COLIN GRAINGER

WITH HYDER JAWÁD

First published as a hardback by deCoubertin Books Ltd in 2019.

First Edition

deCoubertin Books, 46B Jamaica Street, Baltic Triangle, Liverpool, L1 0AF.
www.decoubertin.co.uk

eISBN: 978-1-909245-95-2

Copyright © Hyder Jawád, 2019.

The right of Hyder Jawád to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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To

Duncan Edwards

1 October 1936 – 21 February 1958

&

Jim Iley

15 December 1935 – 17 November 2018

Acknowledgements

ALL BOOKS HAVE AT LEAST ONE AUTHOR. THIS ONE HAS TWO–SORT OF. But the reality is that books are almost always collaborations, even though the name or names on the cover rarely say so. Consequently, the authors wish to thank the following for their input into this project and for their support:

Lesley Constable; Colin Grainger junior; Doreen Grainger; the late Jim Iley; Jean Kitchen; Andy Mills; Christian Radley; Kim Radley; Wayne Tomlinson; Tony Topping; and Chris Worrall. The deCoubertin Book team of Jack Gordon Brown, James Corbett, Simon Hughes, Megan Pollard, and Leslie Priestley deserve special thanks for not only supporting the project when it was just a rough manuscript but also for bringing their expertise to the table.

The Singing Winger is the product of nearly a hundred hours of interviews with Colin Grainger, in addition to research provided by contemporary sources such as Charles Buchan’s Football Monthly, official programmes for the matches in which he played, and his own personal scrapbook.

Contents

CHAPTER ZERO: Exordium

Heroes and martyrs

CHAPTER I: Havercroft Memories

1933-53: Kinship, childhood, national service, Wrexham

CHAPTER II: Lines From the Pavilion

1953-57: Sheffield United, Joe Mercer, Duncan Edwards, England

CHAPTER III: With the Millionaires

1957-60: Sunderland, Len Shackleton, Alan Brown, Empire theatres

CHAPTER IV: Fade to White

1960-61: Leeds United, Jack Taylor, Jack Charlton, Don Revie

CHAPTER V: Valiant Gentlemen

1961-64: Port Vale, Norman Low, Arthur Longbottom, the Beatles

CHAPTER VI: For Whom the Belle (Vue) Tolls

1964-66: Doncaster Rovers, Alick Jeffrey, working-men’s clubs

CHAPTER VII: Postscript and Post-Postscripts

1966-present: Non-League, Corinthians, Harry Hough, Sundays

About the author

List of Illustrations

My father, Daniel, and my mother, Lily, in the back garden of our home at 10 West Street, Havercroft. They supported me every step of my journey. [AUTHOR’S PERSONAL COLLECTION]

With the Ryhill School football team in 1947. I am first on the right kneeling down. [AUTHOR’S PERSONAL COLLECTION]

I was also a keen cricketer. I am on the front row second from left with our school team. [AUTHOR’S PERSONAL COLLECTION]

With my school mates, Curly Worby and Derek Belcher, in Blackpool, 1950. I had already signed for Wrexham by this stage. [AUTHOR’S PERSONAL COLLECTION]

In the famous Green Beret of the Royal Air Force. I would spend two years in the RAF from 1951 to 1953 for my National Service and was stationed at Odiham in Hampshire. [AUTHOR’S PERSONAL COLLECTION]

At the Racecourse Ground during my Wrexham days. This was a photo I sent back home to Mum, Dad, brothers John, Eric, Horace, and sister Lily in Havercroft. [AUTHOR’S PERSONAL COLLECTION]

Pictured with my pals in Wrexham, my first Football League Club. I joined Wrexham at 17 and only played five league games over three years, but my experiences there and in the RAF helped to shape me as a footballer and a person. [AUTHOR’S PERSONAL COLLECTION]

Jumping as if on springs, eyes firmly on the ball, I head for goal during Sheffield United’s 2-0 win over Tottenham Hotspur in September 1955. [COLORSPORT]

With leg muscles that could only have come from hours of extra training, I use my pace to good effect for Sheffield United against Portsmouth, November 1955. [COLORSPORT]

Playing for the Football League Representative XI, 1956. Although our side included luminaries such as Johnny Haynes, Tommy Taylor, Jimmy Armfield and Ronnie Clayton, we lost 5-2 at Windsor Park to a side picked from the Irish League. [AUTHOR’S PERSONAL COLLECTION]

Slotting the ball home on my England debut against Brazil at Wembley, May 1956. Brazil’s goalkeeper, Gilmar, looks on. My life would change beyond recognition. [PA]

My confidence soaring and England now dominant, I scored a second goal – England’s fourth – in a 4-2 victory. A dream debut. Two years later, Brazil would win the World Cup. [PA]

Lining up with my England teammates in the Olympiastadion, Berlin ahead of our clash with the World Cup-holders, West Germany, in 1956. I would score the second goal in a 3-1 win, my third and last for my country. [AUTHOR’S PERSONAL COLLECTION]

