Bemrose Grammar School: A 1960s summer spent playing pitch and putt at Markeaton park

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Derby man Ian Manifold grew up on the Mackworth Estate and has many happy memories of his life on Walthamstow Drive. Here, Ian recalls the summer holidays of 1960, his last carefree weeks before the real work of Bemrose Grammar School began.

TIME goes by so incredibly fast. It does not seem like 46 long years since late summer 1960.

In fact, I can still recall that chill morning of September 5 as I strode briskly up the main drive of Bemrose School. This was to be the beginning of a whole new chapter in my school career and life.

I felt rather apprehensive, rigged out in my new maroon blazer, short grey pressed trousers, highly polished shoes and pristine cap. This elegance, however, would not last long.

The blazer would soon be covered in custard stains, the trousers would be slightly frayed, the shoes scuffed and down at heel and the new cap would be replaced by a lost property cast-off that was two sizes too big.

But for now I was nervously excited.

I could still hear my old Brackensdale teacher, Mr Simnett, telling my parents: “Don’t hold out too many expectations for your son in the 11-plus exams.”

I probably would have agreed with his assessment three months earlier as I turned over each exam paper and a cold sweat enveloped me.

Somehow, I managed to pass the exams and my initial grading gave me the choice of Noel-Baker or Henry Cavendish schools.

I duly opted for the latter as the bulk of the school football team and general reprobates had taken this choice.

Fate, however, took a hand and, because there were not enough pupils to fill the grammar school allocation and my marks were in the next banding, I was given the rather dubious honour of embarking on five years at Bemrose Grammar School.

It still seemed daunting on that misty September morning as I stared up at the imposing clock tower, accompanied by Colin Murphy, Neil Ballard, Ian Thom and Colin Akers soon to encounter our new classmates and form master, Eddie Calvert.

The five of us from Mackworth had decided to meet up near home and walk together the mile or so around the ring road.

We intended to present a unified front, not knowing what we were to encounter on that first morning of the new term.

Looking back, I had really enjoyed the summer holidays. Having left Brackensdale, the school break had started earlier for me with my father working on the railway and the Loco shutdown fortnight being a week in front of the term closure.

This year, as in the previous year, we went on holiday to Great Yarmouth. However, our travel plans were initially thrown into disarray when the taxi did not arrive at 6.15am on the Saturday morning.

This had meant a mad dash down to Friargate railway station with my father having to frantically carry two suitcases and cajole me and my sister, Brenda, to walk a little faster.

The effort paid dividends as we got to the station minutes before the dark grey smoke from the railway engine could be seen several miles down the track towards Kingsway.

A large majority of the other holidaymakers on the platform seemed to be work colleagues of my father, as they nodded or passed comment on the chances of having a good week’s weather.

The weather so far had been encouraging with the shimmering sun lighting up the crowded station.

When the train arrived, it was a scramble to locate the first available compartment, my mother leading the charge.

The carriages had no corridors, with each cramped compartment taking eight passengers, which meant the next chance to stretch our legs would be Great Yarmouth. I can still smell the smoke from the engine as it soared skywards and then arched backwards to engulf our carriage as the train pulled away abruptly on our four-hour journey.

On arrival, the early morning sun had long disappeared and it then proceeded to rain for the next two-and-a-half days.

Sitting under the Wellington pier, making sandcastles, was our only entertainment during that period although, on the Sunday evening, we ventured out around the town, passing the Variety Theatre where Tommy Steele and George Formby were in concert.

Luckily, we saw Tommy Steele coming out of the stage door and got his autograph.

If this was the highlight of the evening, then the low light was my father having to go to the local hospital to have a fish bone removed from his throat after a not-so-appetising fish supper. The weather continued to have a major say in proceedings but we were encouraged that the rest of the country was having similar problems.

The fourth cricket test at Old Trafford between England and South Africa was abandoned on the Thursday and Friday with no play taking place.

Even allowing for the lack of sun, I managed to pass the pavement photographer numerous times every day and persuaded my mother to buy several photographs when they were displayed on the boards later in the day.

Following the week away, I spent many hours of the school holidays down on Markeaton Park. It had become a favourite haunt of the Mackworth Estate kids, especially the pitch and putt course.

I had been introduced to this shorter version of golf by my father.

He was a regular combatant down on the park every Monday morning with his Loco Works pals who met for a couple of rounds. It seemed to typify the times, that these shop floor workers were playing golf in their suit jackets and trousers.

There was great rivalry between me and Jim Carlisle at pitch and putt but his brother, David, always seemed to invite himself and invariably caused some trouble.

One afternoon we had been telling David not to stand behind us when we were swinging the clubs but, unfortunately, on the long eighth he caught a full seven iron right in the face – accidentally of course.

