The Big Fight

It would probably have been just after the D-Day landings, and life at Denton West End primary school was progressing calmly under the supervision of an all-female staff. The very occasional use of a wooden ruler on the fingers of a miscreant would be the only signs that discipline had been challenged.

The usual routine was interrupted about then by the arrival of a new boy. The Jillings family had moved down from one of the Lancashire mill towns, and their son Arnold was the new arrival. He was a well-built lad with blond hair, quietly spoken, and when he did speak it was with what to us was a strange accent. He seemed rather shy, and was regarded by the rest of us as something of a curiosity. What set him apart even more, however, was his unusual attire. He wore what appeared to be a dark blue suit – I’m pretty sure there was a pinstripe – and this outfit was topped off with a pair of black boots. No boy in the school wore boots, so, without having committed any sort of offence, Arnold was different.
He was accepted in our class, but as far as I know, no-one went out of his or her way to reach out to him. I’m not proud of this, and it was only later that we realised what torment Arnold was going through. The last thing any child of that age wants is to be classed as different. The poor lad must have been really miserable, and didn’t have a friend to confide in.

Unknown to us, Arnold was being victimised by a group of older boys, who poked fun at his apparel, and particularly at his footwear. Led by the ‘king of the castle’, Brian Pickles, they were relentless in their taunting, until one day Arnold rebelled. Whether he’d confided his wretchedness to his parents, and had been advised to take action, or whether he’d come to that conclusion on his own, I’ve no idea. The one certain thing was that his patience had finally snapped. I’m not sure if Brian was a physical bully, but he had built up a reputation as someone to be avoided at all costs – his path and mine had never crossed – I’d made sure of that. The first we knew of Arnold’s revolt was when whispers began circulating in the playground: “Fight!” “After tea tonight!” “Riley’s Field!”

Arnold was being victimised by a group of older boys, who poked fun at his apparel, and particularly at his footwear

Riley was the man who had built most of our houses, and what was known as Riley’s Field was at the edge of the present residential area, and earmarked for the next stage of development in Granada Road. Apparently, it had been used for such encounters in the past, and had a thrilling aura about it.
Teas were gulped down hurriedly in many households, as small boys determined not to miss out on this historic occasion – a big fight on Riley’s Field! We might never have a chance to see another! I probably told my parents that I was going out to play – not one of us would inform his parents of the real reason for his excitement.

A few people might recall a couple of films from those days – “Hue and Cry” and “Emil and the Detectives”, where gangs of small boys can be seen in aerial shots converging from all directions on the scene of action.

They never took part in our sophisticated games, such as cowboys and Indians or cops and robbers, a variation on the same theme.

That’s how I see that evening in my memory. Unless that memory is playing tricks, there weren’t any girls present. I probably wouldn’t have noticed if there were, as girls were of no interest at that age. In the playground, they played hopscotch or skipping or stood about in small groups talking. They never took part in our sophisticated games, such as cowboys and Indians or cops and robbers, a variation on the same theme. It would be another two years or so, before I became aware that Valerie Nichols, who had been in my class since the age of five, was quite pretty.

In actual fact there wouldn’t have been more than 30 or 40 spectators, and that number included Brian’s older brother and a couple of his friends, who had left school the previous year. You might think that boded ill for Arnold, but not a bit of it! They were there to control the crowd, and to ensure that fair play was the order of the day. There were unwritten rules of combat – no butting, biting, scratching, gouging, kicking, stamping, hair-pulling, and certainly no weapons – Arnold wouldn’t have dreamed of using those boots of his in any way. What it boiled down to was wrestling and punching. The big boys made sure that spectators left sufficient space for the combatants, and as a hush descended over those present, gave the signal for battle to commence.

Plenty of blows were delivered and received, but clinches were rare

Arnold had an advantage in height and reach, but Brian was wiry and a seasoned campaigner. Our money (figuratively) was on a victory for Brian, although secretly, I had a soft spot for the underdog. The two fighters circled each other warily, before exchanging the first punches. You might expect the spectators to roar on their favourite – “Come on, Arnold!” No way. Brian might very well remember anyone who showed favour to his opponent. Instead, there was a series of oohs and aahs, as punches landed, and the occasional surge forward, as those at the back tried to get a closer look at the action. Plenty of blows were delivered and received, but clinches were rare. I’ve no idea how long the fight lasted – it seemed like hours, reminiscent of the slugfest between Gregory Peck and Charlton Heston in ‘The Big Country’. In fact, our contest was probably over in half an hour, with Brian flat on his back and gasping for breath. The big boys decided enough was enough, and we trooped off home, thrilled to have witnessed this historic bout.

We’d all seen Brian in his moment of weakness, and from that day, he ceased to be a threat. Arnold didn’t choose to take his place as ‘king of the castle’ – he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do, and would no longer suffer taunts about his appearance. In football parlance, when an unfancied team gains an unexpected victory, he’d “wanted it more.” Defeat was for Arnold unthinkable, and by the end, Brian was well aware of that fact.

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NorthernLife Mar/Apr 23