Falling to the floor as I clip the ball beyond the reach of West Germany’s goalkeeper Fritz Herkenrath in England’s 3-1 victory in Berlin. This was a golden period in my life and the height of my fame as a footballer. [AUTHOR’S PERSONAL COLLECTION]

Having emerged in mid-1956 as an England international and a semi-professional singer, the hard work for 1956/57 with Sheffield United in the Second Division begins away from the public eye. [COLORSPORT]

One of my early singing performances at the Empire Theatre in Sheffield, September 1956. I could have quit my £15-a-week job in football to make £5,000 each year on stage. But I always preferred to be one man of eleven in the football stadium. [MIRRORPIX]

On England duty prior to the match against Northern Ireland, October 1956. Right to left, Tommy Taylor, Duncan Edwards, me, Albert Quixall, Roger Byrne, Dennis Viollet, and Tom Curry (Manchester United trainer). Taylor, Edwards, Byrne and Curry would die in Munich in 1958. [AUTHOR’S PERSONAL COLLECTION]

The England team to face Ireland at Windsor Park. I am on the front row, first on the right. The game would finish 1-1 and it would prove to be my last away game in an England shirt. [AUTHOR’S PERSONAL COLLECTION]

Surrounded by 100,000 spectators, I find myself alone with my thoughts as England play Wales at Wembley Stadium, November 1956. [COLORSPORT]

With Jim Iley, my good friend, teammate and brother-in-law, in 1957. [AUTHOR’S PERSONAL COLLECTION]

The smile is for the photographer. But all I feel is anxiety. The train journey from Sheffield to Sunderland, for talks about a move to Roker Park, represents the end of my career with Sheffield United. [MIRRORPIX]

Sharing a joke with Mercer and the Sunderland director, Ernest Graham, after travelling up from Sheffield to discuss a proposed move in February 1957. I act happy, but I feel uncertain. [MIRRORPIX]

My first game for Sunderland, against Tottenham Hotspur at White Hart Lane in the league, February 1957. We would lose 5-2 but, over the next few weeks, played well enough to avoid relegation. [PA]

The Singing Winger. While on international duty with England in 1957, I take time out to exercise my voice. [MIRRORPIX]

Training with my England teammates at White Hart Lane, April 1957. [PA]

Training with Ray Barlow at White Lane before our clash with Scotland, April 1957. [PA]

With the legendary Trinidadian pianist, Winifred Atwell, in preparation for a BBC television appearance in 1957. Atwell insured her fingers for £40,000. But it was her smile that captivated me. [AUTHOR’S PERSONAL COLLECTION]

With the Sunderland team ahead of the 1957/58 season. I felt privileged to be in the company of some brilliant players on the front row (left to right): Len Shackleton, Don Revie, Stan Anderson, Jack Hedley, me and Alan O’Neill. [MIRRORPIX]

Performing at the Manchester Hippodrome, June 1958. I was on the same bill as the Kaye sisters, all of whom would become friends. [AUTHOR’S PERSONAL COLLECTION]

Pictured with the Kaye sisters on the same evening in Manchester. [AUTHOR’S PERSONAL COLLECTION]

My wife, Doreen, and my son, Colin junior, listen to my new pop record at our family home, January 1960. [MIRRORPIX]

Pictured on the front row, far right, with my Leeds United teammates during my only full season at the club, 1960/61. Though we would only finish fourteenth in Division Two, good things were about to happen to the club. Under Don Revie (the player-manager here, pictured in the middle of the front row) Leeds would flourish for a decade from the mid-1960s. You might also spot a young Jack Charlton behind him, who would also prove crucial to their renaissance. [AUTHOR’S PERSONAL COLLECTION]

Port Vale, 1962. I am on the back row, second in from the right. My three years at Vale Park coincided with the peak of my singing career. These, however, were injury-plagued years on the pitch. [MIRRORPIX]

I wasn’t the only one in my dressing rooms who enjoyed a singalong. Here I am performing in the showers with Alick Jeffrey, a Doncaster Rovers legend whom I encountered late in my career at Belle Vue. [MIRRORPIX]

My daughter, Kim, my grandson, Christian and his daughter, Avabella, at Christian’s graduation. [AUTHOR’S PERSONAL COLLECTION]

CHAPTER ZERO

Exordium

Heroes and martyrs

You would have loved them

I HAVE NEVER BEEN A FAN OF DYNASTY AS A WORD. IT CONTAINS ALL sorts of negative connotations, not least the implied suggestion that you acquired something – fame, a career, a wife, a name – through the family rituals and institutions of which you are a part. Dynasty suggests entitlement. Dynasty diminishes the blood and sweat you expended to achieve your goals. Dynasty alienates outsiders. But how hollow my words seem when juxtaposed alongside the reality that sporting prowess dominated the Grainger-Holliday genealogy for half a century. I learnt from a young age that being part of that genealogy afforded me both ready-made role models and inherent pressures. Everywhere I turned there was a football player.

