My parents had decided, before they were even married, that they would have just the one child, preferably a boy, that they could then spoil and devote all their time and energy to. He would grow up into a good looking and intelligent young man. They were granted their wish.

That is, until three years after his birth, I came along. They didn’t realise that no method of birth control is one hundred percent effective, thus despite the best prophylactics available at the time, I arrived.

I am David Jenkins, my brother is Colin and my parents are Llewelyn and Janice. Llewelyn was of full Welsh heritage, lacking only the fiery red hair of many Celts. He had arrived in The Potteries a decade previous from Lampeter, a small town, roughly half way between Swansea and Aberystwyth; in other words, in the middle of nowhere. A beautiful area to visit, though lacking much in the way of work. At the end of the war, he came looking for a job and found one, along with Janice, a local girl, born and bred in Stoke-on-Trent. They were married at Christmas,1946 just a few months after my father was demobbed, with Colin coming along less than a year later.

Obviously, I don’t recall if my arrival had any initial positive effect on my parents, but by the time I was old enough to remember anything, I was treated as some kind of second class citizen. Don’t get me wrong, they didn’t actually mistreat me. I was never abused, either physically or verbally, they just did the absolute minimum required to bring me up. I had clean clothes that were replaced when I outgrew them, but not before, depending on when Colin had outgrown them. Christmas and birthday presents were of a token nature and treats outside these times, non-existent.

None of these things bothered me that much, let’s face it, I didn’t know any difference. I watched as Colin was spoiled, given almost anything he asked for, but I was led to believe that spoiling the first born was the norm. What did ruin some of my days was Colin himself. If I had anything that he wanted, however momentarily, he just took it. I quickly learned that complaining to my parents was pointless, as they always took his side, even on the rare occasions that they witnessed his transgression.

Outside of the house, I was a typical boy, boisterous and played just about any sports I came across. Growing up, making friends wasn’t that easy, as most of the kids assumed that I was like Colin, therefore avoiding me. Oh yes, Colin treated them exactly the same as he treated me. Obviously that led to numerous disagreements between my father and the parents of whoever he’d taken something from. Naturally, my parents failed to see what he had done wrong. I did manage to make a couple of football friends that joined in a regular kick-about, though they were never what you would call real mates.

I was above average at every sport I tried but did not excel in any. Colin excelled naturally in every sport he played, though he lacked the dedication to become first-class. He was the same academically, naturally intelligent but never pushing himself. When the eleven plus examinations came along, he decided that being a big fish in a small local school was far better than being a non-entity in a large, city wide, grammar school, so refused to sit the exam.

When my turn arrived, my parents wouldn’t sanction me even taking the test. Colin hadn’t, so why would I? That meant that I too, attended Penkhull Secondary School.

Two events when I was thirteen and fourteen occurred that would define my future relationship with my brother; either one, on its own would have probably have done, but together they were unforgivable. The first also ruined what little respect I had for my parents.

A neighbour Terry Allen, who was in the same class as me at school, asked if I fancied being a van lad at the local Mothers Pride bakery. He explained that it was predominantly a Saturday job, but if I did a good job, I could also work during the summer holidays as cover for those full-time lads who were on their own holiday. The pay offered was more than enough, and, if I did well then I could save up enough money to buy myself a new bike, something I longed for, knowing that my parents would stump up the cash. I quickly agreed. The following Friday, after school we walked the mile and a half to the bakery. Terry’s mother already worked there and it was she who had tasked her son with finding a few eager lads.

The good news was that, after a brief interview, we were taken on, provisionally. The bad news was that I would be starting the following morning ... at 4:30!!

My father agreed to wake me up for that first shift, but after that I would be expected to purchase my own alarm clock.

Bright, the day that is, not me, and early, I presented myself to the supervisor, who informed me that I would be working with Tommy Plant on the wholesale side. The bakery was divided into three sectors; production – the actual bakery and easily the largest part; wholesale – delivery vans for shops and retail – vans for door to door home delivery, which at the time was still very popular.

