Life Didn’t End At The Bottom Of My Street

Wee Robbie, sitting on a cold tenement stair (the toilet shared by 3 families, no sink, no bath), explaining to his friend Eamonn that he’s about to run away from home…forever. A painting by David Kerr, artist and ex-soldier, Glasgow, Scotland. Thank you David.

For many individuals in the 50s and 60s in Lochee, Dundee, Scotland, just like for many in those days in the rundown cities of Britain, life really did end at the bottom of their street.

But for me, being brought up in a dysfunctional household of an old council-run Victorian tenement flat, where I’d get the dirty, barely warm water in a calvanized bath after my father had been in it on a Friday evening, life began at the end of my street.

You see, my father often beat my mother around the flat like beating a rag doll. She’d be knocked unconscious…more than once. I was tiny, and it was scary, very scary.

When I was a wee bit bigger, I’d try to step in to stop it…I’d get battered too.

I’d often miss school to look after my mother, sometimes for days at a time.

I loved school. In geography, I’d listen but look out of the window and look to the sky, imagining that I was in the tropical place that the teacher was explaining to the class.

A dreamer, oh yes. Dreaming of a better life, in a better place.

I ran away at age 10, no plan, no money, no clothes, no idea. I came back with my tail between my legs, to another battering from my father.

I was tiny, pretty undernourished. I’d eat rolled-up butter balls coated in sugar…because I could. Great for tooth rot, which would have to be addressed later when I joined the military.

Toothpaste was invented in Lochee. Had it been invented anywhere else it would have been called teethpaste.

I got through life in between witnessing wife batterings by running. I’d go to the park, and I’d just run and run, sometimes for hours. Sprinting in school shorts and wellies…where my socks would fold down to my toes.

Little did I know back then that the running was doing me the world of good. It was sending the chemicals in my body and in my brain to the right places. So after the running, for a wee while anyway, I’d feel great.

With very little schooling, due to looking after my mother most of the time, it really was time to leave. So now at the age of 14 and with a plan, some money (stolen from the electric meter dish over a long period of time) and a change of clothing, off I went on the train to Bristol.

A football coach had a professional career where he finished at Bristol Rovers, before returning to Dundee to coach in his spare time. Having failed trials with both Dundee FC and Dundee Utd for being too frail and wee, he thought I deserved a chance in England. He also knew what was going on in my life.

So one rainy day, off I went, and never looked back.

I remember the “line of departure,” a military term, being the end of my street, and not my flat of horrors.

On the way down I had to change trains at different stations. The main one being Birmingham.

An encounter there I will never ever forget.

I was sitting on a stone block early in the morning on an empty platform. A man came past…a Black man. My jaw dropped, and my eyes followed him unwittingly. The man stopped, looked straight at me, and said “what are you staring at boy?”

I said “I’m sorry, but I’ve never seen a ni**** before. The man shouting “what did you say?”

I thought maybe he doesn’t understand me…I’ll say it again.

He came over, picked me up by my neck and shoved me against the platform wall.

He asked again. Again, I answered.

“Where are you from?” he asked. “Dundee” through gritted teeth…tooth.

“So there are no ni***** in Dundee?” he screamed.

“You’re the first one I’ve ever seen” was my answer.

My uncles and their mates would refer to Blacks back then with that reference. In my naivety, I didn’t know that it would offend.

“Where are you going?” he asked. “Bristol” I answered, barely able to breath, let alone speak now.

He let go of my throat, and said “well boy, there’s plenty of ni***** in Bristol, so you’d better wise up, right now.

He then asked me if I’d run away. I told him that I have, but I have a football trial to go to in Bristol. He asked if I’d eaten. I told him no.

He looked at his watch, took me back along the platform, around the corner and into a small cafe. He bought me a big English breakfast, and a mug of piping hot sweet tea.

He then told me to open my ears and listen, because It’ll save my life, not only in Bristol but for the rest of my life. He explained how offensive the word I was using to describe him was. He told me to never use it again. I told him that it was normal back home in the confines of the people that my wee life revolved around. He was a tough and scary individual, but obviously with a heart of gold. He was giving me a life lesson, especially way back in the 60s…it was hugely valuable.

As I ate and drank, he continued with his words of wisdom…I listened, probably listening hard for the first time in my life.

He missed his train, instead ensuring that I caught mine. He never stopped talking to me, like he didn’t have enough time to instill all the wisdom into me that he had to give.

As my train was moving along the platform, I was stood in the door with the window down. He was still talking, holding onto my arm. As the train moved faster, he let go and waved…I waved back.

All through my great military career and on to this day as I write this, I’ve never ever forgotten this great man. Yes, he probably did save my life. But I never even said thank you to him…something I regret deeply.

I didn’t make it in football, although as a youth I enjoyed trying.

I signed onto the military at 16, and joined just after my 17th birthday. In 23 years of service, my best friend was Black…originally from Jamaica. Noel came from Bristol and invited me to his home there to meet his family. At dinner, he asked me to tell his parents the story of Birmingham station. I did, and they laughed and laughed. I told them that I never even said thank you to the man. They told me that I didn’t need to, as he was mature and kind-hearted enough to know that I was listening.

Noel and I sprinted…I never ever beat him, running him close a few times, but not close enough.

When I went to the SAS, Noel and I kept in touch, he came to Hereford to see me. After the military, Noel returned to his roots in Jamaica. He died a few years ago.

I’ll never forget the man on the station, and my relationship with Noel…two awesome people.

If my life ended at the bottom of my street, I would never have met either of them.