Even before I was born, my cousin, Jack Grainger (born 1912), was forging a career for himself as a full-back with Barnsley and Southport. World War Two took what should have been the best part of his career but he did play as a guest for Liverpool. His younger brother, Dennis Grainger (born 1920), enjoyed a moderately successful post-war career with Leeds United and Wrexham. My oldest brother, Jack Grainger (born 1924), was already turning himself into a Rotherham United legend while I was still at school. By the time I signed my first professional contract in 1949, as a super-skinny but super-fast seventeen-year-old with Wrexham, newspapers could never write about me without making reference to my brother. By 1956, when I was a full England international left winger, my cousin, Edwin Holliday (born 1939), signed for Middlesbrough. My younger sister, Lilly, helped to grow our football family when she married Jim Iley, then a left-half with Sheffield United, and later of Tottenham Hotspur and Newcastle United, in 1958.

You dream of being the best football player in the world but even when you have played at Wembley, and scored twice on your England debut against Brazil, you have stop and ask yourself if you are even the best player in your household.

There are a lot of Football League appearances among that list of names. But none of those fine people are the heroes of my life. And nor am I. My heroes are always martyrs. My heroes are my parents. My mam. My dad. I wish you could have met them. You would have loved them. But they are long gone and there are not many of us around who still remember them. For me, now, in good times and bad, they enter my thoughts and they blossom like the calla lily in May. It was because of them that I spent most of my working life performing to audiences as both a football player and a singer. Life was so good that I sometimes felt guilty taking money for doing what I would have done for nothing.

I still perform today, but only in my mind’s eye. And there is only ever an audience of two: My mam. My dad. And theirs is the applause that matters most of all. They were the ones who toiled so I did not have to. They were the ones who fashioned my future with a simple command: Son, no way you’re ever going down a pit.

Over the course of my story, you will hear these nine words a lot, and I offer no apologies for the repetition. If something is precious, you desire to share it in perpetuity – even if, in this case, it is only a simple sentence. Even if the sentence means more to me than it could ever mean to you.

*

CHAPTER I

Havercroft Memories

1933-53: Kinship, childhood, national service, Wrexham

The heart of an angel

IN THE LATE-VICTORIAN ERA, THE ENGLISH CLASS SYSTEM DEFINED itself with such assurance that people had their futures mapped out for them even before they were born. And so it was with my dad. By the time he began working in 1910, he did what his had father had done and what his father’s father had done: underground coal mining, a job that seemed design to create bad hygiene and hasten death. In West Riding, not a lot changed over many decades – academics call it social determinism – and yet, paradoxically, every day felt different, fresh and new, as if our tiny colliery village of Havercroft spun on its own axis.

Before I was born, the Depression had become the defining feature of life for mining communities. From a young age, I heard the passed-down tales of what genuine hardship meant and how adversely it manifested itself. Like the occasion my dad came home from work. It was evening time, early 30s, I would guess, and he displayed what one family member described as a haunting emptiness in his eyes. He took off his coat, put it on a hook, and said softly to my mam: ‘So sorry, Lily, no money today.’

A pregnant pause but no complaint. My mam never complained. She knew, as everybody knew, that my dad always grafted, eight hours a day, five days a week, often through the night. The problem was productivity. He could spend the entire day lying on his back, striving with the coal cutters, or with a pick and shovel. He could sweat so much that his eyes stung. But if production was low at the end of his shift, even through no fault of his own – tough luck. He would go home with no wages.

Such was the scourge of the Depression; that centrifugal force whose tentacles spread indiscriminately to every corner of the globe, destroying livelihoods and communities, turning places like Havercroft into paradigms of social anxiety.

How forlorn my dad must have felt, standing there, his face stained with soot, his overalls blackened like charcoal, presenting himself as a metaphor for the economic volatility of our times. Most days were not like that, of course. Most days he would return with a brown envelope full of money to give to my mam. Then his eyes would sparkle, and she would smile, and we all knew there would be a beef joint on Sunday.

The worst of times were rare, the best of times common. And I look back on my past now with the same wide-eyed enthusiasm that I possessed when those days were my present, when the future lay before me all bright, all beautiful, all ready to enlighten.

So many memories. They enter my mind like flashes of lightning, never in any particular order. But only one memory is constant because it defined my childhood. It was when I heard for the first time my dad’s command:

Son, no way you’re ever going down a pit.

He went down a pit for virtually every day of his working life and he knew from personal experience that it was no place for his boys. His command became my mantra; for there, encapsulated in a single sentence, was a truth that both inspired me and saddened me. He went down the mines, putting his body through the toughest work imaginable, breathing the worst air possible; he did it all so I did not have to.

And when he got home after each shift, who was there to greet him and comfort him? My mam: our rock, our foundation, our fortress; the glue that held us all together.

So when I played in London for England against Brazil in 1956, alongside Stanley Matthews and Duncan Edwards, I thought of Mam and Dad. When I sang at the Southern Sporting Club in 1963, on the same bill as the Beatles, I thought of Mam and Dad. I’ve been hearing the applause ever since.

So much approval, so much praise. And I wish I could have transferred it all to them.

How could I not be inspired that their labours gave me a privileged childhood? How could I not be saddened that their labours caused them each a premature death?

