Micky

Adventures On The Grey Funnel Line

ONE

“Beauty’s only skin deep, yeah, yeah, yeah.” If Micky could hear himself, he would have stopped making such a mess of The Temptations classic. But the fact that his singing had resulted in the loveliest smile from his friend Collin’s sister, Catherine, was worth the mockery. Like any teenage boy, a smile like that usually resulted in sexual thoughts way above any realistic expectations. Yet, at 5 ft 10, with fair hair and sparkling blue eyes, Micky’s glass was always half full.
It was 1966 and Micky was seventeen. He lived in a village forty miles north of London with his mum, dad, and younger sister Helen. His dad, Bill, was a lorry driver and his mum, Irene, a waitress – and even though, like most working-class families, they had very little, he never wanted for anything.
‘You’ll never be a singer, mate,’ said Collin, shaking his head and laughing at Micky. ‘Are we going to the game Saturday? It’s going to be your last for a while, when will they let you out?’
‘Yeah, looking forward to it,’ Micky replied, before adding, ‘and it’s not prison – it’s the Royal Navy! I’ll be back in about three months, for a while at least… then who knows?’
‘What will you miss most then, Micky?’ asked Catherine.
‘Your sexy smile, of course,’ he replied, not missing a beat.
‘Bugger off, cheeky sod! I won’t miss you at all,’ retorted Catherine, causing all three of them to laugh.


***


Micky became an Arsenal Supporter, one grey and chilly Saturday in October 1964, after he and Collin had taken the train to Finsbury Park and followed the crowd through the streets to Highbury Stadium, where they shuffled along in the ticket queue and got caught up in the noise and hustle of the vast crowd. Unfortunately, they saw no more than thirty minutes of actual football during the whole two hours they were there, as they spent most of their time staggering up and down the beer and urine-soaked terraces, learning how to balance on treacherous surfaces – and how to use foul language as encouragement. Neither Micky nor Collin believed that the men in the rest of the ground were fucking idiots or blind bastards, but they shouted these insults anyway… and now they were supporters for life.

Micky also considered himself a Mod, as you had to be either a Mod or a Rocker. Micky found the choice of Mod easy, as the guys were always smart, the girls stylish and sexy, and the music – from R&B to Motown –was guaranteed to get you dancing. This was something Micky was never shy about, as his mum had taught him how to waltz and jive when he was just thirteen years old – with a promise that, if you could dance, you would always have a girl in your arms. They still enjoyed a dance every so often, in the kitchen or the backyard on a Sunday morning.

Micky worked at an engineering company, where he and his workmate – sixty-four-year-old Arthur – made nuts and bolts. The best part of the job was the little brown envelope that was brought around by Marge from accounts – along with her bodyguard, Fat Fred – every Friday, which always felt like winning the pools. He always ended up with lots of spending money, even after giving a large chunk of it to his mum for housekeeping.

He had found a girlfriend in Margaret, who he was sure would finally agree to have sex one day soon. Losing his virginity to the lovely Edith on the last day of school had felt like an age ago now, and he was longing to practise some more, often thinking he would get lucky one Saturday night – that was, if they were able to sneak into Margaret’s house. This was never an easy task, as she was the daughter of the local policeman, who was always on the lookout. Micky had resigned himself that, for now, getting his fingers in her knickers was the best he was going to get.



TWO

One Saturday, early in 1965, Micky went to the football without Collin. By half time he had got fed up with all the pushing and shoving – and, once again, not seeing any football – so he decided to leave and look around the market and shops near the station instead. It was here that two events occurred – events that were to shape his future.

First, he saw, and – with some apprehension – started a conversation with a black man and his very attractive lady friend.
‘Excuse me, are there any record shops nearby?’ he asked nervously.
‘Just down the next street,’ the man replied with a distinctive London accent.
‘Thanks,’ said Micky, before walking off with a head full of other questions he wished he had asked.
These were the first black people Micky had seen up close, and he had certainly never spoken to any before. There had been none at school, there were none in the village or at work, and older people had given him all sorts of advice about avoiding them, as they, supposedly: smelled odd, spoke funny, listened to jungle music and were dangerous, though this was not the impression Micky had been getting at all.

