More Sacred Heart

 

The five years I spent at the Sacred Heart, despite my unhappiness, were ones where I learnt a lot. Not all of it was good but there were some inspirational teachers, in particular Miss Elizabeth Hamilton who taught Latin and Greek.  Originally I had been put in the “Domestic Science” stream but I wanted to learn science and my parents’ appeal on my behalf resulted in a somewhat ungracious response from Mother Davidson but I was nonetheless transferred and able to do Physics, Chemistry and Biology.

Compared to today’s school syllabus we had a very heavy academic load. English language and Literature were taught as two different subjects as were the three sciences.  We also had History, Geography, Mathematics, Art, Domestic Science, Religious Studies, Music and French as core subjects.  The higher stream, into which I had been put, also studied Latin from second year and German was an after school option as were the RADA and LAMDA examinations and studying a musical instrument.

This last was not an option for me as my appearances in the ordinary music lessons rapidly convinced Mr Buckley, the music teacher, that I had neither ear nor aptitude for anything musical and my only contribution was to put everyone else off because of my inability to carry a tune.  Consequently I was offloaded onto Miss Hamilton for the forty minutes when music classes took place.  The only time I was allowed to be in the music room was when the form was learning Schubert’s  Erl-King.  I was entranced by the eeriness of the music and pleaded to be allowed to stay and listen.

Other times with Miss Hamilton were very pleasant. She was a quietly spoken woman from Northern Ireland who had had a previous academic career as a university lecturer in Classics.  She was very happy to supervise me as long as what I was doing was quiet and loosely connected with Latin.  I remember one time spending the whole session drawing a horse (something I did frequently much to the wrath of other teachers) and labelling its “points” with their Latin names.  Miss Hamilton admitted that I had even taught her something she didn’t know.

As a result of our enforced proximity we came to know each other as well as a teacher and her pupil could and discovered we were both ailurophiles, a word she delighted in teaching me! As I have written previously, my family have all been cat lovers and Miss Hamilton also came from a similar background.

The cat who was my companion all through my school years, Bobby, was a beautifully marked tabby and white cat who I entered in the “domestic” section at the Kensington Kitten and Neuter Cat show at the Royal Horticultural Hall although I believe it is now held at Olympia.  For me it was a great adventure as my parents would pay for a taxi each way from Golborne Road to Vincent Square S.W.1 as it would have been too difficult to carry Bobby in his cage all the way. One year he was champion senior domestic shorthair and by chance Miss Hamilton was at the show as the presentations were given out.  In Bobby’s case an engraved silver cup.  To celebrate our success she took me for afternoon tea at what seemed, and probably was, a very posh tea rooms with waitress service and tiered plates of crustless sandwiches, scones and dainties.

 

It was Miss Hamilton also who, the year the school went to Oberammergau but I was not allowed because Mother Davidson deemed I was unsuitable, brought me back from Austria a little carved wooden horse which I kept for many years until one of my dogs knocked it off the shelf and used it as a teething ring.

Miss Hamilton lived off Kensington Church Street, in a bijou little flat around the back of St. Mary Abbot’s church and on a couple of occasions invited me to partake of tea with her.  What we talked of I cannot now recall but I suspect cats and other animals featured prominently.

I knew she had written her autobiography “A River full of Stars” and managed to obtain it though the library after I left school. It was a gentle narrative of life as a child in Northern Ireland at the turn of the C20th and detailed her conversion to Catholicism. It was only when I read her obituary, sent to me by my friend Elizabeth when I was living in New Zealand,  that I realised what a truly remarkable woman she was.  As well as having had a career as Classics lecturer and writing her autobiography she had also written several books on the mysticism of St Teresa of Avila, Charles de Foucauld and Cardinal Suenens.

 

She inspired in me a life long love of learning and an appreciation of dead languages and their influence on English. I will always be grateful to a lovely woman who recognised my unhappiness and was kind and gentle to me.

Eleven Plus and beyond. 1957

1957. The year of the Eleven Plus. The year that would decide my future education.

The standard of teaching at St. Mary’s was very high and expectations were also.  Miss Roche had the senior class and put in a lot of extra time ensuring we were as prepared as possible for the exams.

The exam was sat in January and comprised three papers, English, Maths and Intelligence.  Depending on results one  went to a grammar, central or secondary modern school, in descending order of ability.  Some of the unsuccessful girls would stay on at St. Mary’s until their fifteenth birthday released them into the world.

At assembly results were announced.  They were sent to the schools midyear to enable parents to apply to secondary schools, children attend interviews and school uniforms to be purchased.

My surname being mid alphabet I had a wait which passed in a blur, other than to vaguely register that my best friend Maureen McKenna had a grammar pass.  My name was called out and I also had a grammar pass and some special award for the highest mark in one of the papers but I cannot now remember what for.  Our other friend Hanna waited anxiously as her surname started with Z but all was well, she too had a grammar pass.

It was a triumphant moment for us but also tinged with sadness as it meant the parting of the ways at the end of the school year.  Hanna and Maureen both lived in Cricklewood and would be going to a different school from me.  We were all given letters to take home to our parents with the results but I couldn’t wait for that and ran home, through the Little Rec, to Golborne Road shouting , “I’ve got a grammar”.

For my parents the choice was either St. Aloysius at Euston or the Sacred Heart at Hammersmith.  Mum and Dad had planned to apply to St. Aloysius as they’d heard Sacred Heart was very elite and picky about who they accepted but Sister Austin, the head mistress at St. Mary’s begged them to apply to Sacred Heart as it had been a long time since a St. Mary’s girl had gone there and she thought I had a good chance based on my results.

The application was sent off and an interview appointment given.  Mum dressed me up in my grey woollen  suit with a pleated shirt, long white socks, white nylon gloves and a little velvet trimmed hat, while she wore her beaver lamb coat, anxious to make a good impression  despite the fact that it was the middle of summer.

All the way from Westbourne Park to Hammersmith on the train my tummy was tying itself in knots.  What questions would I be asked? What should I answer? What if I failed the interview?  The train arrived at the terminus and we walked the short distance to the school.  It was a large, imposing, red brick building facing onto Hammersmith Broadway.  We had been instructed to go to the main door, also large and imposing, and ring the bell.  This was, in fact, the only time I was to enter the school through the main door as staff and pupils used the side entrance in Bute Gardens.

Mum pushed the bell and, after what seemed like a lifetime, the door slowly opened and there stood a wizened little old religeuse who ushered us in to a long cloister with dark red tiled floors and paintings of biblical scenes along its walls.  We were pointed in the direction of the library and instructed to wait until my name was called.  Several other girls and their parents were also milling around with anxious expressions on their faces.

The library was a large room with panelled walls and a huge fireplace but not many books.  At the far end of the room was a long table with a row of nuns seated behind it and a couple of seats in front of it. Of the actual interview  I remember very little except that Mother Davidson, the headmistress,  had bad breath and, as she leaned forward to ask a question, a miasma would issue from her mouth.  Questions included what I wanted to be when I left school and whether I attended mass regularly.  Her lips pursed when she learned that Mum was Protestant but relaxed again when told that she and Dad both attended mass with me.

After the interview Mum took me to a caff for an ice cream and, for her, a much needed cuppa and a fag.  She assured me I’d done my best and now all we had to do was wait for the results.

War and Rumours of War (Matt 24:6)

With this weekend being Remembrance Sunday my thoughts turned to members of my family who lived through the two world wars. I think I must be unique in that neither of my grandfathers fought in the First World War.  Mum’s dad, Frederick Ireland, was a master builder and was exempted because he was in a reserved occupation.  He was also forty years old when war was declared so would, probably, have been one of the last to be called up on account of his age.  His exemption certificate stated he was due temporary exemption to 4^th October 1918.

My other granddad, Victor Ernest Martin, some seven years younger was also exempt on the same grounds.  His occupation was as a valet at the Army and Navy club.  The officers must have their comforts when on furlough eh what!

Dad, on the other hand was called up in 1940. He and Mum married when he was on leave in November of that year.  He was sent to Woolwich Arsenal to join the 64th Medium Regiment, Royal Artillery and trained as a gunner.  He was shipped out to the Middle East and fought in campaigns in Egypt and North Africa before being sent to G where he was badly wounded just outside Cyrenaica when the truck he was in ran over a landmine.  Several of the others were killed but Dad was fortunate that he had curled up to go to sleep and thus protected vital organs.  Nonetheless his injuries were bad enough, a fractured femur and both radius and ulna in his right arm.  He said the German soldier who accepted his surrender uttered the cliché, “For you, Tommy, the war is over”

After being patched up and having his broken limbs reset at a field hospital he was transferred to Caserta military hospital in the South of Italy.  He always said he owed his life to the nursing sisters at the hospital as his leg wound became badly infected.  There was a shortage of antibiotics so the nuns resorted to a traditional remedy of allowing the wound to become flyblown.  The maggots ate away all the necrotic flesh leaving the wound clean and permitting normal healing.

Unfortunately, when the plaster cast was taken off Dad’s arm it was discovered that the surgeon who had set it had misunited the bones so that the upper part of the radius was joined to the ulna and vice versa. This, along with nerve damage meant he was unable to perform actions that required fine movement or arm rotation so he taught himself to write left handed and played cricket with the bat in his left hand.

Once his injuries had healed sufficiently he was taken to Stalag VIIIA, Lamsdorf in Silesia which was, then, part of Germany. Nowadays it is Lambinowice and in Poland.  Dad always spoke very positively of his years as a POW and had the highest regard for the Camp Kommondant and the guards.  He said, more than once, that if he met any of them again he’d shake their hands and say, “Fritz you were only doing your duty, the same as I was.”  He commented that they were “Damn fine soldiers”

While he was in Lamsdorf Dad met two New Zealand soldiers, Jim Bland and Ritchie Kelly, who were to become lifelong friends. Dad was repatriated in 1944 and after the war had finished Jim and Ritchie came to stay at Priory Grove with our family.  While there, Ritchie met and fell in love with Mum’s youngest sister Gwen, married her and took her to New Zealand as a war bride.

After the war came the reality of fitting back into Civvy Street again.  Before being called up Dad had worked for Sainsbury’s as a butcher but, with the damage to his hand, was no longer able to cut up sides of meat so took whatever job he was offered.  Thus followed a period of Dad working for a week or two in a job for which he was totally unsuited, chucking it in and coming home on a Friday with his pay packet which Mum would then spend, say to Dad, “Right we’re broke again, you’d better find another job”  Among the jobs he’d had were as a spray painter, making ladies’ powder compacts at a factory in the  East End and for a while had a window cleaning round but found it was too hard cycling and washing windows with a gammy leg and a fairly useless right hand.

