule as the local ‘secondary moderns’ spent the ride saluting and making wisecracks. I made some great new friends at the school, in particular Doug Hillman, with whom I still play tennis nearly half a century later, and Charlie Trinder, whom I visit in America, and many others.
And I discovered Brighton and Hove Albion.
I had of course heard a great deal about the local professional team and knew the names of the players, but I had never been to the famous old Goldstone Ground in Hove until a neighbour, Bob Seymour, invited me along with his two daughters. They were of a similar age to me, and I was desperately in love with both of them, though they treated me with considerable disdain. I had been looking forward to the experience for weeks. We arrived, me in particular in a high state of excitement, and found ourselves, standing of course, behind the goal in the north enclosure. Being small, we were helped to the front. These were the days when football crowds were sporting and friendly, long before hooliganism took its ugly