When Daniel Grainger died in 1967, aged 73, I realised that he was one of the many thousands of good men who went the same way: victims of pneumoconiosis, a disease born of too much exposure to coal dust. He knew his day-to-day existence was unhealthy. A lesser man would have taken the easy way out, taken an easier job for much less money, but not my dad. He was a giver, not a taker.

Son, no way you’re ever going down a pit.

He said the same words, delivered in his authentic Barnsley accent, to my three older brothers: John, born in 1924; Eric, born in 1926; and Horace, born in 1929. He wished he could have had the same words for my two other brothers, but they died of diphtheria when not even old enough to know the perils of growing up in a mining village. Leslie, born in 1920, died during his first year; George, born 1922, died aged four, around the time of the 1926 General Strike. I wish I had met them both. I wish I could have learnt from them just as I learnt from John, Eric and Horace.

I wish my parents had been spared such anguish. My mam, Lily Grainger (née Holliday), was a wonderful woman, hard-working and disciplined. Her toughness, particularly at those times of sorrow, made her an endearing character within the community and a beacon of hope for those of us who relied on her. I never spoke to her about Leslie and George, so I will never know how she dealt with the grief. Maybe she worked her way through the pain – using activity to avoid introspection – because she never seemed to stop. It would give me pleasure on clothes-washing days to help her put soaking trousers and shirts through the mangle to assist with the drying process. We all wanted to help her because she was a woman of action. It is amazing that she found the time to have seven children in just fifteen years.

She died in 1979 of what the doctor called ‘a tired heart’. But we all knew that she had the heart of an angel.

My mam’s brother, John Holliday, was the same. He volunteered at age sixteen for service in the Great War, although he lied by saying he was eighteen, otherwise he would have been too young and told to come back in two years’ time. My beloved uncle was a fine man, full of stories, full of vitality, and he lived to more than 100 years old.

The world of my parents was not much different from the world of my grandparents. In the late-Victorian era, the class system characterised British society. People had their futures mapped out for them even before they were born. Communal cultures and networks functioned in such a way as to undermine whatever passed in those days for social mobility. Blissfully unaware of a life beyond the village, my dad’s generation had no idea that social mobility was even possible. The 1911 Census records my father as being a sixteen-year-old ‘pit pony driver, belowground’. He was living at Dove Hill, Royston, Barnsley with his parents – Joseph Grainger, a 57-year-old Coal Miner Hewer, and Rose Grainger (née Timmingham) – and what seemed like myriad siblings.

I was born on Saturday 10 June 1933, a day that, beyond our tiny village, held little significance. In Europe, and especially in Germany, the political dynamics were changing ominously, but that did not yet concern me. West Riding was still suffering from the Depression, and the 30s was a strenuous period for miners.

I discovered from an early age that life in Havercroft, with its population of just 800, conformed to an orthodox pattern. The fathers worked the pits. The mothers held down domestic jobs and also brought up the children. And the children became a reflection of their parents. Some fathers would gamble too much or drink too much, and the children would suffer. Most fathers gave enough housekeeping money to their wives so the children could eat good food and want for nothing.

The Grainger children fell into the category that ate good food and wanted for nothing. That is why I regard my background as one of great advantages. Oh, sure, there was hardly a spare penny and never a hope of the family becoming rich. At Christmas, we had to make do with a bicycle between us, or a football between us. But we had privileges more important than possessions: kinship, identity, and loyalty.

I could see it in my dad’s eyes that his days down the mines were tough but also that he delighted in his family and cherished us all. After a particularly arduous day, he would contort his aching body into the bath and immerse himself in the warm water. Bliss! As he was unable to clean his back, he would call me in, give me a sponge, and ask me to soap away all that sweat. The sweat of honest toil. The sweat of an industrious man. And how great it was for me to be involved, a small cog in the family wheel.

It was something that we even had a bath. I read recently that in Barnsley in 1946, for example, half of households lacked a fixed bath, and one in ten people actually shared a water supply or lacked piped water. Only one in four owned their own toilet. By those standards, we were better off than many.

And on most Sunday afternoons my mam would take that beef joint out of the oven to provide us not only with the best food, but also the focal point of some great dinner-table conversations. ‘Pass me the pop,’ someone would shout, and the bottle would go around the table, from brother to brother, like a Mexican wave.

Occasionally, my mam’s main course, whether beef or salmon, would precede the luxury of ice cream. You did not get ice cream from the shop. You got it from the man who travelled around the streets on his horse and cart. You knew he was coming a mile off, for the horse and cart would make a distinctive rattling sound. Some kids would follow the horse on its round, patting it or stroking it. The kids who got ice cream had the widest smiles. Just as ubiquitous was the rag and bone man, who circulated the village on foot, looking for unwanted household items, which he would then sell on to merchants.