Micky found the shop and, after having a good look around, decided to buy a Temptations album. He then wandered back to the station and, as he had time to spare –went into the café. After buying a mug of coffee, he saw and, taking a chance, asked to join his new acquaintances.
‘Can I sit with you?’
‘Sure,’ the man replied, ‘what’s your name?’
‘Micky,’ he said, pulling out a chair and sitting opposite the very attractive young lady.
‘Hi, I’m Danny, and this is Faye,’ he said, offering a handshake, which Micky took.
‘You found the shop then?’ asked Faye. ‘What did you buy?’
‘A Temptations album; I already have one of the singles from it,’ Micky explained, feeling a bit flustered – like he may have been doing something wrong by sitting with them. He then showed them his newly acquired record, which they responded to with much approval. Micky wanted to know everything about them and so, for the next hour, they had a conversation about black American music, including R&B and Motown. Danny showed him some records they’d just bought by a reggae artist called Prince Buster. They talked about fashion, and they told him they were both eighteen and in their first year at the London School of Art, studying fashion design. They talked about where they bought the smart, stylish clothes they were wearing, as well as some of the clubs they frequented.

Micky then explained, in a jokey manner, the art of making nuts and bolts and the downside of living in a village forty-five minutes away by train, all of which resulted in lots of laughter and fresh coffee. Of the few people who were sitting in the café, a group of older ladies kept looking over at them and tutting quite loudly.
‘Shouldn’t we say something?’ Micky asked.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Danny, ‘we get it all the time.’
‘It’s just one of the things all black people experience,’ added Faye.
Danny nodded. ‘We get a lot worse, believe me. It’s best just to ignore it.’
‘It still doesn’t seem right,’ said Micky.
The old girls tutting away had no idea what Danny and Faye were actually like; they had made up their minds about them based purely on the colour of their skin, not on what they were like as people. Eventually, Danny and Faye had to go. 
‘Here’s my phone number,’ said Faye, scribbling it down on a napkin and handing it over. ‘Give me a call in a couple of weeks; we can arrange to meet again.’
As Faye touched his hand while passing the number over, Micky – who could barely contain his excitement – suddenly got all tongue-tied.
‘Th-thanks, OK, that would be nice,’ he stammered. ‘I really will, in a week or so, yeah?’ As the couple walked away, Faye smiled at him over her shoulder.

The second event happened while Micky was standing on the platform, waiting for his train. When Micky saw a sailor from the Royal Navy standing on the opposite platform, in a smart blue uniform, white vest, and round hat –with HMS ARK ROYAL on the ribbon around the edge. That was the very moment Micky decided he was going to join the Royal Navy.




THREE

Micky felt utterly lost about where to even begin to join the Navy or what steps were necessary to join.up. On arriving home, he went straight to the telephone box at the end of his street and looked up the Royal Navy in the directory. He discovered that there was a recruitment office in the town where he worked, which opened Tuesday through Saturday, so Micky wrote down the phone number on his hand, went home and spent the next few nights lying in bed, daydreaming of exotic places with girls in grass skirts serving beer on the beach.

The following Tuesday, Micky couldn’t wait until lunchtime to call them.
‘Royal Navy Recruitment, Petty Officer Gill speaking,’ said the voice on the other end.
‘I want to join,’ said Micky, a little too quickly.
‘You’re in a bit of a rush. First things first. What’s your name?’
‘Micky Moore.’
‘How old are you, Micky?’
‘Sixteen,’ he replied, standing up a bit straighter.
‘Well, you’re too young for now,’ the officer told him. ‘When are you seventeen then, Micky?’
‘Next January.’
‘Hmm, ten months away,’ he replied, after a brief pause, ‘still, we could get things like the entry test and medical sorted without a rush. Why don’t you come in and see us, and have a chat about things? We can answer any questions you have.’
‘I could get into town on Saturday,’ said Micky.
‘OK, let’s see… how about 10 am?’
‘I’ll be there,’ said Micky, before quickly adding, ‘I know where you are.’
‘I look forward to seeing you then, Micky,’ said Petty Officer Gill.
Micky smiled as he hung up the phone. This is it, he thought, this is the first step. I suppose I ought to tell Mum and Dad?
He pondered this for a while and then said to himself, ‘Nah, plenty of time for that; they’d only try to talk me out of it. I’ll tell them when I’m ready.’ But that Petty Officer Gill sounded OK, he thought. Right then: Saturday. Though it was only a few days away, it seemed like a lifetime.




