Memory plays funny tricks - perhaps I got confused with cousin Sheila. Logic tells me it wouldn't have been Sarah, because that was Granny Barr's name (Mum's Mum) and Dad didn't get along with her, certainly not after 1960 anyway - more of that later.
Back to our time in Corby - by now we were three and Mum arranged to get our portraits taken professionally:
Note the family trend of the baby boy with the kiss curl - this time it was Barry's turn.
As I said earlier, the acquisition of FNV 347 transformed our lives - there were regular weekends away and it also helped us get back to Scotland to visit family. I still remember one outing when Mum and Dad decided to do the historical thing. Living in Northamptonshire, they realised that Fotheringay Castle, where Mary Queen of Scots was beheaded (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fotheringay_Castle) couldn't be too far away. We seemed to spend hours driving up and down leafy lanes going nowhere. Eventually we found it - and it was virtually a complete ruin. In those days before the National Trust started restoring a lot of historical buildings, there was scant regard paid to an old ruin like this. Dad was not happy - and it seemed we had wasted a whole day.
On trips back to Scotland, I would often go model boat sailing at either Whiteinch or Knightswood park. Here's one of me with Uncle George (Barr):
We spent quite a lot of time with George, Nancy & family. Their eldest, Douglas, was a bit younger than me, but close enough that we could play together. Here we are in the mid 1950's in the front garden at Foxbar Drive:
This next one is also taken outside Foxbar Drive, with aforesaid Ford Anglia and our respective little sisters Dawn and Sheila:
One of the other joys of having the car was that Dad could take me to watch football matches on Saturday afternoons - the working man's traditional pastime in those days when everyone's normal working week consisted of five and a half days. Initially it was just our local club, Corby Town, but we could now spread our wings a bit and visit nearby Kettering Town (all of 8 miles away).
Dad must have started getting adventurous - or perhaps desperate for his Saturday football fix, because soon we were travelling to watch Peterborough United and Northampton Town, who were in higher leagues than Corby or Kettering. The thirst for better football even took us to Leicester, who were in the First Division (the highest level) in those days. I fondly remember going to Filbert St (Leicester City's then home ground) and Dad taking us right down to the front, where he plonked me on the track where I could sit and watch the match with an uninterrupted view, with Dad standing on the terrace right behind me, half holding on to me.
I do remember the thrill of us going to Leicester for one big match - it must have been in the latter days of our stay down there. Tottenham Hotspur were the visitors - one of the most exciting teams of the era, full of star-studded names (Blanchflower, White, Brown, Mackay), managed by Bill Nicholson - a team that would go on to win the first League and Cup double in England in the 20th Century in the following season (1960-61).
There's not much else I can remember about our stay in Corby apart from the fact that I joined the cubs there (I think). The following photo shows me in the middle of the front row - the only other face I recall is a pal of mine called Laurie, who is third from the left on the middle row:
If we had stayed in Corby, there were two options for me on leaving Primary School. I could have done the same as most working class boys did in those days and gone on to the adjacent "Secondary Modern" Hazel Leys, or there was an outside chance that I could have gone to the Grammar School. In those days, the latter was pretty elitist - almost a halfway house to a "Public" (why do they call it that?) school, but my report cards at the time indicated a lack of application, so it was unlikely. In the end, we returned to Scotland before I left Primary, so it didn't become a problem anyway.
The rest of the stories from those days are largely hand-me-downs, as I don't remember much detail about them. Mum and Dad had decided to return to Scotland and the chosen method was a house exchange. We rented from the local Council (as did most folk before the Thatcher years) and Dad managed to find an exchange to Johnstone, Renfrewshire - not far from Glasgow.
By now, Dad was working back in Scotland and Mum, me, Barry & Dawn were just awaiting the exchange to go through. The Councils at either end had to inspect both properties and write reports before the exchange was complete. The family we were exchanging with were all, it seems, boxers - and bruisers - bullies certainly. They came to pay us a visit to find out why the exchange seemed to be delayed and to put pressure on us to complete - I guess they must have been on the run from somebody and were desperate to make their escape from the West of Scotland. Mum used to tell tales of me cowering behind the settee when they barged in to the house, but I vaguely recall being told to hide there just in case!
As you'll find out on the next part of Renshaw's Chronicles, there must have been pressure applied on Renfrewshire Council as well, because we certainly didn't get what we expected out of the exchange.
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