Funnily enough, there was a time when our house became the focal point of some excellent fast food – and all because of a toasting fork I made in school in 1946. It was just a simple thing, with metal wire, but it enabled me to make the finest toast in the village. There was no sliced bread in those days, of course. Instead, we would cut the loaf ourselves with a large knife, put slices of bread on to the toasting fork, stick it in the coal fire, and spread the Lurpak butter all over the hot toast. The butter would drip down your fingers. Then, having devoured the toast, we would run back into The Square and continue whatever game of football or cricket we were playing. That toasting fork survived in the family at least until 1970. I have not seen it since then, but it would not surprise me if I still had it somewhere.

Most things were a novelty in those days. But I was lucky. If I needed a pair of football boots, I got them. If I needed new laces, no problem. And we were always well dressed. Families acquired their dignity from hard work, good manners, and respectable clothes – even if, often, the clothes had been handed down. We had wealth, but not in the financial sense. Our wealth came in having good character and in our sense of community. People did not lock their doors because there was no need to. Community crime was virtually non-existent.

When we got our first television in 1950, a magnificent electrical operation from Cheetham’s in Royston, we had everybody round to our house to watch the flickering monochrome images that in those days passed for entertainment. There was not much choice in those days but your expectations were low. You watched whatever the broadcasters decided. People would come in and out as if 10 West Street had turned into a mini-cinema.

A simple existence. An idyllic existence.

And if my memories appear to be those of somebody observing his past through rose-tinted spectacles, consider how many great and good footballers in post-war Britain emerged from mining communities. Our world was a football training ground, an academy; and although not everybody came out of the experience having flourished, those austere streets were a space in which enchantment became possible. We did not even need a football. A tennis ball would do. And, of course, four coats for goalposts. At virtually no cost, we had a game that could occupy and stimulate every boy in the village, week in week out, throughout our adolescence. Summer would bring a bit of cricket, which we loved, but it was our football ambitions that characterised our fantasies.

We played most of our football and cricket in The Square, which stood fifty yards from our house in West Street, and was the focal point for all the kids in the area; a hive of activity; a dwelling for our dreams. In winter, once darkness set in, we continued to play under the gas lamps.

The intrigue of those football matches in The Square was that I seemed to be related to most of the kids. There were my brothers, John, Eric, and Horace; then there were my cousins, Dennis Grainger, Jack Grainger, and Edwin Holliday. Big brother John was the best, because he was the oldest. He went to work at the pit, but he stayed strictly above ground. There was no way my dad was going to let him go down below, damaging his lungs with all that coal dust.

It followed that the first professional footballer I got to know was our John, who was most definitely a product of his background. Nine years older than I, he had the legs of a racehorse, with calf muscles that reflected hard work and good diet. He could sprint, he could run long distances, and all that ball practice in The Square gave him expert control and balance. All he had to do was put it altogether and he could turn himself into the type of winger that both he and I dreamt of becoming. In time, he would distinguish himself with Rotherham United, for whom he signed in 1947 from Frickley Colliery. He would acquire the nickname the ‘Galloping Winger’.

As soon as my three brothers and I realised we could play football to a decent standard, we began to ask ourselves from where this physical prowess came. Some of it came from my dad’s side, yes, but most from my mam’s side. Lily Grainger had siblings who possessed the gifts of athleticism. Famous in the village for how they always seemed to be running, the Holliday brothers – my uncles – were paragons of perpetual motion. I delight in the fact that the fates brought together Daniel Grainger and Lily Holliday. When they married in late 1919, they made official in Royston, Barnsley, something that could easily have happened in Dudley, Staffordshire.

The Graingers and Hollidays were large families who originated from Dudley. Like many people in the late-Victorian era, they escaped unemployment by moving to the mining villages in Yorkshire, Durham and Cumberland. Royston seemed as good a place as any to start a new life. My dad, one of fourteen children (seven boys, seven girls), was born in 1894, my mam in 1900. After they married, they acquired a colliery house in West Street, Havercroft.

Havercroft-with-Cold Hiendley, to give its full original title, was growing in 1919, but not rapidly. According to the Imperial Gazetteer of England and Wales for 1870-72 by John Marius Wilson, the village’s population was just 109 and there were 24 houses. You could buy swathes of land for a starting price of £1,563. Potential investors learnt that the 120-acre reservoir fed the Barnsley canal. It was mining that reconfigured the area but the population was barely more than five hundred when the Graingers turned up just after the Great War. In such a small place, you got to know everybody’s name, and you made friends easily. However, once the mining industry took off, house building in the 20s became big business in Havercroft. Whereas in 1921, there were just 150 houses in the village, by 1930 there were four hundred houses. Number 10 West Street is still there, although now a different colour, with a different wall. And a different atmosphere. The Graingers have long since dispersed.

My dad worked at the Monckton Colliery, pits three and four, which, during his time, employed five hundred-odd men below ground and a hundred-odd above. The hardest work was to be found below, a laborious and dangerous arrangement that was fraught with uncertainty, both financially and physically.

The threat of not making any money hung over every miner and his wife. No less significant was the fear of serious injury.

