Cookridge School And Perkins Farm

A Memory of Cookridge.

I was born in 1946 and spent the first 3 years living in a curved un-insulated "nissen" hut next to the gunsight in Adel. We then moved to 71 Raynel Way in 1949.
I attended Cookridge School and used to walk up Farrer Lane, on my own, even in the dead of winter with snowdrifts bigger than myself. We were told never to go on the embankment of the reservoir, 3 of us did one day and were caught and during lunch hour we were given "10" lines as punishment. I was rather thick at this stage of development as a human being and the concept of "lines" was way beyond my comprehension, even though the words were written on the board.
With my pencil, paper and ruler I literally drew 10 horizontal lines, one above each other. When it came to hand in the work the teacher (I cannot remember any of them due to trauma) looked at my efforts and slapped me at the back of the legs and accused me of being sarcastic!!
I used to help Perkins the farmer when I became older and remember with fondness hay baleing, potato and swede picking etc, being rewarded for my efforts with a doorstep sandwich of jam and bread plus a pint of tea! Great days.
As I approached the testosterone years and having become a member of the "Raynel Way top end gang" (10 of us, names with-held to protect the guilty!) we dared one another one day to steal a turnip from the top field. Not from the edge, that would be far too easy. It had to be from the middle and involved a commando crawling approach. Barry Smith (oops) did it first and was a natural, he retrieved a swede the size of a football and we all patted him on the back. I went next and crawled to the middle, I had to get a bigger swede than Barry and as such struggled getting it out with my bare hands. For some reason that I will never understand, my arse stuck above the leaves as I tried to haul out this wonder organic beauty. BANG and I felt the sharp pain of buckshot in my rear as Farmer Perkins let me have it with his blunderbuss!! We all legged it and only Barry had a present for his folks that day!!
I still have the scars to this day and VIEWING IS BY APPOINTMENT ONLY!
I have started this and I'm told by this machine I have 579 words left, so being a Yorkshire man I can'ta abide waste, so will fill you in with another true anecdote.
My dad, William Henry (Bill) smuggled a German luger pistol back from the Second World War and hid it in the top kitchen cupboard, along with ammunition. It lay there peacfully? for 15 years, wrapped in an oily rag and holster.
I don't know why I searched that top cupboard that day and stuck my hand into the dusty backend to find a gun and ammunition. Both parents were out but my brother David was upstairs. I called him and we inspected and fiddled with it. The magazine was already loaded. We took it outside and David began to wave it in the air pretending to fire, making noises with his mouth!! Just then a 16 year old male neighbour appeared and David said, "Oye, I've got a gun", to which the neighbour replied "F**** You have". With the precision of a pro, David managed to release the safety catch and point the gun at him, pulling the trigger!
I SWEAR, the bullet missed his head by inches, taking out a great lump of concrete. The boy ducked and ran in, I looked at David and he looked at me, both experiencing a common first, of firearms and possible homicide!
As I was 18 months older than David I assumed a air of responsibility for a few minutes, took the gun out of his hand, wrapped it up in the oily wrag and put it back in the cupboard, with instuctions to David never to touch the gun again. I think the shock of the bang, the recoil and the hole in the neighbours house had got to him.
Later that night (approx 1am), I stole downstairs on my tip toes and got the gun out of the cupboard.
At the back of Raynel Way was a beautiful open field, in which cattle used to graze and sports events were held all year round. A neat wooden pavilion sat in the centre of this field, being used by all.
I walked in the pitch dark, hands shaking, holding the weapon of death in my hand!! I pointed this weapon of destruction towards the pavilion, pronouncing a sentence of death, as a self appointed executioner. Pulling the trigger in the dark, I saw the flaming flash of the bullet leaving the barrel, heading for its target!
The bullet hit the window and travelled through the empty wooden structure, exiting through the other side and mercifully lodging itself in the incline of the field's topography.
I felt like I had commited a sports pavilion murder?
I returned the gun to its place.
The following day, my father came home from work, smelling cordite! He took both of us to our bedrooms and strapped us 3 times with his ex army belt. He took the gun the following day along with the ammunition to Ireland Wood police station (still a bad restuarant?).
My first architectural job, with Norville R Paxton, was to draw up his design for Holt Park. Jesus, this was an estate designed for cash... I hated him and what he was allowed to do to this ancient farming place.
For all of you had the baby boomer privilege....loved this time.

Hope a few more enjoyable years to you and you loved ones.
BJ

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