There were about thirty vans in wholesale, used to cover a vast area going south, virtually into Birmingham and west, right into Wales. Tommy’s area covered Wolverhampton and its surrounding area. The vehicle, like most at the bakery, was a 1947 Ford Thames 4D, with a cracking top speed of 32mph, at least according to the speedo which, even that, was probably on the generous side.

That first morning, I was given some instruction as to what I was expected to do. At that time, few, if any, shops opened on a Sunday, so Saturday deliveries were always heavier than the rest of the week; hence the need for Saturday lads like myself. I was to do most of the running about between the shops and the van. The first shop was a bit of an embarrassment when Tommy asked me to fetch a small tin – how was I supposed to know that a tin is a type of bread? Still, apart from the early start, I quite enjoyed it.

About a month in, I had everything down pat, I arrived earlier and checked that we had been loaded correctly, taking on board Tommy’s worry that the loaders couldn’t be trusted. By then, I knew the round well enough that I could predict what was expected at the next call. I even got chance to drive the van a bit, usually just around the bakery yard. I had bought myself an alarm clock and never had any trouble getting up; don’t mistake that for enjoying it.

For the school summer break, I was taken on to cover the permanent lads’ holidays. This meant that I had to say goodbye to working with Tommy and had a different driver for each week. About a fortnight before returning to school, I had earned enough money to buy myself the bike I wanted; a Carlton Longfellow, a good racer. Because of the early starts, I still finished with enough time to visit Swynnerton’s, the city’s best cycle shop, and buy my bike.

I contemplated riding to work, but as the cycle rack there was out in the open and in plain view and access from a nearby path, I decided not to risk my new bike and to walk and to leave my bike in the coal house, at home.

When I got back from work the next day, I thought that I’d made a grave error; my bike was missing. I quickly ran into the house and questioned my mother, asking if she’d seen or heard anything.

“Don’t be silly, it hasn’t been stolen. Colin is using it.”

“What?” I almost screamed, “I never gave him permission to even ride my bike, let alone borrow it!”

“Now David, don’t be petty. Think of all the things Colin has done for you.”

I paused for a second before replying. “Just done that. I can only think of the trouble your favourite son has caused me, with not a single instance of him doing me a favour. Now, once again, he proves he is nothing but a thief!”

Slap! I never saw it coming, but I certainly felt it, as my mother’s hand hit my face with remarkable power, almost knocking me off my feet.

“Go to your room.” She shouted angrily. “We’ll see what your father has to say about your attitude.”

Knowing that I couldn’t win and still reeling from the blow, both physically and mentally, I headed upstairs to my room.

I think my mother sent me away to calm down before facing my father, but it had the reverse effect. I got more and more irate, almost to the point of out and out rage. A few hours later, when I was called down by my father, I was ready to take on the world, consequences be damned.

“What’s the meaning of this?” My father demanded as soon as I walked through the door.

“Of what?” I said equally angrily. I looked around at my parents and saw that my brother was also present, smirking at me.

“You know what.”

“You mean that some thief stole my bike and when I complained to mum, she took the thief’s side, just because, like always, you pair can’t admit that that is exactly what he is.”

I’d never seen my father’s face go that shade of red, and when he responded it was in a spluttering fury. “Colin is not a thief... “ he started before I interrupted.

“He took my bike without my permission. That is theft.”

“He doesn’t need your permission, that bike, like everything else in this household belongs to me and your mother, not you.”

“Wrong, I paid for the bike with money I’d earned myself, it has nothing to do with you and if you can’t see that then you’re just as guilty as Colin.”

“Colin. That bike is now yours and David is NOT to use it, understand?”

My brother’s smirk got even broader, “yes dad.”

“THIEF!” I cried.

That was the end of the conversation as my father dragged me upstairs to my room and laid into me with his belt. Strangely, I felt little pain at the time, probably because of all the adrenalin that was coursing through my body. Sadly that didn’t last.