His treatment for his injuries continued for several years after he returned home. I can remember, as a small child, accompanying him on trips to St Thomas’ hospital.  Although the injury to his arm had healed he continued to get abcesses .  The treatment seemed to be for him to sit with his forearm in a sink full of hot paraffin wax.  This was a treatment that had been used for injuries since Roman times and was popular during WW1.  It never seems to have occurred to the hospital to break and reset Dad’s arm with the bones attached correctly.

After discharge Dad, like so many others, was issued with his “demob” suit. In his case it was a gingery Harris tweed which we always called his “park keeper’s” suit as the LCC park keepers used to wear ones of the same material.  When he and Mum used to take me up the Little Rec it wasn’t unusual for someone to ask him something about the park.

Because of his injuries Dad was entitled to a war pension. It wasn’t a lot but Dad said, even if it was only a farthing, he’d fight to get it because if he didn’t fight for his entitlement he’d be letting down some poor bastard (his words) who needed it more and was unable to fight for his rights.

Surprisingly Dad refused to claim his war medals on the grounds that, because everyone was eligible for them, they were of no value either monetarily or emotionally. I can relate to this attitude as I feel that nowadays, with the emphasis on all school leavers gaining tertiary qualifications in is downgrading the value of a degree.  Such things are only valuable if only a few possess them.  But I digress……

Right up until 1967 when my parents decided to emigrate they would attend the annual regimental reunion which was held at the   Cock Tavern in Great Portland Street.

The only exception to this was 1960, the 21^st anniversary of the regiment,  which was held at the Café Royal.  The menu for dinner included delights such as Coupe Otranto, Supreme de Volaille Alamein and Souffle Ardennes.    Each dish being named after a field of conflict where the regiment had fought.   The Guest of Honour  at this reunion was Lt-Gen. The Rt. Hon. Lord Freyburg who,  at that time, was governor general of New Zealand.  This was the first time I was allowed to go to a regimental dinner along with Mum and Dad, Nana and Aunty Mick and Uncle Frank.  We were presented to Lord Freyburg because of  Aunty Gwen being a war bride and living in NZ.

I remember him as being a very upright, spare man but who appeared genuinely interested in talking to us and who was happy to have his photo taken shaking hands with Dad. Alas, like so many things relating to our family history,  this photo was thrown out was thrown out when my parents emigrated and now remains only a memory.

Medicine, cosmetics, menstruation

A recent photo of Bowen and William’s chemist shop on Golborne Road had an advertisement poster for Zam Buk ointment. My mind flew back sixty or more years to all the products we used to use which either no longer exist or have been transmorphed  into something unrecognisable.

Zam Buk was a universal panacea for sore joints, blisters, corns, chilblains (of which there were many in the damp cold winters) and insect bites. It had a peculiarly pungent odour that was difficult to ignore but was a very popular medication.  I recently found a fascinating blog regarding its usage and the fact that it’s still available in Asian countries.

http://www.rose-apothecary.co.uk/blog/?p=150

Also used for the removal of corns was Carnation corn caps which were sold in a pretty little tine with a picture of a carnation and the legend “unequalled as an efficient and painless remover of corns” I don’t know what the active ingredient was but, unless you were careful, not only was the corn removed but also a very large area of surrounding skin where the cap had shifted.

Another popular treatment for cuts and grazes was Germolene ointment. Bright pink and smelling strongly of oil of wintergreen it came in a pale yellow tin with bright blue writing.  It was originally developed by Sir Henry Veno of Veno’s Cough Mixture back in the early years of the C20th.

To brush our teeth we’d use Gibb’s Dentifrice, a solid pink block that had to be scrubbed vigorously with a toothbrush to produce foam. Unhygienic as it may sound now, we all used the same block which seemed to last forever.  They were one of the earliest companies to produce “Christmas Specials” and one year ion my stocking was a box containing Gibbs Dentifrice and a pack of ”Happy Families” playing cards.  Tubes of toothpaste were available in the 1950s but were felt by Mum to be wasteful as it was too easy to squeeze out more than you needed.

“Keeping yourself regular” was considered very important and at primary school we were asked daily if we’d “been. If you said, “No” more than two days in succession you would be given a large teaspoonful of Syrup of Figs.  I hated its flavour and quickly learned to say I’d been whether I had or not.  As well as syrup of figs there was a proprietary medicine called Ex-Lax which came as tablets for adults and chocolate bars for children.  I also disliked its flavour which was senna and tasted nothing like chocolate!  Also used for constipation but also for indigestion and heartburn was Phillip’s Milk of Magnesia.  This was a thick white, peppermint scented liquid that came in a beautiful blue glass bottle.  Essentially it was magnesium hydroxide and was very difficult to swallow as it left a thick, adhesive film around one tongue and teeth.  Needless to say I disliked taking it too.

Before the widespread prescription of antibiotics skin infections were common, especially acne, boils and carbuncles. Given the difficulty in keeping oneself clean in houses that had a common lavatory and no bathroom it’s a wonder there wasn’t an outbreak of bubonic plague.  Acne was widespread and many a young lad had his chances of dating a girl hampered by a face full of angry pustules.  There was a paste that could be used but needed to be plastered on thickly and seemed to eat away the top layer of skin.  Sunray therapy was also very popular and the acne sufferer would have to sit, wearing goggles, in front of an ultraviolet lamp once a week over a period of months.  The harmful effects of over exposure to ultraviolet was not realised then.  It wasn’t until the 1950s that it was realised that acne was caused by bacteria and tetracycline prescribed that there was an effective cure for this disfiguring ailment.

Boils and carbuncles (a complex sort of boil with many heads) were treated with kaolin poultice to “draw” the poison.  The poultice came in a large tin weighing about a pound (about 400gm in modern terms) and was a thick viscous compound with a layer of oil on top.  It would be spread on a piece of lint which was then heated up on the top of a kettle.  The lint was gingerly lifted off and whacked onto the offending boil.  There was a real knack to getting the temperature of the poultice just right as too cold and it was ineffective, too hot and you risked blisters as well as boils.  It was strapped or taped into place and left until the boil came to a head when it would be lanced with a sharp instrument (often a vegetable knife) and squeezed to rid it of pus.  This was incredible painful and often ineffective due to cross infection.

Boric (boracic) acid was also used as a topical antiseptic and again came in a tin with a lid that needed to be levered off. No secure lids or Health a Safety  gremlins then!  It was applied either directly onto the skin or onto the ubiquitous lint and then bandaged in place.  People, generally, were unaware of cross infection and the lint would be washed out to be used again .  The waste not want not mentality was still alive and well even at the expense of wellbeing.

As well as keeping you healthy there were a variety of nostrums to make you look attractive.  Unlike my cousin Christine, who had naturally curly hair, mine was stubbornly straight and fine.  To overcome this flaw in her otherwise perfect offspring Mum would set my hair after it had been washed using strips of rag and a solution of sugar in water.  My hair would be combed with the mixture and then  wound around the strip of cloth leaving a long tail of rag.  This would then be wound back up around the queue and tied to its top.  This was repeated until all my hair was curled and I looked like a piccaninny (Yeah OK non PC these days but it wasn’t then!) and left to dry overnight.  The sugar would stiffen the hair which then stayed in immaculate ringlets until next hairwash day.  This worked well until one day Mum made the mixture too strong and instead of graceful flowing locks I had weird cardboard extrusions that took several washes with Vaseline shampoo before they once again resembled hair. I was pleased when Amami produced their setting lotion which washed out easily.

Vaseline shampoo was a powder that had to be dissolved in warm water and it needed a couple of washes before your hair felt really clean. Not having a bathroom, the weekly rite of hair washing was performed over the deep sink in the kitchen with a towel round your neck to prevent your clothes getting wet.  Not that this was very effective but at least you had the towel to hand to wrap around your hair.  No such thing as domestic hair dryers so the excuse, “I can’t go out tonight because I want to wash my hair” was a valid one as well as an excuse to get out of an unwanted date.    I don’t recall there being a proprietary brand of conditioner but Mum used to use dilute vinegar after washing my hair to make it shiny.  It certainly worked but left me smelling a bit odd too.

For men there was Brylcreem to smooth and shine the hair and leave dirty rings on the inside of hats and shirt collars. At most men sported a moustache but were otherwise clean shaven.  A beard was considered “arty” or “eccentric” and stubble downright slovenly.  A razor had disposable blades which came in packs of five or ten in dark blue wrappers.  The razor head was unscrewed to insert the blade.  Shaving soap came in either a large stick or in a wooden box and a clean shave was the order of the day.  For a treat a man might go to the barber for a close shave with a cut throat razor but usually did it himself.  It was easy for the razor to slip or inadvertently go over the top of a pimple and cause bleeding.  There were two options open to stopping the blood flow, either a bit of toilet paper stuck on top of it or a styptic pencil which contained alum to contract the capillaries and stop the blood flow.  Both had their disadvantages.  It was easy to forget the toilet paper and go out wearing it.  The styptic pencil stung and left a white tidemark around the cut.

There was a wide variety of makeup from which to choose, Coty, Max Factor, Bourjois, Cyclax, Yardley were probably the best known. Cyclax was always considered a good brand because it had the Royal Warrant of Appointment.  It and Yardley were old, well established brands in Britain, unlike Max Factor which for a long time was considered “stage makeup” like Leichner.  Coty and Bourjois were considered somewhat exotic and Bourjois’ perfume “Evening in Paris” was the height of sophistication.

One of the great problems with makeup then was that had a tendency to transfer or wear off. Powder helped to some extent keeping foundation cream in place but lipstick needed frequent renewal.  The first lipstick I ever had was made by Yardley, either Dusty Rose or Natural Rose, a very pretty colour with a slight rose fragrance.  Mum was a fan of Tangee indelible lipstick which was a very dark red and stained anything with which it came into contact.  It was only a small lipstick and came in a black metal tube.  In the late 50s/early 60s a new lipstick hit the shops.  It was marketed as being the only lipstick you’d ever need as it would suit every skin tone.  It was bright green but reacted to skin chemicals and changed colour to a fluorescent pink in my case and didn’t suit me at all.  It also stained my lips for several days and left me in the unenviable position of explaining to my headmistress why I’d come to school wearing makeup.  I was sent home and told not to return until all traces had gone.

Mascara came in a block with a small, flat brush. To apply it to ones lashes it was necessary to spit on the block and rub the brush up and down.  Mascara was happily shared by sisters and girlfriends with little thought of contracting conjunctivitis.  It only came in one shade, a blackish grey and was made from carbon pigment and a mild type of soap.  Popular brands were Maybelline and Rimmel.

