Читать книгу Hard Road to Glory - How I Became Champion of the World - Johnny Nelson - Страница 9

Unravelling my family tree is a genealogist’s nightmare. I was the sixth of my mother’s seven children. Several different men were involved. She wasn’t promiscuous, just unlucky. She probably had fewer partners than most people today but as a devout Catholic she wouldn’t dream of using contraception. My dad, James Nelson, split from Mum before I was born and I didn’t get to know him until after I was 30. I’m only now beginning to learn how many brothers and sisters I have on his side of the family. I think it was nine at the last count.

My only childhood recollection of James happened when I was about three or four. This guy pulled up in the street outside my house in a beige Ford Granada and tried to pull me into the car. My mum was there like a shot and I have a vivid memory of them having a tug of war with me as the rope, one yanking on each of my arms. I didn’t know who this man was or what he was trying to do but I was terrified. I was crying, my mum was screaming, and he was yelling back, ‘Cynthia, let me have him!’

By now, the neighbours were in the street adding to the commotion. Eventually, he gave up and drove away.

When we met up again years later, he was shocked I could remember that incident. He explained that he’d heard Mum was planning to give me away to my godmother, Mrs Shepherd, and he’d come to get me. ‘I wanted you to live with me,’ he said.

I still don’t know if Mum ever really planned to give me away or if she was just saying things to hurt James, but she certainly did everything she could to keep him and me apart. There was a friend of the family, a lady I called Aunt Edris, who thought it was wrong Dad wasn’t allowed access to me. She always gave me presents and cards at Christmas and on birthdays. She was so generous I thought I must be her favourite and it was only later that I learned they were from my father.

The man I grew up thinking of as my dad was Benjie, who moved in with Mum after she and James split up before I was born. We lived in a three-storey council house in Sidney Road in Crookes before moving down the road to Upperthorpe, both poor neighbourhoods to the north of Sheffield city centre. We weren’t far from Kelvin Flats, a 1960s block about a quarter of a mile long, which over the last decade or so had become notorious for violence, poverty and people jumping off the roof. Eventually, they dynamited it into oblivion. Mum always told us we mustn’t play with the kids from Kelvin.

The eldest of my siblings living at home was Brenton. He was academically the brightest of us all but he was often mean to me as a kid and I didn’t like him. I think it’s fair to say we’re still not close. His full brother was Allan. In contrast to Brenton, Allan was my hero. I wanted to be just like him. Their surname was Douglas. Next in line was Theresa, whose surname was Smith, my mum’s maiden name, and younger than me was Benjie’s son, Oliver.

Mum had left her two eldest children, Trevor and Jeff, in Jamaica when she came over to England. Jeff eventually moved to the USA. I don’t really know him very well. Trevor is an albino with blue eyes and you would think he was a white guy apart from the blond afro hair. He came over to find Mum when he was about 16. I guess he looked a bit freaky and, when he told immigration he’d come to find his mother but didn’t know where she lived, they locked him up in Brixton Prison for the night. Eventually, they let him out and he came to stay with us but he moved to London when he was about 20 and has made his home there.

Our many shades must have struck outsiders as a bit odd, from albino Trevor, through Allan and Brenton who were quite light-skinned, to Oliver who was a bit darker, to me and then Theresa who was the darkest of us all. But to me they were just my brothers and sister. We had our share of beatings when we behaved badly but that was quite usual in many homes and schools back then. If you had to catch one, you preferred Dad to Mum because she hit harder. But my main memory is of a happy home. For that, I give Benjie the utmost respect. He took on a woman with six children by five different men and treated us all as if we were his own. There have been plenty of kids in our circumstances who have ended up in trouble, even in jail, but none of us went down that road and we now include a policeman, social worker, teacher, market trader, cook and electrician, as well as a recently retired boxer.