When he’d finished belting me, he grabbed my wallet from my pocket, almost ripping my trousers. “You can get this back when you apologise to Colin,”

“Looks like stealing runs in the family.” I stated, moments before his fist knocked me to the floor.

I managed to climb into bed, lying on my right side to protect my now painful buttocks and swollen and split left side of my face. I knew, there and then, that I no longer belonged to this family, assuming that I ever had. I knew, without doubt, that I would never apologise. Why should I, as I believed that I was in the right.

I didn’t go to work the next morning and felt slightly guilty because they had done nothing wrong, but a lack of sleep, bruised buttocks and a black eye and split lip was too much. Later that afternoon, I managed to walk to the bakery and explain that I could no longer work there. At first, surprisingly, my supervisor tried to persuade me to stay, but when I told them that whatever I earned would be taken from me, he agreed that it was for the best.

From then on, my life, if you can call it that, was spartan to say the least. Breakfast consisted of porridge, made with water, lunch was absent and my evening meal was baked beans with four rounds of bread and butter. Occasionally, that was substituted by beef dripping on toast. The rest of my day was either at school, or once the holiday had finished, keeping myself amused outside, reading in my bedroom or sleeping. Conversation at home was minimal. The other constant was my brother’s smirk.

Two months after school restarted, a school friend, Tony Sherratt suggested a game of snooker that Saturday. I explained that I had no money, but he said not to worry as it was his uncle’s snooker parlour and as long as we weren’t using a table required by paying members we were free to play whenever we wanted. I say we, but that was because it was conditional on Tony being there.

Over the next six months my snooker progressed from rank novice to reasonable. With the help of Tony, his uncle and numerous club members, I began to play well, regularly achieving breaks of thirty and above. The other, even better, bonus was that we were often called upon to run errands for members too occupied with their game to do so themselves. Usually, this involved fetching cigarettes, although trips to the bookies were pretty frequent. The latter was agreed with the local shop on condition that we could only place bets for someone, but under no circumstances were we allowed to collect. We were always given a tip for such errands, money I always used to buy food before I went home as I knew that any money I had would be confiscated and an inquisition held on where it had come from.

School work was easy for me and I rarely had homework to do. I was often called upon to help some of the kids struggling with the work, either in class as a sort of teachers’ assistant, or outside on a one to one basis, usually after lunch. We had a school canteen which served lunch to the majority of students, most paying for the meal with some kids from poorer households getting free meals. One eagle eyed teacher noticed, early on, that I wasn’t attending, nor did I bring my own, yet still stayed at school during the break. A quiet word fetched, from me, the reason, and he somehow arranged for me to help in the kitchen where I was always fed well.

Meanwhile, I was growing and puberty started to quietly destroy the peaceful life that had been enforced on me. Girls, I just couldn’t stop thinking about them, checking them out at every opportunity. Pimples were appearing on my face with far too much regularity, so along with my total lack of finance, chances of a date, any date, were between slim and none existent. Because of the help I gave during classes, I was friendly enough with some, often being treated to their frustration regarding whoever it was they were dating. They were more than happy talking to me, but that was as far as it went. They all expected to be well treated, both emotionally and financially. Some even moaned if they were expected to go Dutch. I couldn’t even afford to pay for myself, let alone any date.

Halfway through my fifteenth year, I struck gold, or at least I thought so at the time. Sandra Lake was a brainiac and like me, often helped out harassed teachers, especially in Maths. She was, apart from her intelligence, perhaps Miss Average. Her straight brown hair was cut to a medium length, she was neither too fat, nor too thin. A largish nose and glasses put off many a boy, but apart from that she wasn’t bad looking.

“Why don’t you date David?” She asked me one period when the maths teacher had failed to turn up. Said teacher had sat us together as she knew that we wouldn’t need to copy off each other during any tests.

“No money!” I replied simply.

“None? Why don’t you get a Saturday job or something then?”

“Wouldn’t do any good. I had a good job, but my father claims that any money, and I do mean any, that I have belongs to him.”

“That’s not fair!” Sandra exclaimed.