Perfume was favoured. I don’t remember deodorants being available until I was in my teens so probably they were a necessity to hide the less desirable body odours and that of infrequently washed clothing.  My Nan’s favourite was Phul Nana, a floral blend.  One could also buy Phul Nana pastilles, little sweets made from powdered sugar, gum Arabic and the perfume.  Mum favoured Coty L’aimant  while I like Mouche de Rochas with its musky undertones.  It was later rebranded as Femme. Mouche means a beauty spot in French but its primary meaning is “fly” so considered unsuitable.  Other available perfumes were California Poppy in its black and red container, Chanel number 5 and also 19 and 22 less commonly seen nowadays.  Yardley did a range of  pretty floral colognes including April Violets which I regularly bought Nan for her birthday and Christmas.  Tweed and Blue Grass were also popular.

Women were in particular need of perfumes at “that time of the month” as it was commonly called. Although tampons, as we know them today, had been invented during the 30s they weren’t in common use and sanitary towels (STs) were the product of choice.  I suspect part of the rationale was that using a tampon was akin to being deflowered and “nice girls” kept themselves “tidy” before they were married.  Anything introduced to that orifice was frowned upon. Although nominally disposable STs had many disadvantages.  They were bulky, they only held so much blood and frequently leaked.  It was necessary to use a sanitary belt to keep them in place.  This was an elastic band around the waist with a hook back and front on which the loops of the ST were fastened.  One could wear rubber lined panties with them but these were sweaty and added to the bulk.  Once an ST was changed there was the problem of what to do with the used product.  At home one could wrap it in a bit of newspaper and put it in the dustbin but the problem with this was that dogs could scent the blood and would raid the bins.  In public toilets there were incinerators but these were inefficient and clogged with unburnt cloth.  If they did burn the STs there was an unpleasant miasma that lingered.   There were also reusable cloth pads which could be washed and  reused but, given the lack of laundry facilities, their use was dying out.  One time someone’s “fanny pad”, as they were also known, found its way into our wash from the Bagwash.  Although clean,  it was stained and discoloured and hurriedly disposed of by Mum before Dad could see it.

Although men must have been aware of menstruation it was treated as a secret by women and girls were given little in the way of education on the subject.  When I was about twelve I had a series of stomach cramps over a period of weeks.  Eventually Mum took me to see the doctor but he could find nothing wrong.  He told me to go out of the room and had a chat with Mum.  When I asked later what had been said all I was told was that I was getting to an age when “bad blood” would come out of my bottom and to tell Mum when it happened.

“It” happened on Sunday when I was thirteen. Kensal Cricket Club, of which Dad was a member, was playing at home on the Northolt playing fields.  I’d gone to the toilet and when I wiped myself discovered the paper was red.  I tried to ignore it but next time I went there was more red and my knickers were stained too. The light dawned.  This was “Bad Blood”.  I hurried back to where Mum was sitting and whispered in her ear, “I think I’ve started”.  She had no STs and neither did any of the other Kensal wives or girlfriends so she had to approach the women who were with the opposing team.  Luckily one had a supply so the sisterhood’s secret remained safe.  When we got home Mum took me aside for a little chat and told me this was going to happen every month but completely omitted the biological details.  A few days later a “Facts of Life” booklet appeared on my bed but no other explanation was forthcoming.  In some ways I was luckier than my friend Maureen whose instruction in the matter was that she wasn’t to get into a bath after a sailor had used it as, if she did, she’d have a baby.

Golborne Road, miscellaneous memories

Living in an area where poverty was rife and theft and burglary not uncommon it was always a concern for Mum and Dad to protect the shops’ takings. This was especially true when we lived at 21 Golborne Road where the top floor was inhabited by one of the local “toms” whose clients were in and out (in all senses of the phrase) any time of day or night.  They had to pass along the passage which had a door into the shop backroom and access to the shop and its till.  Even though the door had both a Yale and a mortice lock it wouldn’t take a lot of effort to jemmy it open as the door frame was rotten with age and damp.

Dad would try and bank the takings as often as he could but his opening hours were far longer than the banks. In those days banks were only open between 10 and 3 and Dad stayed open from 8 to 6 except on Thursday which was his half day and he closed at 12.  Banks were also closed on Saturdays so no chance of depositing the money then.  Usually Dad would bank on Thursday but would also take advantage of a quiet spell to leave Mum in charge and nip down the Harrow Road to Barclays.

“Kool retfa the posh” he’d call to Mum, “I’m going to ekat the yenom to the kaynab” Somewhere Dad had learnt Backslang and this was the preferred medium of communication between him and Mum when there were customers in the shop.  What he had just said was, “Look after the shop, I’m taking the money to the bank”

Backslang is thought to have originated in Victorian England as a means of communication between market stallholders to enable them to hold private conversations without customers being privy to what was being said and to enable them to palm off inferior cuts of meat on unsuspecting clientele.  As Dad had worked, pre WW2, as a counterhand in a variety of butcher’s shops this may well have been where he picked it up.

Certain sounds such as “sh” and “th” weren’t reversed and extra vowels would be inserted to make the words pronounceable. One word has entered everyday language, albeit with its meaning slightly changed. This is Yob which now carries pejorative overtones.  Polari, the language used by the homosexual community during the 50s and 60s has much in common with Backslang although there are also other influences such as strong borrowing from the Romany tongue also.

It enabled my parents to make all sorts of comments about customers. One in particular, who was always intoxicated was known as a “sippy desra dratsab” “a pissy arsed bastard!”  Dad would refer to Mum as his “Delo nammow”  “old woman” and complain, when we had to use a public convenience, at paying a “yennep rof a eep or a parc”.

On Thursday, his half day, Dad would shut promptly, have lunch,wash and shave then dress in striped trousers, black jacket and bowler hat for his weekly expedition to Stanley Gibbons’ auction rooms in The Strand. Since childhood Dad had been a keen philatelist with a particular interest in New Zealand and British Dependencies stamps.  He had been introduced to the delights of philately by one of the many “gentlemen” who lived in the block of service flats where his parents were housekeeper and caretaker.  He always tried to emulate the dress standards set by the “gentlemen” when visiting Stanley Gibbons where he was rubbing shoulders with Sir so and so and The Honorable Mr so and so.  I suspect, also it was a form of escapism from the drab reality of life in North Kensington.  For a few hours a week he could pretend

After he was demobbed, to supplement his earnings he had sent up a postal stamp business.  He would buy job lots of stamps at auction, pick what he wanted for his collection and the remainder would be put into small books according to country and a price would be entered underneath each stamp.  He had a list of clients, all around the country.  The books would be parcelled up and sent with a list of addresses to the first customer who would remove which stamps he wanted, initial the spaces and forward the books to the next on the list.  Cheques would be sent to Dad by each customer.  It was a system that, potentially, was open to abuse but, in fact, this rarely happened.  If a client didn’t pay up he would be removed from the mailing list.  It was,  as Arthur Daley would say, a nice little earner.

One of the problems for Dad, of being a stamp collector, was that he was colour blind. This was a real handicap when the value of stamps varied dramatically according to their actual shade .  Each year he’d buy a copy of Stanley Gibbons’ catalogue, a large, heavy tome bound in red cloth.  Stamps were shown in black and white (no colour printing then) and a description of them underneath with suggested prices according to which particular colour a stamp was.  So, for example, an Australian, one penny, King George V, stamp could be variously described as maroon, carmine, pink or reddish pink.  The different colours were the result of different printing batches and lack of standardisation of inks and acidity of paper.  Some colours were commonplace while others had a rarity value.

Also affecting the price were any printing imperfections or omissions. Each batch of stamps was from  different printing plates  which were  line engraved by hand so mistakes were possible.  Several different plated were used, one for each colour used in the stamp.  One of the most common errors was in version, where the sheet on which the picture was printed was put into the press upside down when the value was overprinted.

Although they were checked before release there was always the occasional mistake that was missed or smuggled out. If there was a flaw it would increase the value of the stamp.  Dad was always on the lookout for miscoloured or inverted stamps where the king or queen’s head was upside down.  Although he came across a few there was never the “big one” which would have set him up for life financially. When Dad came home with his purchases he and I would sort through them and he’d ask me which colour I thought the stamps were.  Consequently I developed a large vocabulary for colours and one of my first jobs after leaving school was as a colour matcher in a printing ink manufacturers.

When we first moved to Golborne Road I quickly made friends with a girl who lived next door to me. Yiannoula Christi was Greek  Cypriot and her parents were cousins to the barbers in Kensal Road.  We were always in and out of each others homes when we weren’t  playing  Hopscotch,  swinging round the lamp posts on ropes or playing up the “Little Rec” .  Her mother Mary introduced me to the delights of baklava and kataifi and Mum would help her and her husband John with their English and filling in official forms.

One time when Yan and I were playing tag she dashed into number 23 slamming the door shut behind her. Unfortunately I had just at that moment put out my hand to catch her and my little finger was caught in the shut door.  I screamed in pain and panic.  Mum rushed out from the shop to see what was happening and banged on the door while trying to comfort me.  Someone came down,  opened the door and released my poor finger which was spouting blood and had the nail dangling.  Dad called for a taxi (a rare sight in Golborne Road) and Mum took me down to A & E at St Charles hospital where I was injected (more howls), cleansed, the nail removed and bandaged up to return home with a bottle of penicillin tablets. After we arrived home and I’d settled Mum disappeared for a while.  When she returned she had a big box under her arm.  “For you”, she said, “Because you’ve been so brave”  I removed the lid and inside was a large, blonde walkie talkie doll. I’d wanted one for ages.  She was fully dressed and said, “Mama”.  I called her Brenda and couldn’t wait to show her to Yan next time we played.  I’d wanted a walkie talkie doll for ages and it was almost worth the pain in my pinky.

Yan had two cousins, Helen and Doula, the daughters of the barber in Kensal Road. They were both older than us.  Dad was on good terms with the family and one day we received an invitation to Helen’s wedding.  Dad was surprised as he hadn’t realised the girl was old enough to be married.  It turned out he wasn’t the only one who was surprised.  The bride to be was unaware of her status until told by her father that he had found her a suitable husband and the wedding date had been set.  All she was told was that it was “a nice Greek boy” and he had a motor scooter.  Consequently , in the weeks leading up to the wedding, every olive skinned young man on a scooter was examined by Helen and Doula in case he was “the one”.  She only met him the week before the wedding in a chaperoned setting but, apparently was satisfied with what she saw because the wedding went ahead.