FOUR

Saturday soon came around. Micky woke up early and got dressed in his smart trousers, polo shirt, and jacket – along with a paisley scarf – prompting questions from his mum as to where he was going so early on a Saturday.
‘Said I’d meet a mate from work and go into London,’ he told her, not sounding wholly convincing as lying to his mum never felt comfortable.
Micky arrived in town with a good thirty-five minutes to spare –and feeling quite nervous went and sat in the familiar surroundings of the Wimpy Bar, where the two weekend waitresses, Jill and Linda, smiled, said hello, and brought him his favourite frothy coffee.
‘Hello Micky, I ain’t seen you since we left school! What you up to, looking all smart and that?’
Micky looked up to see Tom Jenkins, a lad from school who had the loudest voice ever; even when ‘whispering’, he shouted as if he were ten feet away.
‘Hello Tom, I see you were trying to sneak up on me!’ Micky laughed. ‘What you up to these days?’
‘Got a job in the headache pill factory, ain’t I,’ said Tom. He meant the pharmaceutical company on the trading estate.
‘So, you’re a drug dealer now?’ asked Micky with a big grin, making the two girls giggle.
‘No, I ain’t!’ said Tom with much indignation. ‘And don’t ask me to get you anything; I know all about you Mod boys and your “uppers”.’
‘Haha never crossed my mind,’ said Micky, getting up to leave.
‘It’s good to see you, Tom, but I have to be off; I have an interview with Special Branch in ten minutes.’
With that, Micky said goodbye to the girls and then strode off to meet Petty Officer Gill, with Tom shouting, ‘Bollocks, you have!’ and everyone in the Wimpy looking at him.
When he got there, he could see Petty Officer Gill was busy talking to another lad, so he sat and looked through some booklets on the Navy and a copy of Navy News while he waited.

Within minutes, Petty Officer Gill was standing in front of him, offering to shake hands. ‘Micky, yes?’ he asked. ‘Petty Officer Gill. How are you?’ Petty Officer Gill exuded confidence, with his uniform smartly pressed, his shoes all shiny, and the row of medal ribbons on his chest glinting impressively in the light.
‘I-I’m fine, thank you!’ blurted out Micky, feeling incredibly nervous all of a sudden.
‘Good, come and have a seat,’ said Petty Officer Gill.
For the next hour or so, Petty Officer Gill explained all the benefits of having a career in the Navy, as well as all the various jobs available and their different functions. In the end Micky opted for either a Radar Operator or Communications specialisation, and he was asked to come back in a few weeks to take the Maths and English entry tests, which would take an hour. After passing those, he would have to have a medical. Petty Officer Gill also explained that he could not join until he was seventeen and that actual service could only start from eighteen. Also, Micky would need his mum and dad to sign the approval form – something Micky didn’t think would be a problem… once he’d actually told them.

Once they had finished, Micky thanked Petty Officer Gill and left to catch the next bus.
When leaving town, the bus route went down a long but not very steep hill, at the bottom of which was a T-junction. Micky was sitting in the middle of the bus on the left-hand side, and he had five fellow passengers: two young women with two young girls about five or six, and an older man.
As the bus got about halfway down the hill, it suddenly swerved to the right. Startled, Micky looked over at the driver, who appeared to be slumped on the steering wheel and was quickly losing control of the vehicle.
Now realising that something was wrong, the two women exchanged nervous glances while the two young ones whimpered loudly. The older man just continued staring straight ahead.
Micky stood up and quickly made his way over to the driver. He then reached over and got hold of the steering wheel, pulling hard on it, trying to straighten up the bus. Seeing that he couldn’t get near the foot brake, he reached over the small sill where the driver dispensed tickets and pulled hard on the handbrake. Having felt unsure about what that would do, Micky was relieved to feel the bus slow down a little; he was still holding the steering wheel tight and struggling to stand as the bus bounced down the hill.
Then, everything seemed to move in slow motion as the bus flew across the junction, bounced up the curb, and – with the banging and crashing of broken glass and the screeching of metal against wood – crashed through a hedge before coming to a stop in a field.
Everything went quiet, except for a hissing sound coming from the smashed radiator and the whimpering of the two young girls.
‘Fuck, that was close!’ exclaimed Micky, shaking broken glass off his coat and patting himself to make sure he was OK, before looking down at the driver –who, even to his untrained eye, looked dead.
Micky lifted his arm and felt for a pulse at his wrist. When he realised there was nothing there, he pulled the overcoat from the back of the driver’s seat and covered him with it.
‘Are any of you hurt?’ he asked, turning around to face the other passengers.
‘My head hurts, my arms are aching from holding on so tight, and I’ve busted a nail,’ said one of the women.
‘My leg hurts,’ said the other, examining the ripped stockings on her knee, which had hit the seat in front and was already looking bruised.
‘What about you girls?’ Micky asked the young ones.
‘I want to get off,’ said one in between sobs.
‘I think I’ve cut my arm,’ said the other, looking at the graze on her forearm.
‘You’ll be OK, keep smiling,’ was all Micky could think of to say. ‘And how are you feeling, sir?’ he asked the older man.
‘I’ve peed myself,’ he said abruptly, before nervously laughing – which they all joined in with.
‘Change seats,’ suggested the taller of the women, taking his arm to help him, ‘it will be more comfortable.’
Micky nodded. ‘I’m going to see if I can get some help; I think maybe you should all stay here till I come back.’
The others agreed and Micky pulled open the door, stepping down slowly and testing the ground, which seemed to be OK. He then walked around to the back of the bus and pushed his way through the hedge to find a bewildered-looking policeman sitting on his Noddy moped.
‘Bloody hell, son!’ he exclaimed. ‘What happened?’
‘Well, it’s like this,’ Micky started, explaining the situation as he led the policeman back to the bus and its passengers.


