Two teenagers get caught at the top of a Ferris wheel

It was a freezing cold night. The run up to Christmas was in full swing with a huge German Christmas market at the bottom of Prince’s street gaily lit with twinkling lights, Bavarian music drifting through the air and the delicious aromas of Gluwein and frankfurters seeping through the cold and mist.
Amy wandered aimlessly, she’d left her halls of residence room about an hour ago and didn’t really want to go back.
“I’m so lonely, I wish the exams were finished so that I could go home”
Amy had struggled through her first term at the university.  She felt like a fish out of water, coming from a working class family and a comprehensive school. It seemed impossible to break into the social scene and make any real friends like the ones she had at home.

She left the market and walked up Princes street. A tram went past, crammed with commuters on their way home and shoppers with mountains of bags.

Amy took her hands out of her pockets and blew a whiff of warm air onto them to warm them. The huge Ferris wheel caught her eye.

“Oh well, may as well have a ride, better than going back anyway”

She stood in the queue, not noticing the handsome young man behind her.
“On you go” said the burly ruddy faced Scottish man, “Two at a time”.
So Amy was fastened into the seat next to the young man behind her. Amy’s eyes met his and she felt her tummy flip.
“He’s good looking” she thought, as she noticed his dark curly hair and big brown eyes. She was too shy to say anything and looked down at her feet.

The wheel began to move and they slowly ascended to the highest point.
Clunk!

The wheel creaked and ground to a halt.

Amy began to panic.
“Don’t worry” said her fellow passenger. He had the most gorgeous Slovenian accent and ASmy’s heart melted.
“I’m Aljaz, pleased to meet you. What’s your name?”

“I’m Amy” she replied as their eyes met.

It was love at first sight!

Half an hour passed in a flash as they chatted and got to know each other.

Suddenly, the wheel jerked and they were off again.

They finally reached the end of the ride but didn’t say goodbye. They went off for some food, and romance was in the air......Amy felt Aljaz’s arm slip round her shoulders as the cold wind swirled around their faces. They stopped, looked into each others’ eyes and had that magical first kiss.

Five penny return

We lived in the “new” part of the town. A council estate that was supposedly a healthy escape from the old shipyard terraced back to back streets. Seems no one considered the massive noisy stinking coke works that dwarfed the estate. 

The business end of the town was still in the old part, built around the river. It was a couple of miles from where we lived so I had to get the bus to the infant school from the end of our street.

My mam always had the bus fare money in little piles on the mantlepiece ready to be picked up on our way out. Two thrupenny bits each, one for going and one for coming home. It was a double decker bus with an opening at the back for getting on and off; no doors to keep out the rain or the freezing wind in the winter. 

The driver was in a world of his own in an enclosed cabin at the front and there was a conductor in the passenger section to collect the fares, ring the bell to let the driver know when to stop and set off and to keep order on the bus; no easy task on the school run. 

The conductor had a wonderful ticket machine slung crossways over his shoulder and you could smell its leather strap long before he reached your seat. He took your money, chinked it into his brown leather bag, turned the shiny metal handle of the machine and out came the ticket with a unique whirring click. Even those tickets had their own special smell, a mixture of paper and ink. We all clutched our tickets or stuffed them in a pocket in case the inspector got on. 

The fare was thrupence for a single or you could get a five penny return. Hardly anyone ever went for the return option, even though it would give you a penny to get something from the sweet tray that the teacher would bring into the classroom at the start of morning break time. 

I was six years old. Mrs Swale was our teacher, a plump dumpy lady with curly grey hair. She terrorised us. I can’t imagine that she actually liked children at all; I can clearly remember her mercilessly thumping children repeatedly in the back for minor misdemeanours. She was definitely not the sort of teacher you could go to with a worry or a problem. Head down, do your work and you might just escape.

I sat next to Maureen Scott. She was a thin girl with short curly blond hair.  Maureen had a distinct way of sniffing; which she did often. She would poke out her tongue, screw up her eyes and give a massive sniff; the green candlesticks would be instantly sucked back up her nostrils. She had an older brother which might explain why she knew how to bully. And I was her target.

I can’t remember how it started, but she began to threaten me with “telling the teacher on me” unless I gave her whatever she wanted; either sweets (no one had sweets often then), fruit or even money (which was even harder to come by).  I went to school with my stomach churning wondering what she would ask me for that day. So I had to be quite inventive to procure things to give Maureen.

One afternoon, she told me to get a five penny return on the bus the next day so I could give her the spare penny. The next day came. I got on the bus with my two thrupenny bits. I sat and waited for the conductor to come along and, remembering Maureen’ threats from the afternoon before, I asked him for a five penny return when he reached me. Click, whirr…..out came the ticket. I took it and stowed it carefully in my pocket. Now he handed the precious penny over, cold, brown and shiny in my little hand. I thought what I could buy with it at break time if only it were mine to spend, but of course , it wasn’t mine. It belonged to Maureen. I turned the penny over and over in my fingers, and put it in my other pocket. I was happy, I had my ransom to give to my tormentor. 