I can’t remember for certain whereabouts the church was but my feeling is that it was the Cathedral Church of All Saints in Campden. It was certainly a large, imposing building which stood in its own grounds.  As we entered there was an icon of the Virgin Mary which everyone was kissing before moving into the body of the church.  I shuddered as I went to kiss it as it was smeared with lipstick but a dig in the ribs from Mum stopped me saying anything.  Inside it was richly decorated with many icons and murals depicting religious scenes.  The bride and groom and, it seemed, all of their respective families stood in front of the altar.  The bearded priest in his long dark robe and veiled hat entered with acolytes and deacons following behind waving incense burners which puffed out clouds of sweetly scented smoke.

I remember little of the wedding except, at the conclusion, twin crowns of flowers were passed across the couple’s heads and back again signifying they were now man and wife. The reception was a riot of music and food, far less formal than English weddings with people sitting anywhere and helping themselves from a buffet of strange looking dishes that was being constantly replenished.  The only formal part of the evening was when the bride and groom stood up to dance.  People came forward and pinned money on Helen’s dress during the duration of the dance.  We later heard this amounted to several hundred pounds, enough for them to start up in business.  Other than their dance all the other dances were men with men or women with women.  It was unseemly for other couples to dance together.  The floral crowns the bride and groom wore had rolls of paper attached to them.  During the course of the evening the crowns were removed and the strips unrolled so all the guests could sign their names and blessings for their life together.  It must have worked because I believe they had a happy marriage and their business prospered.

Yiannoula , likewise, was married early at sixteen and we lost touch. I later heard she had five children by the time she was twenty one.  Doula, a more spirited girl, refused to marry a boy of her parent’s choosing and married for love.

.

`

`

`

Christmas 1954 Golborne Road

Christmas 1954 had been the first time the shop had shown a reasonable profit. Prior to that,  Dad had been hard at work building up the business, ploughing back any takings into a wider range of stock  and enticing back customers who had left because of Vic Harrison’s poor business practices.

This year Mum and Dad felt they could let themselves go a bit and celebrate in style. We had a huge Christmas tree with real glass decorations and Mum and I had spent many evenings making paper chains to hang around the walls. They were made from strips of coloured paper, glued at one end, which you licked and forms into a loop.  The next one was threaded through, licked and joined into another loop until you literally had a chain.  These were then fastened to the ceiling with tin tacks.  Once they were in place it was time for a nice cuppa to rehydrate a sticky, foul tasting tongue.

Around the tree were heaped enticing parcels with my name on them. As an only child (and an only niece and only grandchild for several years)  I always had lots and lots of presents and lots and lots of dire warnings that Santa’s elves would take them away and give them to poor children if I loosened the wrapping and started to feel inside before Christmas Day.  Needless to say  this didn’t stop me having a surreptitious poke but I lost a lot of sleep in case they had disappeared in the morning.

The shop was kept open until late on Christmas Eve although Mum had stopped work around teatime in order to look after me and prepare as much as possible for Christmas lunch. In the 1950s it was always a goose or a chicken or occasionally a roast of beef.  Turkey as a Christmas dish came in much later.  Mum peeled the spuds and parsnips and left them to soak overnight, removed the outer leaves from the Brussels sprouts and cut crosses in their bottoms.  Not, as one might think, in memory of Jesus but because it was believed that the cross would open out during cooking and allow the heat to penetrate the stem.

I was packed off to bed after having first put a pillowcase on the foot of the bed for Santa to put my presents in. I was far too excited to sleep and wanted to see Santa arrive but no matter how hard I tried my eyes eventually shut and I drifted into a wonderful world where I had only to snap my fingers and I would be granted any toy I wanted.

I woke early, while it was still dark, and could see a large white shape at the end of my bed. I crawled forward and felt it.  Lots of fascinating shapes some soft and squishy, others hard and angular.  I called out to Mum and Dad, “Santa’s been” and leapt out of bed to drag the pillowcase into their room.  Mum hauled it onto the bed and I wriggled down between her and Dad into that lovely warm space.  A treasure trove was revealed, Dandy and Beano annuals, a new jumper edged with angora wool, a games compendium with Snakes and Ladders, Chinese Checkers, Tiddleywinks, Ludo.

Dad had to get up as he opened the shop for a couple of hours on Christmas morning before going to Mass but Mum and I were free then and snuggled down together in the double bed while I read my annuals. As the shop had no safe and we were sharing the accommodation with another family Dad stuffed his Christmas takings of well over £500 into his pocket and we  all went to ten o’ clock mass at Holy Souls in Bosworth Road.  Dad and I both received communion which Mum, as C of E, was unable to do but sang along with us all the carols “Hark the Herald Angels” which , for years, I thought was “hark the harelipped angels”, “Oh Little town of Bethlehem”, “Adeste Fidelis”,”Angels from the realms of Glory”

At the conclusion of mass “Ite Missa est” was announced and we all filed out. Father  Ward and Father Long had left through the side exit and were waiting to greet parishioners at the main exit.   As they always did, it was “Merry Christmas Gwen, Merry Christmas Vic” and then an overt turning aside to ignore my mother because she was not Catholic.  One time Mum commented on this to Dad and he expressed surprise, thinking she must have been mistaken.  However after several Sundays he admitted she was correct.  These Men if God were deliberately snubbing Mum because she belonged to a different church.

But today was Christmas Day and no time for examining grudges. Mum had to start cooking Christmas Dinner and I had a bevy of presents calling out to be played with.  The Catholic Club upstairs from the church was open after mass and Dad stopped behind to partake of a little seasonal conviviality, promising to be home in time for our meal at 2pm.

Two o’clock came, the goose was beautifully browned and oozing succulent juices, the potatoes were golden and crispy but no sign of Dad. Mum delayed putting on the brussels sprouts and making the gravy.  Half past two, still no Dad.  Three o’clock, Mum was getting cross I was hungry and grizzly.  The brussels were cooked gravy made and Mum served up our dinner.  We’d just finished our Christmas pud and custard when we heard the front door open and unsteady footsteps up the staircase accompanied by slurred and tuneless singing.

The lounge door swung open, in lurched Dad in a state of advanced inebriation. He saw the remains of the dinner and said sadly, “You didn’t wait for me.  Where’s mine?”  Mum muttered something inaudible and disappeared into the kitchen where banging of plates could be heard.  Meantime Dad had sunk onto the sofa and was sound asleep a few minutes before she returned with a plate of cold meat and vegetables which she slammed on the table.

Dad opened his eyes. “Take my shoes off for me Darling”, he slurred.  I’m not taking off any drunken man’s shoes”, Mum retaliated.  “Come on Darling, you’ll do it for Dad”, he asked me.  “Oh no you don’t”, from Mum, “he got himself into this state”  Dad sunk back into his own little world again, shoes still on.

Among my presents was a toy train set. Mum helped me set this up and we busied ourselves winding keys and changing junctions and flagging signals with accompanying appropriate train noises.  At one stage a very blurry eyed Dad woke up and groaned.  “Can’t you bitches be quiet?”  Unusual for Dad to swear in front of me although he could be as foul mouthed as any of his customers and had a wonderfully descriptive line of rhetoric.

Mum retaliated that it was Christmas Day and she wasn’t going to stop me having fun even if he was too drunk to come home in time for dinner.  She upped the train noises and crashed and banged as much as she could.  Just then a movement from the sofa and something came hurtling towards us before Dad lapsed back into his drunken stupor.  Mum picked up the object and realised it was the shop’s Christmas takings which Dad had had in his pocket all this time.  She placed the package in one of the sideboard drawers and   we spent the rest of the afternoon pleasantly occupied while Dad snorted, grunted and farted.

It was early evening before Dad woke, having slept off most of the alcohol. He clearly had no recollection of how he had spent his day between mass and now.  “I need a piss”, and off he staggered downstairs only to return minutes later, fly undone, a panic stricken look in his eye.  “The money”, he gasped.  “What money?” Mum asked innocently, flashing me a look to keep my mouth shut.  “The takings!  I can’t find them.  I had them in my pocket when we went to mass this morning.”  Mum again expressed ignorance as to their whereabouts and suggested Dad return to Holy Souls and see if he’d dropped them there.  He pulled on his demob overcoat, wrapped a scarf round his neck and headed out.

While he was out Mum opened the drawer, extracted the package and placed it on a plate on the table and sat and waited. Eventually a cold, tired, haggard Dad returned looking woebegone.  He saw the package on the table and opened his mouth to say something but the look on Mum’s face cautioned him to hold his tongue.  He sloped out to the kitchen, made himself a cold meat sandwich and a pot of tea.  The rest of Christmas Day was passed in silence but fortunately the matter had passed over by Boxing Day when we went up to Golders Green to spend the day with Dad’s father and stepmother.

Golborne Road Leisure Time

We children had our games in the street, Hopscotch, allies, skipping ropes and in the later 1950s the Hula Hoop and, indoors, books, board games, dolls and toy shops.  But what of our parents and other adults?   How was their leisure time spent?

At the back of Golborne Road, running between Edenham  and Southam Streets was the Seventh Feathers.  This was a youth club offering wholesome activities for both mental and physical stimulation.  Alcohol was strictly forbidden but despite this it was very popular with the teenagers (a newly coined term in the 1950s)   From our upstairs back windows we could watch the activities and listen to the music coming from the club.  I often wondered why the “Seventh” but later learned it was one of a number of “Feathers” clubs founded in the 1930s by a friend of the Prince of Wales who was to, briefly, become Edward VIII.   They took their name from his emblem of three feathers. There was also a Feathers  on Ladbroke Grove, others in Marylebone, Earl’s Court, Fulham and Wembley but nowadays only the Fourth Feathers in Marylebone seems to be still active.

For adults there were several choices of where to go of an evening or on the weekend. In a comparatively small radius there were several cinemas from which to choose. Closest were the Prince of Wales on Harrow Road and the Imperial  (latterly renamed the Electric Cinema) on Portobello Road, popularly known as the Bug(h)ole.  The “h” was purely voluntary and frequently omitted. 

The Prince of Wales  was an impressive Art Deco building with cream tiles and three very tall windows facing the street.   It had a large entrance foyer and people would queue for tickets.  No pre-booking in those days.  You just turned up, paid yer money and took yer chances!  When all the seats had been taken a “Full” notice would be put up but some people were still admitted and stood at the back behind the seats waiting for a seat as one came empty.  This happened quite frequently as films were shown on a continuous loop and often you’d arrive midway through the supporting picture or the Pathe News.  People would get up and leave as the picture reached the part where they’d come in so there was a constant flux.  The programme was usually good value and comprised a feature film, a supporting one and the news.

 Films were categorised according to suitability by the British Board of Film Censors with ratings U for Universal which was suitable for all ages, A for Adult that ruled that children must be accompanied by an adult and X rated which were considered suitable for age 16 and over.  However if you dressed up a bit, could inhale a cigarette without coughing and appeared to be over 16 it was unlikely you would be questioned. Smoking was permitted in the cinema and the screen viewed through a swirling haze.

