The Lambert Family - Part 1. DeLacey Avenue Featherstone to St Katharine Docks City of London

28 De Lacy Avenue, North Featherstone, Yorkshire. 

Me, brothers John, on dads head, and Mick. Little Betty comes later, please be patient.

I remember the night before we left De Lacy Avenue, I slept in the lounge on a mattress, anxious . North Featherstone had been home for seven years. We lived around a small crescent of four semi-detached bungalows around… Wembley stadium. My patch of grass [now parking] held many fantasies, size of two tennis courts, little did I know what was to follow. Our two-bed bungalow was outgrown, three boys; John one year old, Mick five, myself seven and mum pregnant. The bungalow opposite had a lovely old couple, Bernard and Anne, probably in their 40’s but to a child that’s old. Peter Beech, my age, lived next door, two bungalows with deaf and blind boys, never really saw them, and the other I can’t remember. I do remember my mother moving dad’s car, some photographer was coming, very pregnant and removing the wall fronting next door-but-one. She seemed upset and dad, sleeping from working nights, said nothing, just cleared up the mess as we waited for a man from the local paper. Dad had scored a try to win the Yorkshire Cup final, he was very good at hiding his true feelings. Mick looks anxious? He had just seen his mum drive into a wall.

I also internalise my feelings and emotions. It took me many years realise to realise the impact such actions would have on my mind, body, and spirit.

Bernard and Anne, opposite, had a wall running the length of their boundary, the edge of the cemetery and All Saints Church, recorded in the Doomsday book of 1086. The wall also made a shortcut to Kevin Rooney’s house. We explored the church, the graves, climbed the slag heap and walked to the park. Neville Waring was a friend of Kevin, he lived in a modern house, opposite the doctors, on North Close. Another friend Frank Nowosielfki lived in Park Lane, a new house built on a slope. Classic semi-detached three bed, brick under tiled roof, but the rear is three feet above the ground. Perfect! A hatch opened, we crawled under the floorboards between the joists, made a camp and Franks’s mum sent us lemonade and cake. We went sledging down the adjoining bank, as the builder must have run out of money and left open fields. His dad was Polish, Frank joined the Navy and stayed. He now has OBE after his name, Om Frank.

But, best of all, the four of us played rugby inside our very own stadium; Wembley, Twickenham, Murrayfield but mostly Post Office Road, morning noon and night. Others joined in and life was such fun. Except after I kicked a ball through Bernard and Anne’s lounge window and ball games were banned.  Nor when I lay in an ant’s nest, playing hide and seek.

I am lying on the mattress, it’s a Friday, August 1960, we move tomorrow, and a new life awaits. Gordon Street Junior school in three days, new home, friends, I hope. A different view, middle not top, of the slag heap. Shit, I am anxious and can’t sleep.

Gordon Street junior school, austere, red brick, pitched slate roof with timber sash windows. The dreaded secondary modern adjoined. The schools were flanked by playing fields to the east, railway line and allotments to the south, Featherstone Lane, becoming Station Lane to the south west with row upon row of terraced cottages, two up, two down, no hot water and outside loo, running off the roads. Nan Mary and Grandad Wallace, dad’s parents, lived at 9 Robbins Terrace, my saviour on many a day. To the west was a black, half mile long slag heap of coal dust, filled 24 hours a day. My beloved north (Featherstone),  the countryside by comparison to this, is now the past.

Neville Waring, two years older than me, was already at Gordon Street, even though he lived close by. We last met in 2019 and have stayed in contact.

‘I was aged about 8 or 9 years old at the time… It occurred as I was coming out of the school entrance, at the end of the school day, and entering the playground. My way was partly blocked in the entrance by a melee.  You, Colin were on the floor, basically in the foetal position to protect yourself from a group of 4 or 5 lads, of a similar age who were attacking you. As you were on the floor the attack was by kicking.  No idea how you were put on the floor, as that happened before I arrived. I remember getting out of the way and thinking that's not right. Due to age of those involved it wasn't particularly violent but not right. Wish I had been brave enough to help, but it was different times and you never wanted to attract attention to yourself.  Hope it helps. Take care’. Om Neville.

Being punched, thumped and kicked was common, running away to the safety of 9 Robbins Terrace I perfected with side steps, swerves and hurdling over dustbins.  Being tall for my age didn’t help. Being the son of Slam Lambert, my dads’ stage (captain of Featherstone Rovers) name, brought additional challenges.

I have been kicked and beaten all my life, metaphorically and literally. An interesting fact; I have never once (perhaps writing this story?) retaliated. 

The house opposite was occupied by the Barker family, loads of them; Gordon, Derek, Nigel, Melvyn etc. Their house was fun. They also loved rugby so were my saviour. Rugby happened on my new green, the school fields, in fact everywhere. Even better, I had a ball, discard from Rovers. Problem, I was seven, son of Slam and some lads were more inclined to kick me than pass the ball. I survived and almost discovered God.

Station Lane was our high street, Station Hotel, Post Office, station and pit entrance at the top, Post Office Road, Barclays Bank opposite and Rovers ground middle and Wakefield Road at the foot. Just down from Barclays was the Hippodrome cinema, Saturday matinee a favourite. One month, flyers and banners, calling all children and parents, the reverend Preacherman is proclaiming his wisdom on Sodom and Gomorrah. I am intrigued and attend. I sit right hand side, halfway down, next to the aisle. He explains how the city of Sodom became intoxicated on sand, sex and sausage rolls. Then explains how Gomorrah became intoxicated by gay abandon, girls and gin.  God politely requests they go into stage one lockdown, they refuse. Stage two, they refuse, stage three, same and then he destroys the lot.  A bit harsh, I thought and wondered if there may have been a different reason to destroy life as it was known?. 

Ummm...  in 2022 that could be like telling our grandchildren about Covid Omnicron Sodam and Covid Deta Gomora

After concluding and repeating his mantra he held a new shiny bible above his head and said, ‘This bible will go to the first person to say their name and asks a question about my talk’. I stood up, waved my hand, and said, ‘Colin Lambert. So, why did God destroy Sodom and Gomorrah?’ He was not a happy bunny, but I got the bible. It never occurred I had just announced myself to Featherstone in a different way; I was not afraid to open my mouth.

Life was never easy; bitten by a dog walking home after carol singing, attacked with a knife and caught bus to Pontefract for stiches in hand before telling anyone. A man asked me to see what was in his pocket, it was long, pink and fleshy and then the babysitter arrived.  Oh dear.

Dad is the co-star of The Lamberts story. The other co-star is Little Betty, my mum. Whilst Dad gave me his undivided attention on my sporting journey, mum gave me her undivided attention in another direction; poetry- her story about the gypsy with the copper earrings is very naughty- a love of nature, spirituality but, most of all a love of dancing and behaving like an exhibitionist and loving it, despite looking stupid to folk. Little Betty and I also love getting up to antics. Here is a good one. 

The Ivory House St Katharine Docks London early 2012. 

Mum and I (Dad asleep on yacht Frangi) gate-crashed the Medieval Banquet suit in St Katharine Docks. 2100 hours exactly,  the smokers charge out as the show ends, fifteen minute fag break - or leave -before the dancing starts  Betty and who else but Lambo are now mingling with the smokers - saw Lambo smoke something - and Betty has pulled some young lad aside and telling her tale.  As the group descend to the basement banqueting suite, so did Little Betty and Lambo. This what happened next. Mum took over the place. Loads of leftover food, free beer and wine so jugs of water everywhere as no alcohol, needed for our journey. We had a ball.

 Part 2 shortly.