A Battersea Childhood in the 1920s
by
Florence Dorothy Reed
née Johnson
1912-2002
I think of my life as beginning on Platform 6 Clapham Junction Station. 1 am unable to remember getting off a train and only vague memories of anything that had happened before then. But from that time I have continuous memory. I stood holding my brother Tom's hand both of us dressed in scarlet coats and black beaver hats, - Mum sometimes had ideas above her station - looking as though we had been snatched from our nannies in Kensington Gardens, and deposited on the platform. With us was Mum and a soldier in khaki called Jim.
It was August 8th 1917 and my Mother's wedding day. Her first marriage had ended suddenly in the Ypres Salient on November 11th 1914 when I was two and Tom one month old.
When I stood on that platform I was not quite five, and Tom nearly three. I remember a dreadful feeling of desolation and tears began to splash down and I heard Jim say 'What's the matter cocker?' to which I could only reply 'I don't know'! At this Jim picked me up and carried me and we all made our way out of the station.
From my vantage point, I was able to study Jim's face, the kind blue eyes, his moustache slightly stained with Woodbines, a whiff of beer came to me now and then as he made the occasional remark and on that walk he ceased to be just Jim, and from then on became my Dad. Although Dad had two sons by his first marriage and he and Mum would eventually have three children of their own I cannot remember any instance when he took sides in any argument, his fairness and loving kindness were the same towards each one of us, I always felt as much his daughter as the little sister who came to join us the following year. I was able to quietly love him in place of the father I was unable to remember.
We eventually arrived in the late afternoon at what was to be our temporary home at 30 Kennard Street, the home of Dad's sister Fan and her husband Bert. In that small three-bedroomed house were Fan and Bert: their four children Vi: eleven years, Doris: nine years, Les: six, and Den: one year, Dad and Mum, Tom and I, Dad's younger brother George home on leave, and Dad's father, it was the only time I ever saw George, who left in a few days to be swallowed up by the war like millions of others. That night Tom and I slept on a mattress on the floor along with the other four children, who I shall call my cousins from now on.
Days of the utmost confusion followed, during which time I acquired two new brothers, Len aged six and Harry aged four, Dad returned to the front, And one day Tom and I were left in charge of Vi and her friend May Smith, while Mum went off to New Maiden to bring her furniture on a horse and cart, and we moved into 74 Henley Street which was to be our home for the next 16 years.
Henley Street was a very long street of terraced houses, with the front doors opening on to the pavement. Number 74 was I suppose like all the other houses. Front door opening on to a passage, the stairs facing the front door, and the passage continuing down to the back kitchen which was also our living room. A black kitchen range took pride of place, lovingly polished by Mum; above it a small mantle piece. On this were two Huntley and Palmer biscuit tins. One having a picture from A Midsummer Night's Dream, the other from As You Like It. An alarm clock stood between them, and a letter rack bulging with letters, bills, and old birthday and seaside cards overflowed behind the clock. To the left of the range, built into the wall was a cement copper for the washing. This had a small place underneath it to light a fire to heat water. This copper was kept white with hearthstone, as was the hearth in front of the range. A fireguard with clothes at various stages of airing, added to the general feeling of homeliness. To the right of the range in a recess, stood a shallow yellow sink, with a cold water tap only. Underneath a piece of cotton curtain concealing various cleaning equipment. Above the sink Dad had made a cupboard for our food. The more perishable things, milk, butter, meat etc, went into a cupboard of perforated zinc outside in the yard.
On the left-hand wall a large kitchen dresser stood. This contained Mum's fancy tea set, plus other ornamental pieces she had collected. On the right- hand wall was a window, with a door to the yard. Coloured print curtains hung at the window, with a net piece to half-way up.
In front of the window was a large kitchen table covered with a red cloth, edged with a ball fringe.
Behind the table a form made by Dad was placed. This was for Tom, Harry, and me. Several well-scrubbed Windsor chairs were placed around the room, and a wooden armchair for Dad stood in front of the range. A bright linoleum covered the floor, and in front of the range a rag rug made by us all. Beside the dresser to its left was an ugly iron gas cooker bearing the legend Gas Light and Coke Co., and to the left of that a cupboard where our coal was kept.
Coming in from the front door to the right was the front room, only used on Sundays, Christmas and other festivals. At the head of the passage Mum and Dad's bedroom.
The passage and stairs were covered with red lino with a border of, I think, a Grecian pattern. Upstairs the first room was called for some reason, the ante room, and contained a large double bed for Len, Harry and Tom, and a small single bed for me. Four more stairs and the front room was taken by Aunty Ginny, a war widow, with two sons about our age.
Seventy-four Henley Street was so situated that it faced Kennard Street, a short way along was Oulton Street, and at the end, running parallel to Oulton Street, Longhedge Street. At the bottom was the railway line, and at the bottom of the bank an evil-looking place called Sheepcote Lane - or as everyone called it, Shitpot Lane - a dreadful place of derelict cottages, lock-up store places full of rotting vegetable garbage. Henley Street was connected to Austin Road by a small passage, or as we called them, a court. At each end was an iron bollard, and a notice that said 'Commit no Nuisance' but by the all-pervading smell of urine, no notice was taken. This comprised our territory, which had a distinct village atmosphere. We knew everyone in this area, and we were on the whole, very close knit. There would be rows, and nearly everyone would be involved at the time. Peace would be quickly restored.