There was always an intermission when advertisements by Pearl and Dean were shown on the screen.  This was when the usherettes would sashay down the aisles with their trays of ice creams and ice lollies and stand with their backs to the screen as they served the patrons who queued  for the semi thawed, waxed cardboard tubs with their little wooden spoons.

The Imperial, by contrast was a pretty shabby, do-it-yourself affair.  Its façade was coated with, what were once, white tiles but were now cracked and stained and covered with faded posters advertising films shown weeks, if not months earlier.  Inside was dilapidated with rows of hard wooden seats, frequently missing a vital part such as a seat or back.  It was dark, damp and called the Bughole for the very practical reason that it was common to exit a performance covered in bites and scratching furiously.  Management was minimal and one of the joys, particularly for the boys who went there was to throw rotten fruit and other items if the picture failed to hold their attention.  Its position in Portobello Road facilitated the acquisition of rotten fruit left by the traders after they’d closed their stalls.

Further afield were the Coronet at Notting Hill and the Odeon at Westbourne Grove but I can only just remember being taken to them a couple of times.

There were pubs aplenty .  Opposite us was the Prince Arthur and on the corner of Southam Street the Earl of Portobello while, over The Iron Bridge, was The Mitre.  There were also several in Kensal Road, The Robin Hood and Little John and the Portobello Arms coming to mind. Although Dad rarely frequented “The Arfer” he was on good terms with the licensee as indeed he was with all the other shopkeepers on the block and they had an amicable arrangement about purchasing goods from each other.  At Christmas Dad would be given a box of a dozen assorted bottles of spirits as a goodwill gesture.  Unfortunately neither he nor my Mum drank a great deal as both had a very poor head for alcohol so most of it was given away as presents to relatives.

Living opposite the pub meant that weekends were very lively.  As I mentioned earlier, it was a common sight to see the “toms” stripped of to the waist bare knuckle boxing over a client and men, fuelled to bravado by a few drinks, were equally as pugnacious.  Most Fridays and Saturdays the Black Maria or Paddy Wagon would arrive and the miscreants bundled in and taken down to Harrow Road police station to cool off overnight.  In the 1960s the Black Marias were replaced by Panda cars, so named because of their black and white paintwork.

 From our upstairs lounge window we had a ringside view.  One memorable evening in the late 1950s “Sanders of the River” was on the telly and there was a full on racial conflict raging outside the pub.  During the race riots men would pull up the iron railings and charge each other.  The same thing was happening on tv with assegais.  As Dad said, ”On tv it was blacks chasing whites with spears and downstairs it was whites chasing blacks with spears!”

Most pubs had darts teams and competition was fierce .For a while in my late teens I was a member of the Robin Hood and Little John’s ladies team and can still throw a mean dart.  This skill I must have inherited from my maternal grandfather whose medal as part of the 1938 SW London area league winners’  team I still have.  It is sterling silver with a dart board in gold and blue enamel on the front.  Bar billiards, shove ‘a’penny,   cribbage were also played.

 In Kensal Road was the Cobden Club or, to give it its full name, The Cobden Club and Working Men’s Institute which had opened in 1880.  The Working Men’s Clubs Movement had been started in 1862 by a Unitarian minister Henry Solly as a means of enabling working class men to improve their minds and enjoy wholesome activities.  Although not regulars, Mum and Dad would occasionally go along on a Saturday night if there was a good act on.  Most Saturday nights there would be a featured artist at the Cobden.  Usually one of the up and coming young singers or a semi-retired music hall act.

 

 

Dad closed the shop at six , would have a quick wash and change while Mum was cooking dinner and off they’d go leaving me with a big bag of sweets and the “telly”  No such thing as a baby sitter.  I assured them I’d be ok on my own and they said they’d be back by 10 and everyone was happy.  I had to lock the lounge door so the “gentlemen visitors” for the tart upstairs couldn’t get in and they’d left a bucket in case I had to answer the call of nature so I didn’t have to risk going downstairs to the communal lavatory.  There was only one occasion I was frightened and I dressed in my school uniform of grey pleated skirt, golden blouse and red cardigan and made my way, on a very cold, wet night, to the Cobden Club where I wailed my story to the door keeper.  Mum and Dad were duly fetched and, in a less than happy frame of mind because their evening out had been brought to an abrupt close, they took me home and put me to bed.

Sundays were often taken up with sport.  Dad was a member of the Kensal Cricket Club despite the infirmities he had as a result of war injuries.  What he lacked in ability he made up for in enthusiasm and it was a standing joke in the club that he’d probably be out for a duck.  The club’s home grounds were at Northolt which was some distance to travel but easy enough to access by Central Line.  There were large playing fields there and a clubhouse.  Much redevelopment took place in Northolt and many new housing areas were built during the 1960s and 70s but it’s nice to see there is an area there named Kensington Fields which commemorates the link between the two areas.

Many of the local lads were team members, Dave Fisher from Golborne Road, his friend Albert, Mike who lived locally, Dave Parsons from off Harrow Road, Bunny Miller   who had been in the RAF and was now chauffeur for a Hatton Garden diamond merchant.  In the late 1950s two West Indians, Roy and his friend whose name I forget, joined the team.

Most matches were played against other local teams, either home or away and wives, sisters  and sweethearts would pack individual lunches.  Everyone would make their own way to Northolt.  Before the match deckchairs would be set up for the womenfolk who would either watch with interest or, more often, sit and knit and talk girl talk or organise the children’s activities to keep them from running onto the pitch or otherwise wandering off.

Usually the matches would only be half day ones and end up with both teams going off to the nearest pub after the match but there were also the matches against teams from Outer London.  If a team was coming any distance the host team would provide food and drink for them.  This was always good for Dad as supplies were bought from him.  Mum and some of the other women would get together in our kitchen on Saturday evening and prepare sandwiches.  This was accomplished via a production line.  One person would open the waxed paper and shake out the sliced loaf, next in line would separate off paired slices which were handed to a third person to be smeared with margarine, a fourth would insert the filling and close up the sandwich, building a stack which would then be reinserted into the wrapper.

 When all loaves had been filled they would be covered with damp tea towels to keep them fresh until the morning.  Most refrigerators were only small, if indeed people actually had one, with most of the interior space taken up by the motor so no room in them for so much food hence the rather primitive method of keeping it fresh overnight.  For a long time we had a device called a Kepcold which worked on the principal of evaporation to maintain a low temperature.  It was a metal cube of about two foot high with a hole in the top into which cold water was poured and absorbed by a type of porous stone, possibly pumice, which slowly released it keeping the inside cool.

As well as sandwiches there were cakes, usually courtesy of Lyons Bakery, cream scones and veal, ham and egg pies.  These were similar to pork pies, about the size of a loaf of bread with hard-boiled eggs running the length of the inside.  They were packed whole and a large carving knife taken to cut them into individual portions when the time came.  Very good with piccalilli or Branston pickles.  Vacuum flasks were filled with dilute, fluorescent orange Kia Ora, crates of beer bought from the Prince Arthur and packets of tea brought.  The Northolt club house had a decent kitchen and crockery so it only needed laying out when the time came.

One trip we all enjoyed was when Kensal was playing the team from Meopham on their home pitch.  Meopham is a small village in Kent, on the North Downs, and cricket was played on the village green in front of two pubs, the King’s Arms and the Long Hop.  Meopham was so very different from living conditions in North Kensington with its picture postcard houses and open spaces.

A char-a-banc was hired and everyone met outside the Cobden and piled in for the journey. On arrival there were cups of tea and scones provided and during half time trestle tables would be brought out from one of the pubs, laden with sandwiches, cakes and pitchers of drink.  After the match there were drinks in the pub and much friendly banter until the char-a-banc  returned and it was time for us to head home.

After a fun day out and several drinks everyone was in a good mood for a singalong.  Dave Parsons had a fine voice and extensive repertoire of songs with rousing choruses.  We’d  have  “Green grow the rushes O” which is said to be a way children were taught religion in past centuries, “One is one” standing for God, “Two,two the lilywhite boys” being Jesus and John  the Baptist, “Three, three the Ri hi hi hi vals” being the three persons of the Trinity or possibly the Three Wise Men and so on right through to “Twelve for the twelve apostles”.  “Ten Green Bottles”,and“Lily the Pink”  were favourites and as more beer was consumed and inhibitions loosened “Knees up Mother Brown, yer drawers are falling down”, “The Ball of Kirriemuir”, “Eskimo Nell”, “Mademoiselle from Armentieres”, “Oh Sir Jasper do not touch me” in which the last word was dropped each verse and “She’ll be coming round the mountains”  which had a revised chorus of “She’ll be all wet and sticky when she comes” which inevitably drew frowns and mutters of “Not in front of the children” from the women although I suspect most of us were too young to understand what it meant.  One time Mum caught be singing those very words and gave me a good slap round the legs for “talking dirty” even though I had no idea what I was being punished for.

The char-a-banc would arrive back at the Cobden Club about 10pm and happy, tired, sunburnt (and quite frequently travel sick) people would tumble out, collect their belongings and head home to bed in preparation for another working week.

Cats and other pets.

When we moved to Golborne Road we left behind Tom, the cat we had at Priory Grove.  Nana had asked if she could keep him as she’d be on her own otherwise.  As it turned out this wasn’t the case.  Aunty Mick and Uncle Frank gave up their flat further along the road and moved in with her, Nana upstairs and them downstairs.

It wasn’t long before we acquired another cat.  It was 1952 and Coronation year.  Tensing Norgay, nicknamed Tiger, had been one of the first to scale Mount Everest.  One morning Dad found a skinny tabby kitten sheltering in the doorway of his shop.  Despite an ad placed in the shop window no-one ever claimed him so we kept him and he became Tiger Tensing.  Unfortunately we only had him a short while as he was a sickly little thing and contracted cat flu, against which there was no vaccination sixty years ago.  Antibiotics failed to arrest the progress of the disease and he was in dreadful respiratory distress so Mum and Dad made the decision to have him put to sleep.  I wasn’t told this at the time, just that he had gone on holiday.

Shortly after this Bobby came into my life and was to remain part of it right through my childhood and teenage years.  He was a tabby and white kitten who grew into a large, placid cat.  We were best buddies and he’d sleep with me at night, his front paws wrapped round my neck, purring and dribbling (him, not me!)  He was a very tolerant cat and endured being dressed up in doll’s clothing, being a patient when I was playing nurses and being pushed around in a pram.  He seemed to sense when I was unhappy and would come and cuddle up to me and lick away my tears.

