As a young child I lived in Cooper Street, Roker, Sunderland with my mother Doris, and father Dan, a deep sea fisherman and my older sister, Cathy. Sometimes , during air raids we would run along the road to the Albion Pub where we would safely hide in the cellar with Grandma Tennick. Very near by a bomb had dropped on a house in Francis Street, killing a number of people. Gasmasks, which we all had to wear, had been stockpiled at the town,s Monkwearmouth Hospital since 1938, and Anderson shelters had been erected on many of the newly built estates in the town.

This area, around Roker and on the North bank of the river Wear near the harbour was know as the Barbary Coast. The working men worked hard and drank hard and the women worked even harder still, many bringing up families with 10 or more children. My boyhood pal Davey Hall came from a family of eleven. 

As kids we had made a gang hut under the Bungalow Cafe and would eat the willicks ( winkles ) that we collected from the rocks on the beach at low tide , having first boiled them on a camp fire.  Like most of the kids from the  Barbary Coast  we could all swim , having learned in the contaminated waters of the North Dock.

My mothers,s brother, John Tennick, or Jos as he was known, ran a general dealers shop in Roker and later a fishing tackle shop. Jos was a big fan of Sunderland AFC and his fishing tackle shop in Dundas Street, sold everything from scarfes and rosettes to football programmes. The windows were always festooned with red and white banners and memorabilia, and it all obsscured the fishing tackle he sold inside. He also arranged the coaches to take fans to away matches and made the drinks and sandwiches they would eat on the journey. Red and white barmy, Uncle Jos was a great character, dishing out sweets to the youngsters in the shelters during the war while we waited for the all clear.

Germany Here we come:

At 7 years old, myself and friends Jimmy Dodds and  Dicky Maguire decided that we would go to Germany . After all, the Liftwaffe were bombing us , doing untold damage and many people were being killed.

We  would borrow Jimmys dads foyboat.

We rowed out to sea leaving the Piers behind  when a blanket of thick fog  descended quickly and without warning after we had rowed out past the 3 mile buoy. Our bravery quickly disappeared when we could hardly see each other and the piers had now vanished into the fog. We were lost , frightened  and couldnt see in which direction was home.  As we sat in the boat , lights from a ship came into view. Jimmy could read the name on the ship as it came into view. Its called the Lady Charrington he shouted. Right, I said, Thats got to be heading to Roker, lets follow it.   Taking turns on the oars we caught up with the ship which  had been going further away but in the the distance she had stopped and dropped anchor. After what seemed an eternity the fog lifted and we could see dry land. But this was not Roker , but Seaham Harbour, about 7 miles south.

We rowed into the harbour, shattered , tied the boat up with a thick rope by some metal steps in the docks and then managed to get a bus home. Needless to say, we would have to do some explaining when we got back.

The next day , as usual we were dolling off school and hiding in the den under the bungalow cafe when Jimmy Dodds dad scrambled under the den and grabbed me and Jimmy by the scruff of our necks. " Could you tell me where my boat is please " or angry words to that effect. "Its in Seaham Harbour" I said sheepishly. Come with me he said as he through us into the back of the car. and drove us to Seaham Harbour. At the Harbour Jimmy walked to the edge where the boat was and looked as if he was going to faint.  Mr Dodds face was red with anger, and I felt like legging it.

The water level in the small harbour could have been no deeper than three foot high and all the small boats and cobbles were resting on the mud banks ...... all bar one. Mr Dodds boat was hanging from the harbour wall from the thick rope we had tethered to the mooring. It was just dangling there, and the oars had fallen into the thick mud beneath.  Are you stupid he said, you know the tide goes in and out.  Allthough we expected a clip around the ear he saw the funny side to it. The boat wasnt damaged and bieng a Foyboatman he arranged for the the boat to be brought back with the Pilot Cutter.

I remember  going to St Benet,s School with Davey Hall , so be it not as often as I was supposed to. Sister Mary Claire, Sister Clements and Sister Ninian are some of the nuns I remember. I also remember teachers including Mr Crowe, Mr Scales and Mr McCue. School life for me,  was difficult. I had a short attention span and , no matter how I tried, I couldnt grasp the rudiments of reading, writing and arithmatic. It was 40 years later that they would diagnose me as bieng dyslexic.