Like my real dad, Benjie was from Dominica. He was a swing grinder in a steel factory – a hard, dusty job that involved smoothing large lumps of rough steel with a massive grinder that was suspended from the ceiling on chains. When he was working, he earned good money but in Thatcher’s Britain the steel industry was on its last legs and too often Benjie would be laid off for a while. Those times were hard and I remember being very anxious when I heard him and Mum arguing about not having enough money to pay the gas bill or how we would have to buy cheaper food. I would think to myself that I should help by eating less even though, with my appetite, that was never going to happen. Now I have a family of my own, I believe they were wrong to discuss their problems when we kids were around. I try to keep any problems away from my daughters. Debbie and I never discuss money in front of them, good or bad. We want them to enjoy their childhood without worrying about things like that.

As a kid, I tended to take concerns on myself. I would hear Mum get up at five in the morning to go to her job as a cleaner at the Hallamshire Hospital and wish I could do something so she didn’t have to go out in the cold and the rain at such an unearthly hour. I was determined that, when I was older and making money, she would be able to stop work. My anxieties grew when the Yorkshire Ripper was murdering women just up the road in Leeds and Bradford. It was far too close for comfort, and the reports on TV terrified me. I worried every time Mum went out on her own and I wasn’t the only one because I noticed Benjie started to walk her to work and meet her after her shift to bring her home.

The shortage of cash meant I quite often had to make do with hand-me-down clothes from Allan, Brenton or even Theresa. Not that I minded too much. I remember Theresa had one pair of flared, studded jeans that I couldn’t wait for her to grow out of. When the time came for her to pass them on, I was jumping around and acting stupid because I was finally going to get my hands on these cool jeans. One of Mum’s favourite sayings was ‘Chicken merry: hawk never de far’, or the hawk is about to swoop on the chicken. In other words, when you are happiest, something bad is likely to come round the corner and hit you where it hurts. So it was this time. My racket pissed her off, so she decided to teach me a lesson by not letting me have the jeans.

The merry chicken got another smack one Christmas when things were obviously tight on the cash front. Mum had to work on Christmas Day and we were all at home, waiting for her to come back and give us our presents. All day long, we wondered what goodies ‘Santa’ had brought and the more we thought about it, the bigger and more expensive they became in our imaginations. Eventually, Mum came in and produced a black plastic bag. This was it: at last the wait was over. But it wasn’t how we’d thought it would be. All the packages were wrapped in those rough, green paper towels you get in hospitals. Inside mine was a packet of biscuits and some dominoes. Each of us got a record – mine was Boney M – even though we were never allowed to use the radiogram where Benjie would play his beloved old-style Studio One reggae. I guess Mum couldn’t afford to buy us anything and had just scavenged what she could from the hospital.

My disappointment turned to shame when I returned to school for the new term. The teacher went round the class asking each of us what we’d had for Christmas. The closer it got to me, the more I wondered what I could say. Eventually I blurted out, ‘A bike and toy gun.’

My friend Desmond knew I was lying and the next day he called my bluff by bringing in one of his presents for me to play with if I let him have a go with my new gun. Every day, I made another excuse for forgetting to bring that wretched gun to school until eventually he said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll come round to your place and collect it.’

That was it. I gave him back his toy and told him to forget it. I was aware he knew the truth and I felt humiliated.

But there were times, when Benjie was in regular work, he and Mum would be generous. Having a January birthday meant everyone was usually still skint after Christmas, so lavish gifts were unheard of. I didn’t have a birthday cake until Debbie bought me one when I was 30. But things must have been looking up around my tenth birthday because Mum gave me a watch with a black strap and white face. It was the best present I’d ever had and was especially memorable because it was so surprising.

Mum was a good cook and Benjie was even better, although he had a disaster when he decided we should have pigeon, just like the old days back in Dominica. He spent ages luring a pigeon with breadcrumbs towards a string noose he’d set out on the back yard. He eventually caught one by the leg, wrung its neck and cooked it. It tasted horrible. ‘It must be the rubbish they feed pigeons over here,’ he said.

But mostly we had good home cooking, even though we kids didn’t always appreciate how lucky we were. We moaned that we wanted egg and chips like our friends but Mum and Benjie stuck to traditional West Indian dishes like chicken and rice’n’peas.