***


Within half an hour, another policeman had arrived, then an ambulance and a doctor, and then, finally, a black van from the morgue. Micky had never seen a dead body before, and it was a strange experience. The driver had no injuries that he could see; he just looked to be sleeping.
The doctor pronounced the driver dead, probably from a heart attack. He then checked out everyone else and, after deciding no one was seriously hurt, he put some ointment on the little girl’s graze and gave each of the ladies a painkiller for the headache and the bruising of the knee. Then, after they’d all spoken to the police and given their accounts of what had happened, everyone was given a lift home.
Before going, the two women and the girls walked over to Micky.
‘I’m Annabel,’ said the shortest of the women, ‘and this is Caroline, my friend from work. These two are Annie and Karen, Caroline’s nieces.’
The two girls both said hello at the same time and then grabbed Micky, each giving him a big hug.
‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ said Annabel. ‘You saved our lives, and you seemed so calm just holding the bus straight and taking control, as if it were an everyday thing!’
‘I’m Micky, and it’s good to meet you all – even if it’s an odd way to do it,’ he replied, laughing nervously. Previously, he’d been running on adrenaline. Now that it had worn off, the situation had caught up with him. ‘I may have looked calm, but I was just as scared as everyone else,’ he admitted.
‘How can we thank you?’ asked Caroline.
‘There’s no need to thank me – just as long as you’re all alright. Besides, you just did… quite a few times!’ added Micky, with more nervous laughter.
‘Here’s my business card,’ said Annabel, passing it over. ‘Give me a call soon and maybe we can buy you a drink.’
‘OK,’ said Micky, putting the card in his pocket as he smiled at Annabel. She’s cute, he thought, but I’m not about to tell her I’m only sixteen. ‘Bye then, look after yourselves.’

To Micky’s surprise, the older man – whose name was Albert – lived in the same village as him. So, the police took Albert home first to his daughter – with much explaining about what had happened, and many thanks and smiles all around. Then they dropped Micky off at home, at which point the policeman insisted on meeting his mum. He explained what had happened and how Micky’s quick actions had saved the day.
Once the policeman had left Micky’s, his mum got all emotional. Through tears, she asked, ‘What were you thinking? You could have been killed!’
‘I didn’t think; it just happened,’ Micky explained. ‘Besides, we could all have been killed if I hadn’t done anything.’ He sighed, shaking his head. ‘I could do with a cup of tea, though – being a hero is thirsty work!’ He laughed. ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Helping Uncle Phil shift some furniture; he said he’d be back about dinnertime,’ his mum replied. ‘What happened to the driver? Did the doctor say? And everyone else was OK, were they?’
‘The doctor never said directly, but I overheard him say it was likely a heart attack,’ Micky explained. ‘And the girls just had a graze and a bruise – oh, and a broken nail,’ he added, laughing.
‘Where did these ladies and girls live?’
‘I’m not sure, but I think in Welwyn. Albert, the old man, lives on the High Street by the bakery.’
‘You mean Albert Turner?’ she asked.
‘Maybe, I guess so,’ said Micky, shrugging.
‘Do you think you’ll get your picture in the paper? I’ll have to ask Harry in the newsagents to keep a lookout.’
Micky hadn’t even thought of this. ‘No one has talked to me or taken a picture,’ he replied. ‘I’m going to take this upstairs and have a lie-down,’ he added, nodding at his cup of tea.
‘OK, love, I’ll call when dinner’s ready.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
After changing out of his ‘nice clothes’, Micky took Annabel’s card from his pocket, flopped down on his bed, and took a closer look. It said ‘Annabel Wilks: Designer’, and it looked like she worked for some kind of travel goods company in Knightsbridge.
‘How cool is that?’ he said to himself, putting the card aside and closing his eyes.
It had been a long day. Micky was just glad that his mum hadn’t asked why he’d been coming home so early – and that no one had noticed the brown envelope with the MOD crest and the Navy paperwork that had been sticking out of his jacket pocket.