I had joined the Kensington Kitten and Neuter Cat Club which, each year, held a big cat show at the Horticultural Society Hall .  Bobby always did well in the domestic classes and one year won a cup for best senior shorthair cat.  I was thrilled as I knew he was beautiful and delighted someone else also thought so.  I was approached by an American woman who asked if he was for sale as she’d never seen such a homely cat.  I took this as a compliment until I arrived home and learnt from my parents that “homely” has a different connotation in American English.  I was also interviewed and we had our photo taken but the newspaper clipping was lost over the years.

One time I saw a cat in the garden which seemed to be acting strangely and staggering so I called out for Dad.  As we approached the cat we saw that someone had tied tin cans onto its tail and the lower section was very swollen.  Dad told me to stand back and threw a towel over the cat to catch it.  It was taken straight to the RSPCA as it was in a bad way.  The vet examined it and gave a diagnosis that the tail was gangrenous and the infection had spread up the cat’s spinal cord.  The only kindness was to put it to sleep.

Once a hedgehog  found its way into our backyard.  How it arrived is a mystery as the small concrete yard was surrounded by a brick wall about three foot high surmounted by a wire fence.  He became very tame and would come running when I called, “Harry, Harry”   I was able to hold him and rub his tummy without him curling into a protective ball.  Unfortunately we didn’t know that bread and milk was an unsuitable diet  and one day found him dead under a bush.

Up Kensal Road was a pet shop.  As well as food and toys it also had tanks full of goldfish, tropical, tadpoles and newts including the now protected Great Crested newts.  There were also cages with rabbits, puppies and kittens. I was a frequent visitor to see what was new.

When we moved into 19 Golborne Rd I had a bedroom of my own which I proceeded to fill with pets and books.  I had a vivarium with a variety of newts in my bedroom.  One of the Great Crested newts  used to climb out and make its way onto the bed, then trek across my face in the morning.  They were fed a diet of fish food and ants’ eggs.  One day I noticed one of the Common Newts  was missing.  I checked the lid.  That was secure.  I lifted it off and started moving pebbles and grasses to see if it was hiding anywhere.  My activity disturbed one of the Great Cresteds.  I saw it had something sticking out of its mouth.  It was a tail.  Carefully holding the newt I pulled the protruding object.  It was the missing newt!  Now covered in slime and digestive juices it was very dead.

The basement rooms in 19, like those in 21 weren’t habitable but very suitable for my growing menagerie.  One of my pets was a rabbit that had either had a broken back at one time or was born with a deformed spine.  Although not actually lame, it moved with a strange sideways gait and may have been in some discomfort  as it would frequently inflict a painful bite if handled incautiously.

I acquired a tortoise from the pet shop.  It also lived in the basement and was a source if interest until winter when it withdrew into its shell.  We assumed it was hibernating until a foul smell began to permeate the basement and Mum noticed that fluid was oozing out of the tortoise’s shell.

St. Mary’s school had stick insects in one of the classrooms.  During school holidays they would come home with me.  I would go up the Little Rec with a pair of scissors and cut off twigs from the rose bushes when the park keeper wasn’t looking to feed them.  One time one of the young ones shed its exoskeleton and  kept it for several months on the mantelpiece.

When we lived at 21 our next door neighbour Bert Cross would “Miaou” when he heard us calling Bobby in for the night.  We’d had Bobby a couple of years when we were offered another kitten.  This was a pure black boy who became Mum’s cat.  In a moment of mischief Mum and Dad decided to call him Bertie much to Bert’s wife’s amusement.  He was a lovely cat but like Tiger, contracted cat flu.  Fortunately he did survive the infection but it left him with chronically infected sinuses and a distressing habit of sneezing and propelling yallery-greenery strings of snot out of his nose.  One of my enduring memories is of finding dried up cat snot on furniture and curtains.  He nevertheless lived to a good age and was adopted by one of dad’s customers when we emigrated.

In Hazelwood Crescent, behind Hazelwood Towers, was a mews  with stabling for the totters horses and lockups for them to store their carts and goods. I became friendly with one of the totters and, horse mad from a young age, I would hang around after school, waiting for them to return from a day’s rag and bone collecting .  I’d help unharness the pony, groom him, feed him and clean his harness.  This was six days a week and on Sunday, their day off, I’d be rewarded for my work by being allowed to ride up and down the cobblestone mews for about half an hour. It was bareback riding and consequently I developed a good sense of balance which helped when I started having proper riding lessons.

For my eleventh birthday Mum and Dad agreed to give me riding lessons.  I went to a riding school at Fortune Green, run by an Irishman.  It was in Ebenezer Mews off Hermitage Lane.  There were about twelve stalls.  Pat lived in Knebworth where he had another riding school and where the town horses would go for a month’s break in the summer time as it had fields for them to enjoy but would spend a couple of days a week at Ebenezer Mews.  To get there I caught the 28 bus from outside Westbourne Park Station.  I’d set off on a Saturday in my jodhpurs and boots and be subject to cat calls all the way to the bus stop. “Oi darlin’ yer fergot yer ‘orse” being one of the politer comments but I didn’t care.  I was going to spend the day with horses!

There were two young women, Shirley and Hazel, who ran the stables for Pat.  Looking back they were woefully underpaid.  Hazel got £3 pw for working at least a twelve hour day and even longer during summer when there were lessons during the evenings.   It was their love of horses that made them stay.  From Ebenezer Mews we would head, in convoy, up West Heath Rod, past Spaniards Inn, of Dick Turpin fame, onto Hampstead Heath.  Beginners and nervous riders would have a lead rein attached to their mount’s halter and either Shirley or Hazel would hold it to prevent the pony taking its own line back to the stables.

Once on the heath there were well defined tracks to follow and small jumps that had been put up.  The riding school had no arena so all instruction took place along these tracks.  Looking back it was pretty basic.  You were taught how to mount and once you were able to rise to the trot, stop and turn your pony you were considered safe to be let off the lead.  I mastered the trot on my second lesson so was on my own quite early on.

The horses were a mixed lot.  My first mount was a little strawberry roan mare called Wendy who was used for beginners.  From her I moved onto Bob, a tall, rangy, raw boned bay pony who became a special favourite.  Pat’s own horse, Rocket, a fiery chestnut thoroughbred mare had a loose box but all the others only had stalls about eight foot by four foot and these were three deep.  The horses and ponies had to be backed out as there wasn’t room to turn them around and led past the horses in the front stalls.  It wasn’t uncommon to be kicked as you led your mount out and you soon learnt to either be quick on your feet or to lead from the offside so there was a horse between you and a flying pair of heels!

Diamond was a piebald Shetland pony and a favourite of everyone.  She had learnt to beg for treats and consequently was quite spoilt.  She could deliver quite a  nip if she didn’t get a sugar cube.  I’d become quite a proficient rider with a strong seat so was often put on Jumbo, a small grey pony with a nasty habit of bucking off his riders.  I was to carry a whip and give him a “smart one” every time he tried to duck his head and up with his heels.  One ride he tried fifty six times to get me off and eventually gave up in disgust when I was on him although he wasn’t above putting in a sly one with anyone else.  There was also Blaze, black with the eponymous white streak down his face.  After Bob was moved permanently to Knebworth he was replaced by Lady.  Lady was a skewbald of about 15hh with a very large head for her build and a bad habit of biting when being groomed.  For some reason she and I got on well and I became one of her regular riders.  Another of my favourites was Blarney, a very big, grey Irish Hunter type.  Because of his size he was mostly used for adult riders but he was one of my charges when it came to unsaddling between rides, grooming and feeding.  If I was lucky I would occasionally be allowed to ride him.

Rides were for an hour and each animal was expected to do three consecutive outings then have an hour off with bridle removed and girth loosened  for lunch.  We unpaid helpers would be at the stables from 9am until at least 6pm and, if we were lucky, might get an occasional  free ride if there was a mount going spare.  As well as taking care of the ponies when they returned and making sure they didn’t need a drink we were expected to muck out the stalls, fill hay nets,  make up feeds according to the charts on the office wall and clean tack.  We were also despatched at intervals to buy bacon butties and flasks of tea for Hazel and Shirley as there were no facilities at the mews.  I don’t know what toilet arrangements they had as there were no conveniences.  I rather suspect a quiet corner of one of the back stalls might have served the purpose.

Another of Dad’s customers gave me a baby pigeon that he’d found.  It was still very young and lacking flight feathers so I hand reared it and gave it “flying lessons” by letting it perch on my hand and quickly raising it up and down so it had to flap its wings to maintain its balance.  This unorthodox approach seemed to work and soon it was flying independently around my bedroom and gaily pooping on unprotected surfaces.  Eventually the time came for its solo flight.  I opened my bedroom window and put out my hand.  It took flight and disappeared in the direction of the Seventh Feathers never to be seen again.

After I’d passed the Eleven Plus I attended the Sacred Heart High School for Girls at Hammersmith.  One day I found a baby thrush in the grounds and brought it home to hand rear using very similar techniques to that with the pigeon. I called it Pippa.  When it was time to release it I again opened the window.  It flew in a small circuit and back indoors again.  Each day the circuit grew larger until finally it too didn’t return.  Next summer however, one day I was sitting in my room with the window open and a thrush landed on the windowsill, sat for a moment, looked around, gave one loud and beautiful song then flew away.  This happened for four successive summers.  I like to think this was her way of thanking me for caring for her.

Our last Golborne Road cat was Gunga Din.  He had been rescued by the PDSA after having been badly mistreated by his previous owners.  He was only a very young kitten and must have suffered a great deal as he was very traumatised and had an uncertain temperament, turning on you suddenly and biting hard.  He was a beautiful red tabby longhaired cat.  The vet thought he was probably a purebred Persian but of course he had no papers.  He was a big cat and , as I had Bobby and Mum had Bertie, became Dad’s special boy. Dad had a fondness for the writings of Rudyard Kipling and would frequently quote chunks of his poetry hence the cat’s name. He was a strong character and ruled the two older cats with an iron paw although he was never aggressive with them.

One evening we were sitting down to dinner.  Mum had cooked steak, chips and fried onions, Dad’s favourite meal.  We were just about to sit down when there was a red flash across the table.  Dad looked down at his plate to see his steak had disappeared and Gunga was in the corner busily bolting down his prize!

He was the only one of our cats to come to New Zealand with us as Bobby was sixteen, Bertie thirteen and both too old to travel that distance then survive the six week quarantine period that was then in force.  Gunga arrived in fine fettle having spent much of the boat trip in one of the sailor’s cabins.  He was flown down from Wellington where he was quarantined to Christchurch where we had settled and marked his arrival in typical form by taking off and going missing for over a month.  He was eventually located in a suburb on the way back to the airport.  Had he taken one look and decided it wasn’t for him?  Who knows?   I only wish I’d done the same thing. I could have been spared so much pain and unhappiness if I’d listened to my instincts and caught the first plane back home again. He lived for another eight years and quietly died in his sleep.