“Tell me about it!”

“You could take a girl to the park, that wouldn’t cost you anything.”

“How many of the girls you know would put up with that?” I laughed sadly.

She stopped to think. “I would.”

My mood brightened at once. “You would?”

“Yes”, she answered with a grin, knowing exactly what was coming next.

“Sandra Lake, would you like to come on a date with me?”

“I’d love to.”

That Saturday was one of the best ever. I know some people, especially, but not exclusively, take an inordinate amount of time deciding what to wear on these occasions, but as my wardrobe was so sparse, I didn’t have that problem. Grey slacks and a clean shirt was just going to have to do. Sandra looked fabulous in a blue flowery dress that came to just below her knees. I know mini skirts were in vogue in the big cities, but not here in Stoke.

I’d met her at her home and then we walked to Hanley Park, chatting all the way. I’d worried that I’d clam up and look foolish, but Sandra just filled in gaps naturally. We spent a good three hours at the park, either strolling around or sitting on one of the Victorian wrought iron benches. We talked non-stop, or should that be I listened. Either way, it was really enjoyable. After about an hour, I risked taking hold of her hand and was rewarded with a smile and a squeeze of said hand.

We saw numerous acquaintances from school, most doing just the same as us. We spoke to the few that we knew and just nodded to the rest. The last forty minutes were, by far, the best as we sat down on a bench, as secluded as possible in the busy park, and I had my very first kiss. It wasn’t the most romantic, as I almost knocked her glasses off, but it was as memorable that day as it still is today. I was in heaven.

The walk back was in comfortable silence, just holding hands. I received a gentle kiss on the cheek at her house before heading home in dreamland.

My happiness was clear to see once I was home, something that even Colin, despite his best efforts, couldn’t dispel.

At school on Monday, I was still on cloud nine and that was before Sandra told me how much she had enjoyed the day and happily agreed to repeat on the coming Saturday.

Friday was as low as the Monday had been high. Sandra informed me that she wouldn’t be able to keep our Saturday date, but wouldn’t say why. I was to find out the reason on Saturday evening. Colin took great joy in informing me that he had take Sandra out that afternoon.

Colin was now seventeen and had his own car, partly paid for by selling my bike. He was of course, still better looking than I’d ever be, as well as being very athletic. He had, for the past few years, been a real ladies man, seemingly changing girls on an almost weekly basis. Of course, most of the girls knew this, but were still attracted, feeling that they would be the one to tame him.

“You know, typical virgin, Sandy was a real lousy fuck, so bad, in fact, I’ll probably let you give her the next seeing to. She didn’t appreciate my candour after though.” He smirked, once my parents were out of the room.

The red mist descended instantly, and I launched myself at him. Everything about the two of us indicated that there would only be one winner and even my rage was not enough to tip the balance. In hindsight, I reckon he was expecting, even hoping for, exactly that reaction from me. I never even landed a single blow, but he landed a lot, far more than he needed to subdue me.

I’m not sure what he told them but, of course, my parents believed him and I was sent to my room holding a handkerchief to my bleeding, and as it turned out, broken nose. That night and all day Sunday was spent either feeling sorry for myself or plotting my revenge. I was highly successful in the former, with no real idea for the latter.

Monday at school was excruciating. I couldn’t breathe properly through my nose, I had two black eyes and another split lip; my ribs ached and overall I felt like shit. My parents still insisted that I go to school, telling me that it was my own fault for attacking my brother. Naturally, questions abounded from everyone, including the teachers. I managed to ward off the most awkward of them, with the excuse that it hurt to talk, which in itself was pretty accurate.

Sandra was conspicuous by her absence. She didn’t appear until Thursday when she wouldn’t make eye contact at all. This really started the rumour mill flying. The common misconception was that I had been beat up by Sandra’s father/brothers/friends because I had sexually attacked her. Sandra did nothing to scotch these rumours, which meant they became de facto to the majority of pupils. I was too big to be out and out bullied, but not for almost complete ostracisation.