The most complimentary nickname that pit workers could bestow on a man was ‘Gentleman Miner’. And that is what they called my dad. This sobriquet emphasised his personal attributes and the esteem in which his colleagues held him. He did not swear at home, never swore in front of women, never drank to excess, never boasted, and respected his fellow human being. He was a gentleman and a gentle man. He deserved better than to be unsure of his wages at the end of a backbreaking shift.

I will never know the true psychological effects on my dad of such an existence because he never grumbled. Not once. It gave him pleasure, I think, to know that he could give my mam enough money to run the household. And, after six boys, with two no longer alive, there was a new arrival in 1935: a girl called Lily, my baby sister. (Being female, she was never going to become a professional footballer, not in those days; but she got the next-best thing when she married Jim Iley, the brilliant left-half, then of Tottenham Hotspur, in 1958. But that is a story for the future).

Our house at 10 West Street had three bedrooms: one my parents shared, another that John, Eric, Horace and I shared, and another, the smallest, that young Lily occupied. In those days, sharing a bedroom meant sharing a double bed, so that, even when we were adults, Horace and I would sleep under the same covers in one double bed, with John and Eric sharing another. The bedrooms remained in constant use until way into the 50s because our John did not leave home until he got married at the age of thirty, Eric stayed at home until he got married at the age of 29, and Horace stayed at home until he got married at the age of 27.

Such closeness can make or break a family. For the Graingers, it made us. Those bonds enabled us to survive tribulations. As there was only a two-year gap between Lily and me, the two of us were particularly close, but the four brothers all looked after her. It seemed to fit the natural order that she developed, from a young age, a love of football.

Relationships flourished in those days. Our next-door neighbours were the Mays, who had a son in the Royal Navy. One day, he returned home with a monkey, which he kept in the kitchen. Whenever you went to their house, all you could see was this monkey running around wild amid the pots and pans and tables and chairs. Sometimes he would hang on the clothes line, which the Mays had in the kitchen.

These scenes were the types you would see in a film, or read about in a novel; not something to be located in a colliery house in Havercroft, West Riding.

We all felt immortal

My first school, which I began at the age of four in 1937, was Ryhill Junior. Ryhill was the next village to Havercroft, and although it might only have been a twenty-minute walk away, you had to cross the bridge over the railway line to get there. Neither the railway line nor the walk to school presented danger during those interwar years, so those mornings – big groups of kids walking, exploring the railway – became adventures that created distinctive personalities and established relationships.

At the age of eight, in 1941, I migrated to Ryhill Middle School, and then, from the age of eleven, in 1945, to Felkirk Secondary School, in South Hiendley. For me, school was one long sporting exploration. I was the captain of the football team but I also played in the cricket team, whose captain was George Dodd, one of my best friends, with whom I remained in touch until his death in 2014. Like me, he loved playing sport. Like me, he did what was necessary to enhance his athleticism.

When I think of him, my mind goes back to a cricket cup final we played against Cudworth in 1947. One of the Cudworth players was Michael Parkinson, later to turn himself into a successful television personality and journalist. Felkirk batted first but we ended up all out for just twelve. We were stunned but our teacher, a Mr Lawton, said, ‘Grainger and Dodds, it’s up to you to bowl them all out.’ And we did. George got five wickets for zero runs and I got five wickets for four runs. Cudworth finished all out for nine. Somewhere among my personal memorabilia is the medal I won on that famous day.

The best word to describe my academic aptitude was ‘average’. I was decent at English and maths, half-decent at history, but I could never quite appreciate the laws and cadences of science. I was interested enough in school to avoid censure from teachers, but I functioned – perhaps consciously, perhaps unconsciously – in the knowledge that I would play football for a living. And if not, perhaps cricket. Had I been less athletically inclined, I would have given school more attention and probably would have done well. I knew dim and unintelligent kids when I saw them and I knew I did not fit into the same category.

I was fairly competent at gymnastics, especially at handstands; and those years at Felkirk represent a halcyon period in my life for it was there that sport became more than mere fun. It was character-building. How I throbbed with excitement. One does not forget those long summer evenings, swimming in the reservoir, and then eating the oversized but delectable sandwiches my mam made. Then there were those annual holidays to Blackpool with my school friends, playing football and cricket on the beach, shirtless, the sweat glistening, as the sun went down to reveal the stars. In Blackpool, there was a machine on which you stood to discover your height and weight. In the summer of 1947, I was aged fourteen, 5ft 3in, and 8st 6lbs.

What a world I inhabited. I was high on energy, intoxicated by adrenaline, and all that football practice in The Square of Havercroft, all those delicious beef joints, and even the daily dose of cod liver oil, had given me the legs of an adult. I could run, I could dribble, and I knew that, as a football player, I was catching up with my big brother, John Grainger. He welcomed my progress. We were friends as well as brothers. I always called him our John, even when everybody else called him Jack. But when it came to running, none of us were in Horace Grainger’s league. He became a champion 100-yard sprinter. Early on, our John, Eric and I knew we would never be able to catch him. Horace had the Grainger surname but there was no doubting that he had the Holliday running legs.