My grandparents had recently moved house from Little Eaton into Sherwin Street, just off Markeaton Park. My cousin, Bobby Bott, from Ashbourne, came to stay with them and me for a week’s holiday.

As Bobby was a year younger than me and my grandmother was responsible for his welfare, she waas not keen on us going off by ourselves to the park. We therefore were accompanied by her on our daily trips.

In the mornings we crafted boats made out of pieces of wood we found in my grandfather’s shed.

Then in the afternoon we stood on the bridge over the stream and launched our creations to see whose would go the furthest down the water before capsizing or being marooned in the weeds.

During the holidays my grandparents had come up most Sundays and we had invariably walked back with them through the park, passing the big house and going through the gardens and greenhouses.

Grandma would always bring with her a Fry’s Punch or a Wagon Wheel or a packet of Spangles and a sixpenny piece for me and my sister.

After tea, we would play dominoes with a coloured set that had been around for years. The four-one domino was very distinctive with one corner of it being chipped off.

Overall the weather in the school holidays had not seemed as good as last year with August being a really wet month, especially the last week.

Derbyshire’s last cricket match of the season against Sussex at Buxton had to be abandoned because of a torrential downpour. Pity a downpour couldn’t have halted Derby County’s game at Ipswich the previous weekend.

It was Derby’s first defeat of the season but by four goals to one. Unfortunately, Derby had gone down to 10 men after half an hour when goalkeeper Ken Oxford had to come off with a head injury and Jack Parry had to go in goal.

Derby had made amends at home on the Wednesday by beating Middlesbrough for the second time this season but then, on Saturday, we got crushed five goals to two by Scunthorpe.

But it took more than the weather to dampen the spirits of the lads on the Walthamstow Drive upper green, as most were usually out early each day parading their skills at both football and cricket.

During the last week of the holidays, odder sports were in evidence, like high jumping over Mr Noble’s hedge, long jumping across the potholes in Mr Clarke’s pig farm yard and marathon relay races around the green.

All these events were staged to coincide with the television coverage of the Rome Olympics being shown on the BBC. We had not done too well in the medal table but Peter Radford and Brian Phelps had got to their individual finals. A particular favourite of mine was the elegant boxing of Cassius Clay in the light heavyweight division.

I was sure he would win a gold medal in the final. It had been enticing to stay indoors to watch all the Olympic sports but the Annual Loco Open Day and Show had to take preference on the opening Saturday of the games.

I was told this year was the 14th show. I must have attended the last five or six. It had now grown to such an extent that there had been around 20,000 people attending.

It certainly felt like it every time we queued up on the wooden stairs to ascend up through the engine cabs.

There was an extremely long queue to look over the Duke of Gloucester, which had been cleaned and painted for this occasion, not like the coal black, smoky, oily engine that had confronted us on our seaside journey several weeks earlier.

We also went round the shop where my father worked and he showed us the stripped-down engine he was currently working on.

Even though it was the holidays, I still had to fetch the shopping from Humbleton Drive Co-op stores early each Saturday morning.

I usually left home at 7.45am, trudging up Streatham Road and across Highgate Green, armed with a small red exercise book, the Co-op number emblazoned on it so I could not forget, containing this and previous weeks’ shopping lists.

Purse, money and a large bag in each hand completed the necessary essentials for this shopping expedition.

I always hoped that I was first in the queue but, during the holidays as with most weeks of the year, I managed to get entrapped between housewives who incessantly natter-ed on about the weather or their children’s latest illnesses.

I was relieved when the door opened and the queue moved and I progressed for my turn at the wooden counter.

On many occasions, I tried to test my memory as the shop assistant fetched the goods on mother’s list.

I always tried to remember the list and mentally ticked off the items in order before they were brought to the counter. This week, I knew the first item was a box of cereal. It was Puffed Wheat with a cut-out hat on the back of the box. Last week, it had been Sugar Ricicles with Noddy peering from the packet.

Next it was a box of Tide washing powder, in bright yellow and orange packaging, from the shelf between the Rinso and the Omo.

Then it was the Quix washing-up liquid, followed by the Breeze soap and, finally, a quarter of Brooke Bond PG Tips.

The assistant wrote down in pencil the cost against each item, making sure she put the Heinz Tomato Ketchup down at the reduced price of 1s 10d (9p today) and the Branston Pickle at 1s 6d.

She then slowly totalled it up at the end, first rubbing out the mistaken addition.

I then handed over my money from the purse and, as with the larger Co-ops in town, the money was put in a brass container and whisked along a tube to the back office where it was checked and the amount of dividend calculated.

The slip, noting the divi and change, was then returned to the shop assistant and I staggered back home carrying the heavy bags, making sure I did not break or damage the goods en route.

So, that had been the holidays and for now Bemrose was the focus of my attention.

I needed to clear my head and prepare myself for all those adventures that lay in wait for me over the next few years.

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