Sandra never spoke to me again, nor did she attempt to set the record straight with our fellow pupils. That meant that the rest of my time at school was a complete misery. There was certainly no chance of another date with any girl, not that I would risk it even had it been possible. Colin had made it clear that he would ‘road test’ anyone that I tried to date.

The teachers also seemed to buy in to the rumours and I found myself on the wrong side of their ire on far too many occasions. Detentions for even the slightest misdemeanour became the norm.

Three weeks after my sixteenth birthday was Easter and I could now officially leave school. With no skills, nor any academic qualifications, I knew it was labouring that had my name on. With that in mind, I approached the bakery about full time employment. Fortunately Jack Whieldon, my previous supervisor, was now a manager, and remembered me as a good worker. The only opportunity though was as a loader on the twelve hour night shift. For some, this would have been a problem for their social life, but considering that I didn’t have one, I jumped at the chance.

The next problem was somewhere to live. A quick look through the Evening Sentinel, our local rag, gave me a couple of options. The best seemed to be a room in Clayton, just a stone’s throw from the bakery. I rang and was asked to turn up that same afternoon to see if I was suitable. Mrs. Joyce Brennan was a young widow who needed to let a room out in order to make ends meet. She was around thirty, slim with dark hair cut in a bob. She was very attractive and I tried to keep my eyes on hers rather than her ample breasts protruding from her tight jumper. I must have succeeded, for after an explanation as to why I needed somewhere I was offered the room. For just a little extra she promised to cook one meal a day for me. I accepted providing that it could be the evening meal, somewhere between 5:00pm and 6:00pm.

So started my life with Joyce. She was, as I have said, an attractive woman, and she formed the major part of my sexual fantasies. Sadly, to her, I was just a kid, and fantasising was as close as I ever got.

I was lucky in the fact that I had good health, family beatings apart, so soon gained a good reputation at work. I rarely drank alcohol, so hangovers were never a problem. I had no social life so that never came before work. I’d been driving the old vans around the bakery virtually since I was thirteen, so one day, when the supervisor asked if I could drive the artic (semi), I agreed that I could, assuming that it just needed moving. It did, forty miles away, to Manchester Trafford Park and one of the company’s other bakeries to pick up some of the specialist products that we sold but didn’t make here.

I was a tall lad and dressed in Mothers Pride overalls, no-one would question my age. It only took a minute’s thought before I jumped at the chance. I’d been to Trafford Park before and as I’m blessed with a pretty good memory for roads, I didn’t think there would be a problem. I was right, I found my destination with ease but that was when the fun started. I’d only ever drove the artic forwards and now I was expected to reverse onto a loading bay ... with trailers already either side. It took over thirty minutes to do but with plenty of advice and encoutagement from a couple of other drivers I finally managed, to a round of applause from the gathered crowd.

Occasionally, usually on a Saturday, after I’d finished my night shift, I would be asked to help out on one of the rounds, initially as a van lad but later on as a driver, totally illegally of course, but that was not unusual in those days. Although the van fleet was slowly being updated, most were still the old crash gearbox 4Ds, with all the double declutching that came with those old vehicles. I soon got used to listening to the engine in order to change gear without the crunching sound of earlier attempts.

Occasionally, if they were short of men to work the ovens, I was tasked with this. This was easy work, standing taking the tins of bread out of the oven (three loaves per tin; one tin in each hand) which was on a continuous loop, knocking the loaves onto a conveyor belt directly in front of the oven, turning to place the empty tins on another continuous loop behind me, removing two tins of dough from this and placing them in the oven to start their baking. I say it was easy, and it was, but only after much practice. You only had a few seconds to do this manoeuvrer, you were standing directly in front of a very hot oven. On top of this, all you had to protect your hands was a glove of sacking, really nothing but two square pieces sown together. This was fine as long as you remembered to keep your hands bent well back. Failure to do so left you with ‘suicide wrists’, that is burn marks across your wrists below the squares of sacking, reminiscent of scars left by attempted suicides.