A neighbour kept some hens in his yard and Mum would often buy one off him for the pot. One Easter she went to work, giving Allan the money to collect the chicken but when he went next door the guy had forgotten the order so had nothing prepared. Instead, he gave Allan a live bird. We thought it was great having this chicken strutting about the house. We named it Charlie and chased it all over the place – there was chicken shit and feathers everywhere: over the carpet, the settee, the armchair, the fireplace and, worst of all, over Benjie’s radiogram.

We were having a high old time, until Mum came home. For some reason, she couldn’t see the funny side of it. She tore into us, calling us every kind of wicked children it had been a mother’s misfortune to bear. She finally grabbed Charlie, tied one end of a piece of string around his leg, the other round the table leg and grabbed a large kitchen knife. We were all standing at the bottom of the stairs, horrified, weeping and begging her not to kill our new pet. All to no avail. Whack! Down came the knife and off went Charlie’s head. The poor little bugger couldn’t even run round like the proverbial headless chicken because the string was holding him back. We raced upstairs, sobbing. We were mad at Mum for killing Charlie and vowed we would never eat him, even if we starved to death. But gradually the tantalising, spicy smell of jerk chicken wafted upstairs and each of us slowly made our way back to the kitchen. Charlie was delicious and I was especially lucky because I like the neck portion and Mum’s cut had been so accurate I got a large helping.

I always had a good appetite and was one of those kids who could eat anything without putting on an ounce of fat. Sometimes I’d work it so I had two Sunday dinners, one at home and one with my friend Trevor. He was from a well-to-do family, so respectable that all the kids were from the same mother and father. I’d eat whatever Mum or Benjie had prepared then race down the road, and ask if Trevor could come out to play. His mum would say, ‘He’s just about to have his dinner. Have you eaten, Johnny?’ I’d reply, ‘Only eggs and bread,’ and she’d invite me in for another meal. They obviously thought I was a poor, deprived kid and I didn’t realise just how much I was dissing Mum and Benjie, but what’s a lad to do when he’s got a good appetite?

Our house was always noisy with a lot going on. I was a real mummy’s boy even though, like the others, I knew Brenton was her favourite. Brenton, Allan and I shared a bedroom and sometimes a bed, which didn’t make me very popular with the others because I was a piss-bed until I was about ten years old. I couldn’t help it. I used to do it all the time and quite often I’d be woken up by my brothers pummelling me because I’d peed over them.

I idolised Allan and would follow him around whenever I got the chance but I was closest to Theresa. She and I fought all the time but would always back each other up. The family knew we were tight and that the fights weren’t serious. We were scrapping one day in the hallway – she was trying to stab me with a fork and I was trying to hit her with a rolling pin – when Allan walked in with Karen, his new girlfriend. She looked horrified but Allan just said, ‘Ignore them,’ and took her into the kitchen.

Theresa could always get the better of me – I never managed to get top side of her and she had the sense to stop fighting with me just before I got big enough to be a threat. All through my school days, it was embarrassing to have the other kids know my sister could beat me up but, on the other hand, she could take on most of them too, so it tended to keep them off my back.

Mum went to mass every day and she made us all go to church on Sunday and to midnight mass at Christmas. I was an altar boy when I was younger but hated it because the church was so cold. We used to nick the bread and have a gulp of wine when we could. Eventually, I was sacked because I dropped the wine during the service. While missing church was a big deal in our house, Mum didn’t seem worried if we tried to bunk off school by saying we weren’t feeling well. However, if we stayed at home, she would insist we went to mass and then remain indoors for the rest of the day. That was so boring we preferred going to school so perhaps she was cleverer than we realised.

Mum would give us 50p to put in the collection on Sunday. One day, I decided my need was probably greater than God’s. By the size of the pile of cash in the collection basket, he was doing OK, so I just rattled the coins around a bit and slipped the 50p back into my pocket. I was a bit scared there might be a thunderbolt from above and was just reflecting that none had come when I sensed Mum’s eyes burning into the back of my neck. Within a few seconds, I couldn’t stop myself – I stretched along the pew and dropped the coin into the collection. As I did so Mum mouthed, ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you wicked boy.’