More Montana Cottage

 

Although I lived in Stockwell until I was six  most of my memories are of isolated incidents, fleeting and incomplete.  Perhaps my earliest is of sitting in my wooden highchair playing with the contents of Mum’s button box and the scraps of fabric she and Nana would use to make patchwork quilts, or to patch existing bedding and clothes as rationing was still in force for some seven years after the conclusion of the war and many things hard to buy.  The mantra “Make do and mend” was obeyed. 

One of the items that particularly fascinated me was a scrap of purple velvet.  I was attracted as much by its deep sensuous colour as the different textures of obverse, lush and tactile, and reverse smooth and silken.  I can still summon up the feel of it under my infantile fingers.

Purple was (and still is) my favourite colour and my addiction to it caused an incident which my mother frequently related.  Grandad Ireland used to give me his ha’pennies and farthings and I had a collection of these in one of the heavy brown paper bags that banks used before the ubiquity of plastic.  Whenever Mum and I went shopping I’d insist on taking this bag with me, tucked into the side of my pushchair.

On this particular day we’d caught the number 2 bus up to Brixton as Mum wanted to visit  Bon Marche.  This was not the chain of cheap women’s clothing shops that today bear that name but the first purpose built department store in Britain.  It was opened in 1877 and named after the store of that name in Paris. It occupied a prime corner position and had large windows filled with displays of goods that most people coud only dream of buying if they had enough points in their ration books.

Inside it was very like “Grace Brothers” in the sitcom “Are you being served” with heavy, glass fronted , wooden counters and uniformed staff waiting for your custom, their wares either on display in the cabinets or neatly packaged and stacked behind.  No such concept as self-service then.  You asked for what you wanted and were shown what the assistant thought you should have.

There were displays, clothing on mannequins striking improbable poses and perhaps an ornament or two  but not the racks and racks of goods one sees in shops today.   As Mum was along the aisle pushing me I looked about me and spotted a mauve feather duster on display.

Immediately I wanted it and stretched out towards it but was secured in my pushchair by straps.  I shouted,  “Want” and pointed to it.  Mum ignored me so I repeated my request.  Again ignored!  I bellowed and started kicking my legs as I was pushed past the display.  Mum hushed me.  I screamed and increased the tattoo with my legs as I screwed round in my seat to see the object of my desire fast disappearing into the distance.

 Now red in the face, screaming at the top of my voice I picked up my bag of small change and hurled it with all my might.  The bag split and coins scattered in all directions.  The supercilious looking shopgirls were suddenly spurred into action.  Scrabbling on hands and knees they rooted under counters and scurried across the floor retrieving the coppers.  Eventually all were collected and returned to Mum who left the shop red faced and apologetic for the behaviour of her appalling offspring and without making her purchase.

She always concluded the story by stating that she could have happily walked off and left me in the shop  had she not been fearful of police prosecution and a grilling by Nana as to my whereabouts.

The garden was my domain.  Montana Cottage had a large back garden and also a more formal front one with, on one side facing the front door , a wrought iron gate flanked by two pillars and on the other, where the coach house stood, high double wooden gates so it was quite safe for me to play outside unsupervised. 

The pathway leading from the front gate to the house was flanked either side by formal flower beds although these were sadly neglected and only grew Golden Rod,  straggly privet bushes and the ubiquitous dandelions and daisies.  I would be given a tin lid which I would fill with dirt and “plant” flowers I’d plucked to make a miniature garden to be presented to Mum, Nana or Aunty Mick if she dropped by.  I also had a lump of chalk and amused myself for hours creating artworks on the flagstones that were the path.

In the back garden Granddad had put up a swing for me in the doorway of the garden shed and I would rock back and forwards enjoying the contrast between the cool darkness of the shed and the sunshine as I flew forward.  There was a dispirited pear tree growing at the back of the garden that occasionally produced hard, gritty, undersized fruit.  I’d try to eat it but the dry sourness and gritty texture defeated me.

Out in the back garden was my little red pedal car and I’d happily race along  the paths, under the wicker arch with the Alexandra Rose growing up it and around a circuit surrounding the remains of the Victorian greenhouse with its sad little grapevine.

Dad had managed to acquire some panes of glass from somewhere and had plans to construct a cold frame to grow lettuce and strawberries.  This day he’d  laid them out to get an idea of what shape it was going to be and had left them on the ground.  I was playing in the garden and saw this interesting material on the ground.  Curious, I jumped on one.  It made a satisfying cracking noise and produced an interesting pattern so I did it to the next… and the next until all were broken.  Dad heard the noise and came rushing over.  I smiled beatifically and pointed.  “Spiders Daddy”  What Dad said was not handed to posterity but Mum said she could see the dust rising from my knickers as he smacked my behind.

In our front room we had a square of Wilton carpet square patterned with geometrical shapes.  These were just right as fields and paddocks for my collection of lead farm animals and I’d happily squat there with the horse family Mummy Mare, Daddy Stallion, Baby Colt Filly and Baby Colt Cob, the swan family Daddy Cob, Mummy Pen and Baby Cygnet.  My collection included a milkmaid crouched over her bucket, a farmer with a lamb tucked under one arm and a crook in the other, a sow lying down feeding a litter of piglets and many more.  The reason I had such an extensive collection was that every Saturday Mum would take me down to the toy shop on Larkhall Lane and buy me one animal until I had collected the complete family.  I had to remember from week to week what the names of male, female and baby of each species.

I don’t remember many dolls.  There was Alice who was a soft skinned baby doll and one I’d had from infancy, a foam rubber black baby who I’d called Little Black Sambio.  I loved Sambio so much I would bite his nose and in time chewed it all away until there was just a gaping void. I kept him until I was twenty and we emigrated when, along with so many other “non-essentials” of family history, old photos, the family bible he was thrown away and passed into history.

Nana and Aunty Mick were both musically talented.  Often they would sit down at the piano in the best parlour and perform duets.  One of Nana’s favourite songs was “Pale hands I love beside the Shalimar” but she was equally happy pounding out “Knees up Mother Brown” or “The boy I love is up in the gallery” immortalised by Marie Lloyd and a music hall favourite.   I was fascinated that these black marks on paper could translate into complicated hand movements and sounds.  One day I found some blank music paper and proceeded to cover it in what I imagined was a tune and presented it for performance.  Aunty Mick and Mum burst out laughing and sang in accord “LA la la la LA, LA…..LA…..LA!  Not at all how I imagined it would sound and, strangely whatever I composed in future sounded exactly the same so I finally gave up.  Carol King you don’t know how lucky you are!!!

Nana’s parents had been quite well off despite having married very young and produced thirteen children of which Nana was the last.  In a time when most working class people rented they had owned several properties in either  Smedley  Street or Brooklands Street, Stockwell.   In most censuses William Nicholls is described as being a railway labourer but on Nana’s marriage certificate he has become a financier and Nana said that at one time he was a pawnbroker with a shop somewhere in Battersea.

My great grandmother  Harriet lived with Nana until her death of “senile decay” in 1914.  As a result Nana had many of Harriet’s household effects including an alabaster bust of the young Queen Victoria which stood on a plinth just inside the front door, a beautiful set of hand painted Copeland comports and fruit bowls, Staffordshire willow pattern tea service and much more that had either been wedding presents of acquired during her marriage.  They were displayed in a tall mahogany wall cabinet in the front parlour and I loved to look at them.  She also had several jugs with motifs on them.  One stated “Better to do one thing than dream all things” a sentiment with which I profoundly disagree.  There were also books from her childhood, Charles and Mary Lamb’s “Tales from Shakespeare” , Hone’s Everyday Book, The Poetical Works of Alfred Lord Tennyson” and one of my favourites “The Popular Recreator” with its suggestions for wholesome activities for young people. I was allowed to look at these as long as I was careful and didn’t tear or bend the pages.

There were my own books.  “The Weeping Pussy Willow” which drove Mum to frustration as I cried every time she read it to me and next night begged her to read it again, BBC Children’s Hour Annual with articles by Uncle Mac, “the Little Lame Prince”  another tear producer and of course Noddy with his Toyland friends and politically incorrect naughty Golliwogs.

During the war Mum and Nana had fed many cats who were victims of the conflict.  Either because their owners had been evacuated or their houses had been bombed and the occupants killed. They would beg from the local butchers and fishmongers any scraps that could not be utilised for human consumption and boil these up with porridge then put this out in the backyard for the cats.  At one time they were feeding about thirty but by the time I came along were down to just one, Bill Badger, a nervy black and white cat who would scratch me if I tried to touch him.  Like so many humans in the post war period he was probably suffering from shell shock and the last thing he wanted was an overenthusiastic hug from a toddler.

After his demise Mum went up to Brixton market and bought a ginger kitten who was given the unoriginal name of Tom.  Tom was taken, at the appropriate age, to the local PDSA to be neutered.  It was not the quick and easy operation that cats undergo today and poor Tom was unwell for about a week afterwards.  Whehe from the actual surgery or the anaesthetic I don’t know but it made Mum suspicious of getting any other cat “doctored”in future.

Tom was the first kitten I’d ever had and I would sit under the large kitchen table and play with him for ages. One way and another I spent a lot of time under the kitchen table.  Although  as born  six months after the end of WW2 there must have been some intrauterine influence as every time I heard an aeroplane I would hide under the table and cry until it a passed over.  Mum later told me that, during the war, she had a mattress under the table and would go to sleep on that hen the air raid warnings went off rather than pack up and go down the Anderson shelter despite the anxiety and pleading of Nana and my aunts.

Mum’s elder sister Maud, who preferred to be called Mick, and her husband Frank lived at 23 Priory Grove and further along at 43 was Mum’s first cousin Molly, her husband Sid and my cousin Christine some eight months my senior.  They were later had a son, Colin, about five years younger than me.  Colin was born profoundly deaf and, from a young age, showed multiple behavioural problems which were attributed to the frustration of being unable to communicate properly.

Mick and Frank remained childless from choice and I thought they were a very glamorous couple compared to Mum and Dad.  Mick used to tell people her name should have been Michelle after a French girl her dad had fallen in love with during WWI but Nana wouldn’t let her be christened with that name.  She was Alice Alexandra Maud and the story was a fabrication as Grandad Ireland was exempt from active service because, as a master builder, he was seen to be employed in an essential occupation.  Interestingly Grandad Martin was also exempt from active service on the same grounds.  He was a valet in the Army and NavyClub and also seen to be performing an essential service!

