Playing field

School Lane extended to the playing field, as it does now. In those days it was called Cook's field. Just inside the gate was a pond. Shaped like a shin bone with a bulge at each end it ran from the gate to the stile near the allotments. About a hundred yards long it offered skating facilities in winter and was full of newts in summer. We used to catch these newts in jamjars and look at them. I don't know why; it killed them after a day or so-maybe it was the hunting instinct.

At the bottom of the lane lived Daddy Carter and his wife. Daddy probably lived in fear of some child drowning in the pond and set himself up as self-appointed custodian of the area. He said,

"You can't" and we thought "We can" and war was declared. We hated Daddy Carter -he was like an ogre-determined to spoil our fun. I remember returning from a lunchtime break down the field, accompanied by Michael Jennings. It was summer and the Carter's door was open wide. The Carters were dining and on the table right in the centre stood the teapot. Michael picked up a large flint stone and threw it. It hit the teapot amidships. The teapot disappeared in a cloud of steam, and so did we.

The outraged Mr Carter was at the school when the afternoon session started.

The culprit was never discovered. I believe this was the nearest I ever came to being incontinent in class!

The pond was encompassed by bushes and trees and a grassy dell, an area favoured by courting couples. Several marriages were arranged in the field, some by design, but I fear many more by accident. If only Cook's field could talk.