I was never sure how much Mum knew of the mischief I got into but there were times when she seemed to know everything – or maybe it was my conscience plaguing me. On one occasion, some of the kids and I nicked some money from a collection box in the church and, as the family sat down to Sunday dinner, Mum said, ‘D’you know what some wicked children do? They went to the church and steal the money from the money box. Their parents must be so ashamed.’

I quickly looked over at Theresa because she knew I’d been involved, but she didn’t say anything. Did Mum think it was me? I still don’t know but I felt guilty for some time afterwards.

My first school was St Vincent’s and it was there I was given the name Johnny. On my birth certificate, my name is Ivanson Ranny Nelson, born 4 January 1967. Ivanson was just about acceptable but Ranny? It still makes me shudder. I can only think they meant to call me Ronny and the registrar misheard my mum’s strong West Indian accent. When I turned up at St Vincent’s in my smart green cap, blazer and tie, and grey shorts and socks, I was put in Mrs Leahy’s class and soon developed a reputation as a bit of a cry baby. The kids kept pronouncing Ivanson wrong and I would get upset, so Mrs Leahy decided: ‘We’ll have a special classroom name for you. What shall we call him, children?’

The hands shot up and, being a Catholic school, we quickly went through a load of Bible names. Then Mrs Leahy’s son suggested I should be called Maurice like him but fortunately his mother decided one Maurice per class was enough. Maybe prayer did work after all!

Eventually, Mrs Leahy said, ‘Let’s call him Johnny. That’s a nice name.’

All the kids laughed, so she decided they must approve. I think she must have been a bit of an innocent and not realised why the kids were giggling but from then on I was plagued by my classmates coming up and saying, ‘Can I borrow your rubber, Johnny?’ then rushing off in shrieks of laughter. I can never remember being called anything other than Johnny and eventually I decided it suited me so, when I was 19, I officially changed my name by deed poll. Only my real dad calls me Ivanson now.

Because Theresa was the first of our family at the school, everyone assumed Oliver and I were named Smith too. Instead of Ivanson Ranny Nelson, I’d become Johnny Smith. It was difficult to try to explain that my name was Nelson. It seemed quite natural to me that our family all had different surnames and at that age I probably didn’t really understand how it had come about, but it used to upset me when my school mates teased me. If I told Mum, she would just say, ‘It’s none of their business. Tell ’em to come and see me, I’ll sort ’em out.’

It was at St Vincent’s I first became aware that having black skin might be a problem. By this time, I was in Mrs Rigby’s class, and at Christmas we were told we were going to create a nativity scene. One group would make the stable, another the wise men, some would be in charge of shepherds, others the animals and so on. Mrs Rigby’s daughter, Bernadette, and I were given the honour of making baby Jesus in his crib. It was all going well until I started to paint Jesus’ face brown.

Bernadette freaked. She was crying and protesting and, as much as I pointed out that Jesus wasn’t from Sheffield but from a hot country and so would have been brown, she wouldn’t have it. Her mother called us to the front of the class and demanded to know what was going on. I hated any kind of confrontation and was already gulping back the sobs but my stubborn streak wouldn’t let me give in.

‘But Jesus was brown,’ I protested.

Bernadette got even more upset and Mrs Rigby scolded me. I don’t know if that was meant to quieten the situation but in reality it just meant there were now two kids howling.

That night I went home and told Mum what had happened and she went ballistic. She stormed up to the school the next morning and, in front of the whole class, yelled at Mrs Rigby. I thought I’d be in more trouble now but I guess the school didn’t want it to come out that a teacher had shouted at me over Jesus and nothing more was said, though I was never partnered with Bernadette again.

Overall, I really enjoyed St Vincent’s, even though I can still recall the pain that another of the Sisters could inflict with a slipper or a punch to the chest. Her way of sorting out a fight was to hit whoever had started it and then hit the other one for good measure. The peace of God certainly moved in a mysterious way at times. Still, I felt sad when I had to move on to a new school in the posh part of town. I knew hardly anyone there except Theresa and a few of the other kids who were also sent from St Vincent’s. It didn’t make me feel any more comfortable that, not long before, it had been one of the top girls’ schools in Sheffield.