Another of my close friends at school was a kid called Curly Worby. He was really Peter Worby but everybody called him Curly. It was the most inappropriate nickname possible, for not only did he lack curly hair, he had hardly any hair. He was one of the few boys who did not need to use the services of Sam Taylor, the local hairdresser, who did his work in a garden shed. Day in, day out, a queue would form outside his shed, people trampling all over his grass, as he proceeded to confer on his customers the same hairstyle – no matter what you requested. There must have been three hundred males in Havercroft at that time and every one of us looked identical. Well, everybody except for Curly Worby. He did not have enough hair. Just as I kept in touch with George Dodds until he died, so I kept in touch with Curly Worby until the letters and phone calls stopped coming and I heard that he had passed on.

There was another of my school friends with whom I wish I could have maintained contact. His name was Dennis Devonport, and, like me, he loved to play football and cricket in The Square at Havercroft. When I played for England against Brazil in 1956, he was there to cheer me on. By then he was a lorry driver, which was a tough job before Britain became a nation of motorways. After I returned to London in the summer of 1956, following an England tour of Sweden, Finland and West Germany, I heard that the folks at Havercroft were planning to put up flags everywhere to welcome me home. But there would be no flags. And rightly so. The day before my return, Havercroft went into mourning when the news emerged that Dennis Devonport had died in a crash in his lorry. He was driving some bricks to somewhere, but his lorry went into an embankment, and the weight of the bricks injured him enough put him in a critical condition. He died in hospital two days later at the age of 22. Ten years earlier, however, he was a happy-go-lucky twelve-year-old boy with his whole future ahead of him. We all felt immortal and, even then, felt privileged to be alive.

I was with Curly Worby when we listened on the radio to the 1946 FA Cup final, in which Derby County defeated Charlton Athletic 4-1 after extra time. I still recall the shock in the commentator’s voice when he described how Bert Turner, that fine Wales international full-back, scored twice in the final few minutes: an own goal for Derby and then an equaliser for Charlton. There was something magical and mysterious about a commentator’s voice in 1946. It would have been enough for me then to know that, one day, a BBC commentator would make reference to an outside-left called Colin Grainger.

No matter what we all did, Curly Worby seemed to be part of the group. At half-term holidays in school, we would be together picking peas in spring or potatoes in autumn, and would earn a few pennies for our troubles. Potato picking was hard work because by September the frost on the ground would hurt your fingers. But just like my dad down the pit, you were paid not for how many hours you put in, but, rather, for what you produced. Occasionally, we would go bird nesting, hoping to get an egg to take home. My parents kept hens and chickens, mainly for eggs, although, at other times, my dad would have to kill one of the birds for us to eat. Being a pigeon fancier, my dad must have found it tough emotionally killing a chicken. I did not like the process – it seemed a bit cruel – but I realised that the vagaries of our world forced a family to do what was necessary to eat.

When World War Two imposed itself on Europe in 1939, we all knew we would avoid the evacuation because we figured that nobody would want to bomb the tiny mining villages of West Yorkshire. Massive bombs did drop a few miles away, and the kids of Sheffield and other nearby towns were evacuated, but the war in a physical sense only came to Havercroft once when a small bomb fell near the mines. However, Havercroft did go to the war – in the shape of my brother, Eric, who joined the Army at the age of eighteen in 1944. Inexplicably, he went straight to the Front in Belgium. He had no training, nothing. We counted ourselves lucky that although he suffered injuries, he returned home safely in 1945. He damaged his ankle while abroad and the injury ended any hopes he had of becoming a professional footballer. Still, his circumstances could have been worse. Men of his age were dying every day at the Front. From 1939-45, you learnt to count your blessings.

The joy of Eric’s return did not insulate me from the worst excesses of tragedy. Even today, people still recall the case of William Gledhill, aged eleven, who was walking near the pit at Ryhill, possibly looking for adventure. He turned into Pit Lane, went too close, and his coat got caught in the rope that manoeuvred the cage and dragged him down, cutting his body in half. The incident distressed our village. For a time, I could not stop thinking of him. A more horrific death you could not conceive.

The constraints of rationing provided a necessary sense of egalitarianism, and we all made the best of what we had. My mam would sometimes swap butter for sugar. We would cut up discarded jumpers and old coats to make rugs. There was no central heating, so in winter going to bed might be an ordeal because it was so cold. At night, candles would provide light. All fires were coal in those days, and once every four weeks the coalman would drop off a tonne bag outside your house. Then you had to get the coal into the coalhouse at the back by using buckets. The process took quite a while.

Our lives improved in 1946 when electricity arrived at the colliery houses. Suddenly, almost overnight, we had lights in the bedroom, whereas previously we could only use candles. The biggest beneficiary of electricity, I think, was my mam because she ran the household. She worked so hard that anything to ease the day-to-day burdens was something to be cherished. She would forever be putting irons in the fire, whether to warm the bed sheets at nighttime or to get the creases out of our clothes. And once a week, on a line in the kitchen, there would be twenty shirts hanging up ready to wear – five shirts each for four brothers. My mam had a simple philosophy: we all came first; she came second.