Because of their childless state Mick and Frank were able to run a small car and took overseas holidays in Spain long package holidays became the norm.  Mick, tall with dark wavy hair and flashing brown eyes and skin that tanned easily had an exotic appearance compared to her two younger, grey eyed, mousy haired siblings.  She took after Nana’s side of the family, the Nicholls,  but  Mum and Gwen favoured the Irelands who tended towards sandy hair and fair skin.

They were also competitive ballroom dancers and had many cups and medals.   Mick had a wardrobe full of glamorous ball gowns and Frank was the epitome of elegance in his tails.  He was a spare, slim man and not unlike Fred Astaire in looks.  Because of their dancing they were friends with Bob Garganico who ran a dancing school in Richmond and bandleader Victor Silvester.  Frank was several years older than Mick and when they were courting rode a motor bike.  Nana and Grandad initially disapproved of him and Nana called him “That wild young man” but  his intentions were honourable and he and Mick had a long happy marriage.

During WW2 Frank also was exempt military service (is there a pattern developing here?) but he enrolled as a fireman and worked down on the South Coast in some of the worst conditions of the war.  Mick stayed in London and, like my Mum, worked on the fire engines during the London blitz after they had finished their day jobs.  Mum dislocated both her thumbs pumping the fire pumps which were attached to the water mains.  She said that when a house had received a direct hit they had to do a body count and try and identify the dead.  Often it was a means of counting limbs and trying to assess if it was  male or female.

They were lucky that Montana Cottage was never hit as a little further up the street several houses had been and were replaced by prefabs as the rapidly erected replacement dwellings were called.  Although supposedly temporary, prefabs were so well designed and contained all the mod-cons of the day so people who were rehoused in them lived in considerably better conditions than those who hadn’t been bombed as they had a bathroom and inside toilet and their own garden.

Around the corner from Priory Grove, in Landsdowne Way was a small shop called “The Cabin” which was set it into the wall under the steps up to 1 Priory Grove.  It sold mainly newspapers and sweets and was very tiny with barely enough room for two customers.  It was here Mum went when bubble gum first became available after the war, although US serviceman always had an ample supply when over here during the war.  She bought home several of the yellow and red wrapped  packets of “Dubble Bubble” and we sat and chewed and blew.  Mum and Dad managed large spheres which made a very satisfactory popping sound when they’d reached their capacity but I was unable to manipulate my tongue to get started.  Eventually I found I could make a bubble of sorts by sucking instead of blowing but Mum made me stop for fear I’d choke.

Nana and Grandad were Church of England and had brought up their three girls in that faith.  Dad was Catholic and he and Mum were married in St Francis de Sales RC church in Larkhall Lane.  They were married November 1939 shortly after war was declared and Dad is in uniform and Mum in a suit.  As part of her marriage vows Mum had to promise that any children of their union would be baptised and brought up in the Roman catholic faith.  Their wedding night was spent sheltering under the kitchen table during an air raid.  Mick and Frank’s wedding took place during the Battle of Britain and their wedding photo shows them gazing up at the sky where a German pilot has parachuted out of his damaged plane.

Although I was baptised Catholic my first six years were spent attending St Andrew’s Stockwell Green and going to their Sunday school.  Once again I only have partial memories.  During Sunday school we would sing “All things Bright and Beautiful” or “Jesus wants me for a Sunbeam” and listen to stories, not always from the Bible.  One, from “The Infancy Gospel of Thomas” relates how Jesus was found on the Sabbath making model sparrows out of clay and being reported to Joseph.  When Joseph reprimanded him, Jesus clapped his hands and the sparrows came to life and flew away.

Another story was of Jesus and the Sunbeam Bridge.  Jesus met some rich children and wanted to play with them but they chased him away so he created a bridge of sunbeams and ran across it.  When the children tried to pursue him across the bridge he caused it to disappear and the children drowned.

At the conclusion of Sunday School we would be given a sticker, slightly larger than a postage stamp with a holy picture and a biblical text on it.  These were glued into exercise books and were possibly the only personal reading books some children had.

At Christmas the Sunday School would put on a Nativity play.  One year I was an angel wearing white robe and wings made of tissue paper stretched over wire frames.  The day of the performance was very cold and Mum had dressed me in a green coat with velvet collar and matching hood and leggings which were fastened to buttons on my Liberty Bodice (was ever a garment so misnamed) The Sunday School teacher was unable to pull these off so I had the dubious fame of being the only angel to ever have green woollen legs.

With Dad being in and out of work and rationing still in force Mum and Nana were hard put to provide nourishing meals and their approach was decidedly creative.  Stomach filling stodge was the order of the day and suet featured in many dishes especially “Spotted Dick” a boiled pudding with raisins in it and “Bacon and Onion Roly Poly” a savoury version with more onion than bacon but very tasty when served with Bisto gravy and mashed potato.   Dad used to enjoy the finely sliced lamb Mum produced for him.  “Lovely tender bit of meat”   but would query how she could afford it.  She would just mumble something about it being a bit Nana had left over and he would tuck in and enjoy his meal.  One day Dad arrived home unexpectedly early from work to find Mum carefully slicing the cheeks of a boiled sheep’s head before disposing of the skull.   She had been able to get the heads off ration but once Dad saw where his lovely tender bit of meat came from he could never eat it again.

Children were entitled to extra rations, especially milk which came powdered in large yellow and brown tins that bore the name “Klim” and was an import from USA.  We also were given concentrated orange juice that came in medicine bottles and tasted amazing.

Eating out was a great treat as ration books still had to be produced and points removed for each item but there were many places where you could go.  The ABC and Lyon’s tea rooms and the British Restaurants, set up during the war to provide cheap nourishing food for the populace.  Also our local pie and mash shop where you could also get stewed eels and “likker” a bright green, parsley flavoured gravy.  One of Dad’s aunts had married a Swiss Pierre de Preux who was head waiter at Lyon’s  Corner House in Oxford Street and occasionally we went there for high tea. He would ensure we had a slap up meal and somehow not require any ration points for it.  A precocious reader, I would pore over the menu savouring the unfamiliar terms.

 One time I saw a drink called a Pussyfoot.  Anything feline, then as now, attracted me and I decided I wanted one.  Mum and Dad explained it was not a suitable drink for a little girl but, like the mauve feather duster episode, I had made my mind up.  Uncle Pierre quickly intervened when he saw the tears welling up and the lower lip starting to turn down.  He hurried away and soon came back bearing a glass of bright orange liquid.  I took an anticipatory sip imagining some fantastic nectar but to my immense disappointment it was nothing more than orange cordial. Many years later I discovered the Pussyfoot was actually a potent rum based cocktail and totally unsuitable for a little girl.

 

 

Encounters with Dirty Old Men

Despite being a very rough area with a large population of “working girls” and out of work , or poorly paid, men who were ready with their fists there was a curious sense of honour and safety in 50s and 60s Golborne Road. In many ways I think the area had the same ethos as the Kray’s East End of the same period although it was a less closed community and, I don’t think, had such organised crime.
On one occasion, when I was about nine, I was waiting at the bus stop opposite Westbourne Park station for the 31 bus to take me up to Queensway ice rink. I was standing at the stop with my ice skates slung over my shoulder. Not the white ones I coveted after having read Noel Streatfield’s eponymous book but a black pair bought from a shop on the corner of Portobello Rd and Oxford Gardens that dealt in secondhand sporting goods.
As I stood there dreaming of performing a perfect bracket or backward glide I became aware of something making contact with the seat of my trousers and massaging my buttock. I turned my head and glimpsed, standing behind me, a dark skinned, turbaned man who had come into Dad’s shop a few times. As I turned the sensation stopped but started up again once I was looking ahead. I shuffled forward in the queue and had a momentary respite but then I felt it again. I lifted my hand, grabbed the toe of my skate and drove it backwards with all my force feeling a satisfactory “Thud” as the protruding metal blade made contact. Just then the bus arrived and I scrambled thankfully on board making sure to sit next to an older woman.
I only saw the man once more a week or so later and he was a sorry sight. Broken nose, smashed teeth and “two lovely black eyes” as the old music hall song goes. During the week someone pushed a scrap of paper through the door of 21 with the legend, “We take care of our own” inscribed on it in pencil.
My parents had no idea what it meant and I never told them. Although the experience had been unpleasant I was very innocent and completely unaware that I had been sexually assaulted until I was well into adulthood.
My sexual innocence buffered me on yet another occasion when I was about eleven or twelve. It was the summer holiday of my first year at the Sacred Heart and I was immensely proud of my gym shorts (although divided skirt would have been a better description as they were voluminous, wide legged garments with an internal pocket for ones hanky)
I had gone to the Horse of the Year Show at White City, wearing my shorts, to watch my heroes Pat Smythe and Alan Oliver compete. During an intermission I left the arena and was wandering around the stables, programme in hand, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of them and perhaps gain an autograph.
Stable doors were half open and it was possible to look in and see the horses. One, a tall chestnut with a wide blaze and four white stockings, caught my attention and I stood on tippy toe looking at him. As I was talking to him and trying to encourage him a voice behind me made me jump and turn. “Do you like him?”, a man asked. I nodded. “He’s my horse, would you like to go in and pat him?” Again I nodded.
He pulled back the bolt and ushered me in. The horse stood in the corner and looked at us. “What’s his name?” I asked. “Just then the horse decided he was going to urinate, grunted, straddled and pumped out copious amounts of fluid. “Big Ben”, said the man. He pointed to the long fleshy snake through which the horse was peeing. “That’s why I call him Big Ben”
I was puzzled. I’d been to Westminster on a school trip and Big Ben looked nothing like the thing between the horse’s legs. “Have you seen your daddy’s one?”, he continued. Now I really was puzzled. What did the man mean? “Do you know what Daddy does to Mummy with his one?”
I must have looked blank because he changed the subject. “Would you like to ride him?” Again I nodded. “If you want to be a good rider you have to have strong muscles” He moved closer. “I need to feel your muscles to see if you are strong enough”
The man put his hand up the leg of my shorts and started squeezing my buttock. He had got very red in the face and his breath was staccato. He was making funny jerky movements with his lower body. I started to feel uncomfortable as his hand began to move round between my legs.
Just then footsteps crunched outside and the sound of people’s voices. The man pulled his hand away rapidly and straightened up. “Sounds like the next event’s on. Better get back and watch it. Come back later and I’ll give you a ride” He hurried over to the door and looked out then left rapidly, disappearing down an alleyway between the rows of stables. I patted the horse and secured the stable door thinking it strange that he hadn’t shut it when he left, went back and watched the rest of that day’s programme.
Although I didn’t know what had happened I felt disturbed by the encounter and decided I didn’t like the man. How dare he say my Daddy had a nasty body part like Big Ben’s. I decided then and there I wasn’t going to meet him afterwards and he could keep his ride!