Out of School and Straight to the Pub

“Come straight to the pub after school. Don’t dawdle,” my Mum always insisted. Well, it was the 1970s – just – and it wasn’t far from desk to bar so it seemed natural at the time. Add to that the fact that our family lived in and managed the pub at the time, and her words reveal her as the loving Mother that she is, rather than a slattern who got drunk every night while her frightened children looked on – which she certainly was not and is not.

Yes, folks, part of my childhood was spent living in a pub, The Rodmill, which sits to the side of the main road north out of Eastbourne, attracting people on their way into and out of the town, and the medical staff from the hospital opposite after they’ve had a busy day saving lives at the coal face of healthcare.

Mum and Dad (Sheila and Tom) always wanted to run a pub, and that dream came true when they were handed the keys to The Rodmill in November 1969. Despite having been through the Licensed Victuallers training course and passing with flying colours, they obviously couldn’t have run it alone so my brother Alan and I (at the tender ages of 10 and 12) offered to help. As long as we weren’t busy running Subbuteo Tournaments upstairs, watching Doctor Who or making Airfix models of Second World War aircraft. Which we did quite often, to be fair. But the offer was genuine.

Maybe you were at the bus stop one Saturday afternoon in 1970 and witnessed my Grandmother leaning out of an upstairs window and shouting “BREAD!” across the main road at the assembled queue of bemused travellers waiting for the Number 9 into town? Well, there is an explanation, but in a squalid effort to get you to read to the end of this piece, in the manner of a radio presenter’s shameless attempts to get you to keep listening (yes, I’m looking at YOU, Zoe Ball) I shall reveal it at the end.

The pub of course had its regulars. They included two great friends with the same name (Harry Richardson) even though they weren’t related; my French teacher from the school across the road, at lunchtimes only (remember, I did tell you it was the 1970s); John, the mechanic from the garage next door and Les, who wore glasses like Michael Caine’s in The Ipcress File. Those glasses were knocked off by John in the only fight we ever saw in the pub, coming to grief as they landed on the juke box in the Public Bar.

And then there was another John, who was famous for his health problems. Ask anyone else in the bar how they were and they’d tell you that they were “fine,” “mustn’t grumble,” etc. But ask this John and he’d tell you about every pain he had ever experienced. “Well, I’ve got this pain here, and my shoulder hurts, my legs are sore, to be honest I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be here,” and so on before he ordered another pint. Needless to say he outlasted them all.

Aside from John versus Les in the great glasses skirmish, most of the real excitement happened outside the pub. Eastbourne District General Hospital was being built on farmland over the road at the time we were there, but there was still room for a travelling fair to turn up with all its lights and noise, destined to deprive us of sleep for the week that it was operating. The music on the dodgems seemed to invade our upstairs flat every evening, robbing me of the concentration I needed to study. I’m sure that, if I’d been allowed to concentrate without the incessant strains of Freda Payne’s “Band of Gold” or Chairman of The Board’s “Give Me Just A Little More Time” invading my consciousness, I could’ve gone to Cambridge. That’s my excuse anyway.

On the other hand, you have to remember that I was only twelve. So of course it proved impossible to resist the pull of the Fairground, and one evening after school I defied my Mum’s instructions to go straight home and went to the fair with some friends from school. I couldn’t keep up with their level of testosterone-fuelled boisterousness, and started to feel a bit like the uncool kid trying to impress his schoolmates, so I soon wanted to go home. I lent my last 5p to Paul Bailey, so he could go on the big wheel. I never saw it again, but if you’re reading this Paul, I haven’t forgotten! And I estimate that 5p to a schoolboy in 1970 is now worth something in the region of £5,000 to an adult in 2022, and I look forward to receiving payment.

Pubs need security of course. They have to put up barriers to any criminal types who would stop at nothing to get at the treasures within its walls. CCTV wasn’t available to us then, and the only people we knew who might have filled the role of security staff were John and Les of Glasses fame. And they would probably have been too busy fighting each other to notice any burglars slipping past them. So we gave upon any idea of security and got Henry the Golden Labrador instead.

Henry was a handsome and friendly dog who wasn’t too encumbered by any kind of intelligence. I’m not sure when we realised that he wasn’t going to be of any use in repelling invaders. Maybe it was when he ran out of the room at the sight of a moderately sized spider dropping into his basket. But despite all that, we loved him and instead of being employed as deterrent to those of criminal intent, he became one of the family and was probably even more nervous about possible intruders than we were.

The Car Park encircled the building in those days, and I have strong memories of riding my new bike around and around it on Christmas Day in 1969. This was the only day of the year that the pub was closed so there was no danger of meeting any other vehicles as we hurtled round the corners with the reckless abandon that only youngsters possess. In fact, the only vehicle in the car park that day was the old green and grey Hillman Minx, parked by the back fence. Mum was learning to drive in that old monster of a car, with its registration number SCD 968. My Dad always said that SCD stood for “Sheila Can Drive,” which she proved to be true when she eventually passed her driving test.

She could certainly drive more competently than the chap who ended up wedged in the bus shelter one afternoon, scattering the queue as he careened into the structure at about 30mph. I’m sure no one was hurt and I promise you he was passing the pub, and hadn’t just left it.

I saw the immediate aftermath of that accident from the safety of my bedroom window, jumping up at the sound of the crash and being careful enough – and agile enough – to avoid stepping on Everton, who were at that moment locked in Subbuteo combat with Blackpool. It didn’t look like anyone was hurt, and to be honest I’m not sure what I could’ve done anything about it of they had been. Excitement over, I returned to the game. I was never that fond of looking out of that window anyway. It was far too close to my school, Eastbourne Grammar (which, incidentally, is in now the process of being demolished).

For a lot of adults, there is a certain smell that will transport you back in time. It maybe that the aroma of the sea will take you to that holiday you had in Whitby; a farmyard might remind you of the day you spent at that petting zoo; fish and chips would remind you of your Mum’s cooking. But for me, I only have to smell the sticky carpets and stale beer of a bar in the mornings to make me feel like a thirteen year old once more. Not quite “Napalm in the Morning” as the quote goes, and it will seem strange to many, but I used to love being in the bar before it opened while my Dad was bottling up. I was a child in an adult’s world, which may explain why I liked it so much.

We left the pub, if memory serves me right, a year to the day that we had moved in. The heavy lifting, smoky atmosphere, stress about bookkeeping and the long working hours eventually led to my Dad having a heart attack and he and my Mum made the very sensible decision to leave the publican’s life behind them, opting for the occasional appearance in front of the bar instead of a lifetime behind it.

One Saturday afternoon, before Mum had learned to drive that tank of a Hillman Minx, we had to go into town for the weekly shop. Mum and Gran, (who was living with us at the time) wrote a list and Mum and I wandered over to the bus stop. And it was this point that my Gran must have remembered something that she hadn’t put on the list. Realising that text messaging hadn’t yet been invented, and thinking that the bus could turn up at any time, she employed some quick thinking. And that was why she leaned out of the window and shouted “BREAD!”across the road. Mum and I tried to look nonchalant. Everyone else looked startled.

The pub is still there, now part of a chain, painted bright orange and extended in various directions. The hospital opposite is hidden from view by the trees that were planted as saplings in 1970. The buses that pass by are no longer the blue and yellow of Eastbourne Corporation, but the ubiquitous Stagecoach colours, and the bus shelter that was demolished by that car wasn’t replaced.

I went in about three years ago and mentioned to the barman that I used to live there. He wasn’t interested of course.

But if he ever hears about the legend of the “Shouting Bread Woman”, he will wonder where that came from, and never know that he missed the opportunity to find out.