We took nothing for granted, not even shoes. My dad saved money by repairing our family’s shoes, using a hobbing foot, which was a length of wood six inches in diameter and three feet high with a hole in the top to hold a piece of metal in the shape of foot. Better fixing shoes like that instead of an expensive trip to the local cobblers. When our shoes wore down too much, Dad would put leather in the soles if he could afford it, or cardboard if things were tight financially.

Electricity came at the right time. The winter of 1946-47 was horrendous and, for a time, brought the entire country to a standstill. The snow in Havercroft must have been three feet deep, which brought both benefits and pitfalls. Not until mid-March did the snow melt, which had knock-on effects for the football season. Not until mid-June were Liverpool confirmed as league champions.

In school, you learnt to grow up quickly. Throughout the war, we had already learnt how to use a gas mask and, eventually, we had to wear the things for real. If you wanted to use the telephone, you would have to go to the public one at the bottom of the street. And for what seemed like years, the sound of sirens would send children and adults scurrying in all directions. We would hide underneath the stairs until the perceived danger passed. For the most part, however, our world seemed exciting and adventurous, and the social changes brought about by the war helped bring people closer together.

At the age of ten, in 1943, I was part of a group of boys who took the bus to Oakwell every other Saturday in the football season to watch Barnsley’s home matches. This was during the Wartime League, so the matches were only semi-competitive, and each team was full of guest players who only played because they just happened to be in the area. It was during these affairs that I watched some of the best players of the era: Raich Carter, Tommy Lawton, and Wilf Mannion, all three England internationals of distinction and great figures who lost the best days of their careers to the war.

Once the end of the war marked the return to competitive football, I delighted in the performances of Johnny Kelly, a Scot, whose dexterity on the left wing for Barnsley made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. He did not just have pace and skill, he had a genuine love of the game. He was the type who would have played football for free; such was his passion for the game. And he was an outside-left, the same as me, which meant that I identified with him more closely than I did with any other Barnsley player of that early post-war era. In later years, when one or two newspapers called me the New Johnny Kelly, I took it as the ultimate compliment.

Another Barnsley player to enthral the spectators was Jorge Robledo, the Chilean inside-forward, whom everybody called ‘George’. He grew up in Brampton, Yorkshire, began his working life by going down the pits, and would make a name for himself, first with Chile at the 1950 World Cup, and then with Newcastle United in the FA Cup finals of 1951 and 1952. Robledo was one of those players who always seemed to be sucking on a cigarette in the dressing room before the match or at half-time.

Attending football matches in the mid-to-late-40s was a strange if exhilarating experience. There was uniformity about it all. People would wear suits in one of three colours: black, grey or brown. Flat caps proliferated. Behaviour was almost always good. Conversation rather than singing was rife. People used to just stand there and observe in a constant state of deference. To get a feel for how British society changed from the late-40s to the mid-60s, consider how the comportment of the football spectator changed. Within twelve or fifteen years, every kind of fashion and every kind of colour and every kind of song could be witnessed on the terraces. I also developed a particular affection for Sheffield United after I attended a match at Bramall Lane in 1944 and saw at first hand the extent of the bomb damage.

I was one of 28,464 spectators at Oakwell on Boxing Day 1945 to see Barnsley defeat Liverpool 1-0 in the North Region War League match. Liverpool had Billy Liddell, that marvellously talented Scot, on the left wing, and Jimmy McInnes, the left-half, who would become the club secretary and would, so tragically, hang himself from the Kop roof in 1965. That 1945/46 campaign saw Barnsley reach the fifth round in the FA Cup, losing to Bradford Park Avenue over two legs. I attended the match at Oakwell against Park Avenue, who had an inside-forward of great style and panache; a visionary who seemed to play the game at his own speed. That was the first time I set eyes on Len Shackleton, an outrageously talented inside-forward whose personality made him a bête noire of the game’s establishment. A decade later, he would enter my life as a teammate and, briefly, a confidant.

I was making good progress in my own attempts to distinguish myself as a player. I made the Barnsley boys’ team for 1946/47, playing alongside Tommy Taylor, a youth-team player for Smithies United, his local colliery team. A centre-forward, Taylor’s talent was obvious and there was no doubting he would not only make the grade but would probably play for England. Also in the Barnsley boys’ team was a little kid called Harry Bird, whose attempts to play professionally fell foul of a knee injury. He turned to cricket, his second love, and played at the highest level for Yorkshire and Leicestershire. Eventually, going by the name of Dickie Bird, he became one of the world’s most famous and beloved cricket umpires. Barnsley boys played Saturday mornings and we each received six pence for expenses – a not-inconsiderable sum for a thirteen-year-old in those days.

But I spent as much time watching football as playing. In 1947/48, Barnsley’s average home attendance of 21,050 meant that nearly one in seven people from the catchment area of 150,000 attended matches at Oakwell. In some respects, Oakwell in the late 40s was a paragon of the game’s social growth, for there seems little doubt that football helped to revive a nation still traumatised by war. My professional career coincided with dramatic changes in the social dynamics of football.