Boothen Ender Bill - RIP.
LUNCHTIME, November 27th, 1996, 12.45pm was a
moment that will remain with me forever as I stilled the incessant ringing of
the telephone in the lounge. The voice on the other end of the line was
that of Jean, the wife of my old soul mate, "Boothen Ender Bill".
"Micky, I've got some bad news for you. Billy's dead". And so
begins my tale.
In the late 40s, my family moved from
Sandyford to The Meir. Like most seven year olds would be, I was
apprehensive about attending a new school. Led kicking and screaming to the Meir
infants by my old Mam, I was finally persuaded to remain by being physically
held by a teacher in one of the old dual type desks that were the norm in those
days. Firmly ensconced, my Mam buggered off and I had no other option than
to accept my rotten luck.
My plight was not helped by the unsavory
character, "Billy T", who occupied the other half of 'my' desk and it
wasn't long before a top dog battle was in progress - a nudge here and a nudge
there finally led to full blooded fisticuffs in the school-yard at playtime.
Noses bleeding, we were both dragged back to the classroom and unceremoniously
dumped in our 'double' by an irate schoolmarm who explained to us that "the
next time there's any trouble from you two, it will be the cane for you
both".
There never again was any trouble between us
because that scrap was the beginning of a friendship that would last a lifetime
for one of us - and leave the other with a broken heart. There were no
losers that day, only winners.
How compatible we were, Billy T and me.
The same sense of mischief, the same zany humour, and, most of all, a great
sense of needing to be in each others company. We became inseparable as
only real buddies can be. Our days and evenings were filled with fun and
laughter and our bottoms took on a permanent crimson glow at the constant smacks
they had to endure for our misdemeanors. We were Dennis The Menace and the
Bash Street Kids rolled into one!
At ten years of age we went missing, and the
cops searched into the night for us. When they first began their search, we
would have been pedalling merrily past the "Saltbox" at Tutbury on our
way back from my aunt Dolly's at Derby. Umpteen punctures later, and at
one o'clock in the morning, we said our goodbyes on the railway bridge and
hesitantly, took the last few steps home. Our crimson glow took on a
deeper shade for the next few days.
However, I am digressing. To continue my
tale. We were also around ten years old when we first discovered the love that
was to last us all our lives. Billy's dad took us down to the Victoria
Ground to watch Stoke City play. I haven't got a clue who they played or
the result of that particular game, but from that moment on, the friendship that
was to last for almost fifty years was bonded by our mutual love for the red and
white of 'The Potters'. They became our icons, and the hasty prayers in
our icy cold bedrooms of yesteryear, before we dived into the freezing beds that
had us in convulsions, were not for the "good health of mummy and
daddy", but were, "Dear God, please let Frank Bowyer bost the
net agin termorrer", or, "Dear God, can I swap my dad for Harry
Oscroft".
Once we were bitten by the bug, our lives were
never still for one moment for it now became necessary for us to generate the
finances that would allow us to continue to support our new found love.
That necessity sowed in us the seed of independence that was to stand us in good
stead for the rest of our lives; make Billy the successful businessman that he
became' and instill in me the joy of working for myself rather than to be an
employee.
Unlike many of today's kids, we couldn't go in
and say, "Mam, can I have some money to go to the match". For
us, it was a case of making the money ourselves or go without. And so
began our entrepreneurial phase.
Scams are not a modern thing; we invented 'em.
The Station Hotel kept a stock of empty beer bottles in their backyard. It
was no problem to hop over the gate at night and fill our many pockets.
Into the off-sales, pop the bottles onto the counter and the deposit money was
our reward. We could do that one night of the week at each of the pubs in
our area. It had only one drawback; the slops would get over our clothes
and by the end of the night we would smell like a couple of brewery workers.
Our main source of income, however, was
firewood. Most gardens were edged by a wooden fence, commonly known as
palings. Come Friday night and we would get Billy's cart out of the
coalhouse and 'do the rounds'. We would be up at the crack of dawn on
Saturday morning and the heap of palings were soon sawn, chopped, and tied into
good sized bundles of sticks and loaded onto Billy's cart.
Our sales pitch was the steps of the Kings
Arm's public bar just before opening. Before the doors were opened, the
usual motley crew would gather and we would ply our wares. Our best
customer was my uncle, the poacher, Tommy 'Lion Tamer' Wooldridge. He
earned his nickname when two of his fingers were bitten off by a fairground
lion. After downing a few pints of Joules Best, he'd offered it a portion
of his fish and chips. "Here pussy", he said, and it promptly
took the morsel - and his digits.
Uncle Tom never paid in cash. We swapped
sticks for rabbits. Wilfy Lymer the butcher bought the rabbits of us and
paid more than the value of the sticks. We learned quickly in those days!
We did a great trade outside the Kings Arms.
However, our trading did throw up a puzzle that we could never fathom out.
We couldn't understand why our punters called us "The Cockwood Boys".
