A 10 year old in Porthcawl, South Wales

In 1941 my father was in the RAF. I was always a little proud of the fact that he did not wait to be called up. He volunteered.

At this time he was a Flight Sergeant: a wireless operator, air gunner. However, this was not combat status. He trained others to fight for King and Country.

And so it was, in the year identified, that Dad was posted to a camp near Porthcawl called (if my memory serves me well) Stormy Down. We, namely my Mother, my Brother and I, left our temporary abode in Dunstable (about which more on another occasion), and moved to South Street, Porthcawl. I was quickly registered at Station Road School, which was the fourth of nine schools I was to attend until I left education at the age of sixteen. Although it was my fourth seat of learning, it was there that I met my first love (about which more on another occasion).

Anyway, the point of this tale is to relate what happened to me one sunny afternoon on my way to school. It was not too far from my temporary home in South Street, so it was my custom to return there for lunch.

On this particular day, I was walking alone down Station Road, and was about 200 yards from the School gates, when I heard my name called from behind me. I turned, and there were two lads of my age, one that I knew (let’s call him David), and the other was unknown to me. I stopped for them to catch up with me, and David said something along the lines of ‘My friend says that he thinks he can beat you in a fight, and I said I didn’t think he could’. From that day, to the present time, I have not understood why this simple statement should signal the start of hostilities. But it did. For no other reason, the two of us started fighting in the middle of the pavement. I use the word ‘fighting’ rather loosely. Arms and little ten year old fists were flying all over the place. However, unsophisticated though the encounter was, it soon became apparent that my opponent was much better at it than I was. There were certainly two occasions when I requested a short break to recover from blows to the head. I sat on a low wall for this purpose, and once sufficiently recovered, launched myself forward for what seemed to be the sole purpose of enduring further pain.

Suddenly, everything changed. Being close to capitulation, and the lifelong shame that this would bring, I found that my fist had landed quite a wallop on his nose. Wow! There was blood everywhere, and it is possible that the Station Road pavement still bears the stain. I was elated at this change in fortunes, but before I could think of pressing home my advantage, a lady pushing a pram passed by, and stopped to tell us that we were disgraceful and said that we should be ashamed of ourselves. Anyway, why aren’t you in school she asked.

School! In our efforts to establish physical superiority, we had overlooked our educational needs. It was now past two o’clock, and we should have been seated at our desks.

Not only was this lad a better fighter than me, he was also a faster runner. So, with the evidence of my questionable victory still running from his nose, he raced into the school and went straight to the wash basin area. As I ran past, his head was under a running tap. ‘Sorry’ I called out as I headed for my classroom. Sorry? I have never understood why I said that. It probably says a great deal about the person I grew up to be. Who knows?

I opened the classroom door, and there it was. The only unoccupied desk in the room. With head down I moved as quickly as possible to fill the empty space. I had almost reached it, when the teacher, a Mr Thomas, called my name. ‘da Costa’ he said, ‘come out here’. He had a strong Welsh accent, and a rather deep voice. I can hear it to this day. I sheepishly moved to the front of the class to receive whatever punishment he thought fit. ‘Did I see you fighting in the street just now’ he asked. I nodded. This was not good. Being late was bad enough, but brawling in public was not the best image for the school. I held my breath. ‘Well now’ he said ‘if this
happens again’. I waited. ‘Keep your left hand up in front of your face, push your right hand forward, and keep moving round. Don’t just stand there waiting to be hit’.

What a teacher!