Break time came and we all filed out into the school yard. As usual, Maureen got me on my own. “Well”, she barked, “Have you got my penny?” Of course I had her penny. It was in my pocket. I slid my hand inside and felt about. But the penny wasn’t there! My tummy seemed to flip over, my legs felt heavy and I was terrified. “I promise, I got the five penny return and put the penny in my pocket! It must have fallen out! Here, my mam gave me a lovely apple today, you can have that.” I pleased hopefully. Maureen gave one of her trademark sniffs, turned on her heels and stormed away. “ You spent that penny on yourself!” she snarled. “You’re in for it now, I’m really telling the teacher on you now.”

I stood there shaking. What was going to happen to me? I was terrified for the rest of that day, just waiting for the moment I’d be called out to the front of the class for my punishment. But it didn’t come. Of course, Maureen didn’t tell on me, she had nothing to tell.  

My mam must have sensed that I was upset about something. I eventually told her what had happened. “You’re being blackmailed!” she exclaimed. I didn’t know what the work meant but I worked out that it mustn’t be very nice. I heard the word over and over again as she told my dad, nanna, granda and the whole world, so it seemed. She was enraged. In those days, parents didn’t ever come to school to have words with the teacher. Imagine my horror when I looked up from my desk the next morning to see my mam through the window of the classroom door! Mrs Swale waddled over and stood talking to her for several minutes. We all sat in silence. Of course, I knew why she had come and I dreaded the consequences. 

Later that morning, Mrs Swale announced to the class that it was time to change everyone’s seats around. This hadn’t ever happened before, but I wasn’t complaining! I was moved away from Maureen and next to a quiet timid girl called Margaret Sands. What a relief! 

I did feel a twinge of sadness that someone else would have to endure Maureen as their neighbour, but she ended up sitting next to a boy and I supposed that he would be able to look after himself. 

(The names of the children and teacher have been changed)

Uncle Tommy

I didn’t meet my uncle Tommy. He died in Tunisia in WW2. He lay wounded in a shell crater waiting to be rescued and a second shell landed right where he lay. The lads who were with him didn’t ever have the heart to tell my nanna the details of his demise so all she had was the dreaded “missing in action” letter and she always hoped that one day he would find his way home.

He was the eldest of a big family; seven boys and one girl, my Mam. By all accounts, Tommy was the best of sons and a good big brother to my Mam. She told stories of him always being thoughtful; if he had a little job he would always “tip up” only keeping enough to buy bran for his pet rabbits. My Mam adored him. 

The lads from the back lane would often play down by the river Tyne, scavenging for anything that might be useful or of value. They made bogeys from planks of wood and old discarded pram wheels. They played football with old tin cans. They’d be gone for the whole day. 

One day,  a lad from the gang came tearing into Nanna’s house, screaming at the top of his voice “Tommy’s in the Tyne!”

It was the great depression; shipyard men who would normally have been toiling away in the yard sat idle at home and loitered in the back lanes and on street corners.  With my Granda leading the pack, the men swarmed as one down to the river bank, arriving just in time to see Paddy O’Brien struggling out of the filthy water with Tommy. Tommy had gone down for the third time when Paddy, also a redundant shipyard man, bravely jumped into the Tyne and pulled him up.  

Tommy was unconscious and the brown rusty water spewed out of his mouth and nostrils. My Granda carried him home  to the women who kept vigil at his bedside for many days. No doctor or hospital, they couldn’t afford it. But Tommy was a strong lad and he pulled through. To die alone ten years later in a Tunisian desert.  

The Plate

I was born into a catholic family. I remember going to mass each Sunday as a child, having to keep still and quiet while the priest droned on in unintelligible Latin. All I could see was people's tall backs in front of me and I remember the overwhelming smell of damp heavy coats mixed with  incense from the ornate golden burners that were swung by the altar boys, and Brylcream plastered on men's heads giving the slicked back look of the sixties.

The highlight of the hour was when the collection time arrived; a plate passed round from person to person along the line of the pews, growing fuller and fuller with coins that magically appeared from  pockets and handbags.  Each coin dropped onto the plate with a reluctant chink. Money was tight in those days but no one would shame themselves by letting the plate pass by.

My mam told a story time and time again of the morning she had no spare money to put on the plate. She hurried to mass along the back lanes in the shadows of the shipyard cranes worrying what she would do when plate time came. It had rained the night before and there were pools of rainwater on the cobbled street. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a strange shimmering in the distance and as she approached a puddle she saw the most magnificent sight. A pile of coins lay in the puddle, just waiting to be picked up. Pennies, thruppeny bits and sixpences! She scooped up the wet coins and loaded them into her pockets, then, with a spring in her step she flew along the back lane to church. She proudly placed a sixpence on the plate, the only time she'd ever had that much to spare. She thought that the money must have appeared there as some sort of miracle, but her more rational explanation was that the money had fallen out of drunken men's pockets who had been fighting in the lane the night before. “Serves them right” she would say.