But mother went on to explain that Sylvia Richards who lives a couple of doors up the road, had a puncture in her car a few days previous. My dad - well, all of us really - were completely taken aback that mother even knew that the guy's real name was Stuart. Stuart isn't much for gardening he just wants to run the lawn mower around once a week." At dinner that evening, my dad suggested that was so they could park all the motorbikes on the grass. One weekend all of the overgrown flowerbeds in the garden were dug up and new turf laid to replace it.
Not surprising really Rocky, who really wasn't all that tall, had the appearance of being very muscular.Īs the months passed, work started on the outside of the house and then on the old Smithy building itself. I don't think I ever saw that car use our road again. Then I heard Rocky say, "You knock one of those little tykes down and I'll break your effing neck."
MY LITTLE BLACKSMITH SHOP CRYSTA DRIVER
As I passed near, I heard Rocky telling the driver to drive more carefully as there were young children living in the street who were usually walking to school at that time of day. It was funny really, although dad made it plain he didn't like the ton-up boys being there he did say that when they were riding their bikes along our road, they were driving with a lot more care than some of the motorists did, who regularly used our road as a rat-run short cut to get to the by-pass.Īctually, one morning I was walking down to the bus stop on my way to college, when I saw Rocky and his friend stop a car that they must have considered was going too fast. After that day, the motorcycles didn't come down the road at weird hours anymore they apparently went around the long way, along the town by-pass instead. From what I heard, the delegation that eventually went to the Smithy, were completely taken aback by the politeness of their reception. And even then I think they had trouble finding a couple of people with the guts to actually go over there and complain. I think the greatest achievement of that committee was to complain about the noise of the motorcycles coming and going, either early in the morning or late at night. I did hear some vague threats to burn the place down, but I'm sure that was all hot air. Very quickly a protest committee was formed and petitions got up. The local rumour mill got to work and word went around that the house was being converted into a clubhouse for the gang. Only on the weekends did I see anyone around and everyone I did see were always dressed in leather gear. There were one or two motorcycles outside of the place most of the time, but I didn't actually see anyone working, as that must have been done whilst I was at college. Over the next couple of weeks skips (dumpsters) appeared in the garden of the forge, it was obvious that the house was being cleared out. From the look of him I'd got, I would have said, that was most probably true. My mother informed me that the word had gone around, that Mr Walker had left the house and workshop to his grandson, who was reputed to be a member of one of the local motorcycle gangs. Actually, my dad was already on the telephone to a neighbour, saying things like, "We don't want that type living around here." When I arrived in our lounge, it was immediately apparent that they had all heard the motorcycle arrive. I hurriedly got dressed and dashed downstairs, to tell the family that someone was in the Forge house. Then he went over to the house and let himself in with a key. Slowly the guy removed his crash helmet and then got off of the motorcycle. We didn't live in the part of town where you expected to see "ton-up boys" as my dad called them or "filthy rockers" as my elder sister always referred to them, very often. Someone dressed all in leathers was sitting astride the motorcycle, apparently studying the old house intently. I looked out of my bedroom window to see who had disturbed the tranquillity and saw that the offending machine was parked outside of the Forge House. Then, one Saturday morning I think it was, the whole street was woken up at an unearthly hour by the roar of a powerful motorcycle. Old Mr Walker, who'd lived there ever since I could remember, had passed away that Christmas time and for quite a few months afterwards the old house lay deserted. Or "The Smithy" as the decrepit old sign said. The old house was known as 'The Forge', but it had been many years since anybody had actually worked in the blacksmith shop. The first time I ever saw Rocky, I think was just after I had turned seventeen.Īt the end of the road we lived in, there was an old house with an even older blacksmith's workshop in the front of the garden facing the through road, that was at that time known as the By Pass locally, because it.
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