About three months short of my eighteenth birthday, I found myself in ‘castle (Newcastle-under-Lyme) one Saturday afternoon. The weather was unusually, and uncomfortably, hot so I decided to call in one of the pubs for a pint of shandy. Once I’d been served I moved to the rear of the bar where it was just slightly cooler. There I saw a young woman practising pool. She looked about twenty, so I put her age at anything between fifteen and twenty two. Women that age are rarely older than they look. This one was dressed in shorts and a dark blue blouse. Her hair was long but kept in a pony tail. She wore a little too much makeup, but looked pretty enough. I was quite good at checking out the opposite sex, for, let’s face it, that was as close as I ever got.

“Finished looking?” She asked in a slightly amused voice.

“Nope!”

That caused her to laugh, and is often the case, made her look far more appealing. “Well, at least you’re honest. Fancy a game?”

“Pool?” I asked in what I thought of as suggestively.

Another laugh. “Yes, just pool.” She then returned the compliment by giving me the once over. “Though, if you beat me...”

“Well I’ve never played pool before so the odds of that are pretty remote.” I suddenly felt a little strange. I never chatted up girls and rarely, if ever, spoke to them, one on one. Yet here, I somehow felt comfortable.

“Never? Come on then, I’ll show you. Grab a cue whilst I rack ‘em up.”

I grabbed what looked like the straightest cue and joined her at the table. She quickly explained the rules and how to start.

“Hit the pack as hard as you can and hope one goes in that isn’t the white. I’ll explain the rest as we go along.”

I did so and managed to pot a red and a yellow.

“Okay, now you must choose which colour set you want and from now on you can only hit that colour ball.”

I studied the layout just like I would on a snooker table. Deciding on reds, I potted a simple red with a touch of bottom to hold for the next. Although the pot was clean, the white came back a little further than intended. It took a couple of games before I realised that the white was actually slightly smaller than the object balls. I potted three more before I finally ran out of position and left myself snookered. Angie, who by then had introduced herself, first name only, then came to the table and very competently cleared the table.

“Are you trying to hustle me?” She laughed, “for someone that’s never held a cue, you did remarkably well.”

“Hey, I never said that. I said I’ve never played pool before. I have played a lot of snooker though.”

“Okay, I’ll let you off then. At least now, I can play properly.”

We had another half dozen games of which I managed to win two of the last three.

“That’s enough.” Angie said, “I’m quitting before you get any better, How about we go upstairs for that other game you insinuated about.”

Before I knew it, I was led, without the slightest complaint from me, upstairs to her bedroom. It seemed that she worked at the pub and room and board were part of the deal. I was a naïve virgin as I climbed those stairs but when I returned a couple of hours later, I might have still been naïve, but I was definitely no longer a virgin. Angie was everything I could have hoped for. She knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t shy about telling me ... in minute detail, and given my lack of experience that was exactly what I needed. I nearly spoiled it when I asked about seeing her again.

“No lover, I have a boyfriend that I love.” I raised my eyebrows at that, but she continued. “We have an arrangement that we can both have a bit of variety as long as we never have a repeat performance with the same partner. Not complaining are you?” I shook my head. “Didn’t think so.”

I hoped that breaking my duck would lead to a plethora of opportunity but I should have known better. It would be many years before I got laid again.

Life with Joyce Brennan was predictable. She’d been widowed for four years after her husband had been killed working on the railway. Apparently, tripping and falling under an engine as it shunted in a yard littered with debris, on a moonless night, was his own fault and no blame could possibly be accepted by the Railway. Needless to say Joyce was still bitter. Fortunately, they hadn’t yet had any children. She was a typical housewife cook of the day; fair at meat and two veg and other basic meals, but tended to overcook everything else. As part of my rent, we shared the early evening meal but rarely conversed about anything of importance.

After being there for over a year, she began to date a man on a frequent basis. As I approached my eighteenth birthday, I sensed that marriage was imminent. That, and a letter I received led me to believe that it was time to move on.