Being innocent at that young and tender age, we got to thinking that some of the
blokes were married to wrestlers. The reason for this was the comments of some
of our customers. Vis.
"Buyin' a bit o' cockwood Joe?"
someone would ask.
"Ar", Joe would reply, "Er'll
wrap 'er legs rind me ternate".
I think we were 21 before we twigged it!
However, those were our early years, and
wonderful ones they were too. Robertson, Bourne, McCue, Mountford,
Thompson, Sellars, Malkin, Bowyer, Finney, King and Oscroft is a team that rolls
off the tongue like the sweetest music. Rattles, painted red and white,
clacked furiously over our heads. "Two, four, six, eight, who do we
appreciate? C-I-T-Y CITY! " - That was our cry from the Boothen End as we
snuggled comfortably in with the old men who smelled of ale and fags.
Wonderful guys they were too; cloth caps and
trilbys, but always those sunken eyes. A constant weariness was etched on
their sallow faces, but those same sunken eyes sparkled like children when the
Potters scored. Their team, our team. Men, many of whom had spent
six years of their lives in a terrible war where they had lost not only their
friends, but also the peace of mind that only non-combatants know.
To them, we were the children for whom they
made their terrible sacrifice, and their love and warmth made each visit to our
beloved Boothen End so special. We stood in the same place and got to know
them, and they us. When crowds of thirty and forty thousand crammed into
the ground, they would lift us onto the rails and see that no harm came to us.
That was our grounding, Billy and me. From those hard and wonderful men of
the Boothen End we inherited the feelings that only those whose roots begin in
that 'Corrugated shed of a Fortress' can understand. God bless 'em all.
Life went on for Billy and me. School,
football; work, football; marriage, football; family, football. Billy
found his second love, music, and became bass guitarist in 'The Black Orchids'
who were a highly rated local group of the sixties.
We lost touch during those busy years but once
again became reunited in the mid-seventies, rekindling the companionship that we
both treasured.
However, no longer was it just Billy and Me.
Now it was Billy, me and Samboy, for I now had a seven year old son.
Samboy's love of The Potters was also rooted in the 'Hallowed Shed', like ours
before. Not for him the devotion of those rough and loveable characters
who nurtured us; for him it was Dad and 'Boothen Ender Billy', and we became an
inseparable trio.
1979 saw us dancing on the pitch at Notts
County with the rest of Alan Durban's Red And White Army. The '80s passed
with mixed emotions until the day Lou arrived. Although we no longer had
to dive quickly into freezing beds to avoid frostbite, we now had another icon
to pay homage to. Now it was "Please god, let Lou win us
promotion", and "Please God, let Lou get us to Wembley".
God answered our prayers and granted us a Wembley visit first.
On that glorious sunny day, surrounded by a
sea of red and white, 'Boothen Ender Billy' and me, the 'Cockwood Boys' of years
gone by, together with my other soul-mate, Samboy, stood side by side in triumph
as the boys in red and white lifted the Autoglass Trophy and Delilah echoed
hauntingly around that hallowed place. Tears flowed from my eyes as I
recalled the years that led us to this pinnacle. I knew that nothing would
mean so much after that day.
It mattered not that some silly people called
it 'The Micky Mouse Cup'. It wasn't what we won; it was being there that
mattered. We were together, 'Boothen Ender Billy', me and Samboy, and in
my heart I carried the memory of all those Boothen Enders who had nurtured us.
We gained promotion the following year, lost
our icon, regained him and things were beginning to look up.
November 23rd, 1996; the Southend game.
All three of us were pig sick at the performance that day. The full time
whistle blew and Billy, after his usual pat on the back to us both and a parting
call of "See you boys", wandered off to his car. Samboy and me
waited for the crush to die down and also left the Boothen End. I had no idea
that I would never see my friend again.
November 27th came that fateful phone call to
say that 'Boothen Ender Billy' had died suddenly in the early hours.
December 4th, the day before Billy's funeral.
Samboy had insisted we go to the Charlton game. I didn't want to go but,
thankfully, he bullied me into it. We were 1-0 up and with only a
few minutes to go. Charlton had an attack and the ball was in the net. It
seemed an eternity, but very reluctantly the linesman lifted his flag, almost as
if he was being forced to. Offside. The goal was disallowed! I
looked at Samboy and Samboy looked at me. Simultaneously we grinned and said,
"Well done Billy!!"
On December 5th 1996, 'Boothen Ender Billy'
was laid to rest in St Anne's Church, Brown Edge. On his grave was a
wreath with four simple words in red and white. It was from Samboy and me
and it said, "Why, why, why Delilah?"
Postscript
On
Christmas Day, Samboy plonked a large present in my lap and gave me a big hug.
"Merry Christmas Dad" he said.
I opened the present and looked upon the wonderful Gary Holmes drawing of
our beloved Boothen End. My eyes misted over.
Attached to the print was a poem entitled, 'You, Me And Delilah' by J
Bennett. I read it and my world dissolved into tears.
Thank you Samboy - from both of us.
The other Cockwood Boy