Shopping took us further afield. On Saturdays we would go to Battersea High Street, and Mum would go from stall to stall to find bargains. There were shops each side of the road, but we never went in them, we always shopped at the stalls.
There were vegetables, fish, haberdashery, cleaning materials and a few old tot barrows, and right at the end a booth was set up on Saturday nights for a meat auction. Mum always went to this and would either buy an aitchbone of beef or what she called a target of lamb. This would be a shoulder, best end of neck, a breast and a scrag end. These would be bought very cheaply (only in our prosperous times though).
It was quite an entertainment for the grown-ups, for the butcher gave a good spiel loaded with many risqué jokes, which Mum pretended not to understand in front of us children. The meat lasted most of the week. At the top of the High Street was The Prince's Head, a landmark, and close by a large drapers and furnishers called Hunt and Cole. They sold cretonne bags filled with lovely offcuts of material for about sixpence. Auntie Gin would sometimes buy me one. it gave me a lot of joy to find nice pieces to make clothes for my dolls.
For more important shopping we went up the Junction, this didn't happen very often though. We always went one evening before Christmas to see the lights and the shops decorated for Christmas.
The closeness of our territory would be seen when a birth was due. Nurses would be closely watched and when a birth was imminent, word got around and small groups of women would wait in the street close to the house. They stood with folded arms covered by their aprons looking very much like a Greek chorus.
Of course to us kids the nurse brought them, or they were found under a bush, I can't remember one normal birth. However, when the doctor or nurse came out of the house, they would recount details of weight, sex and condition of the mother.
For most women a confinement was a bit of a rest1, for it meant ten days in bed, the first three days with no solid food, but plenty of Robinson's Grouts. This was a fine oatmeal gruel, and when sweetened and made with milk, quite delicious. Guinness stout was always high on the menu, it was supposed to make plenty of milk, I also think it was preferred to cow's milk.
No woman ever had to worry regarding her household, although most of them always booked up with someone who took on the job of nurse and general factotum. One of these ladies lived two doors from us, Mrs Meadows, in great demand always for confinements, advice and laying out the dead. When a mother was worried about a child, you just couldn't always afford a doctor, and 'Send for Meadows' was the cry, who could always read the symptoms, although I don't think she had any nursing training. A funny little wizened woman who two centuries ago would have been the local wise woman. And before then probably burnt as a witch. She rejoiced in that glorious word midwife.
Less fortunate women would rely on neighbours. If anyone was down with 'flu or any other way had to take to her bed, you just left the front door open and each one that passed would call in to see if any shopping was needed.
Children just went to school or out to play with the others, when a genera! eye was kept open that no one came to any harm. Just to mention this; a very strange thing regarding relationships with neighbours, no woman ever addressed another by the prefix Mrs, just the surname, in Mum's case Poole, like 'anything you want Poole?' There were closer friendships when Christian names would be used. Little meals would be brought in to the invalid. Children waited until a big sister came home from school to get something. A stew might have been put on before school and it would be cooked by 12 noon, with potatoes no one went hungry.
Whilst on the subject of illness, as I said most of us were home treated by Mum, if she got out of her depth she called Mrs Meadows and at her verdict she decided about a doctor.
I have by me a notebook belonging to my Gran, of prescriptions to be made up by an obliging chemist, I will quote a few.
Tincture of Lavender (useful in fainting, palpitation and all nervous complaints)
Spirit of Hartshorn This is of a caustic quality, equal parts of this with olive oil form a good embrocation for severe bruises, stiff neck etc. Also useful to smell in fainting and 25 drops may be taken in water with the same view.
Paregoric Compound tincture of camphor (beneficial in troublesome colds accompanied with annoying cough). A teaspoonful in gruel at bedtime. For a child 10-12 drops given in the same way.
Magnesia The use of magnesia is to correct acidity in the stomach and bowels of children in particular.
I will end with a favourite prescription which we always had for coughs.
Equal parts
Syrup of Squill
Oil of Tolu
Ipecacuanha Wine
Castor Oil
I think it was a case of getting better in spite of, rather than because of. Having said that, I can think of a lot worse things than having a cold or 'flu in those days. To strip off in front of the fire, nightie warming on the fireguard, chest and back rubbed with warm camphorated oil, warm nightie put on, and put to bed with ones feet wrapped in an old woolly jersey and a hot brick put at the foot of the bed. You would be given a bowl of boiled onions thickened with flour and quite delicious, this to sweat the cold out. A small light would be left, and by the bed a saucer of butter and brown sugar blended together, to be slowly melted in the mouth if the chest was sore or cough troublesome. Tucked down at last in the warm bed, feeling delightfully spoiled and listening to the downstairs noises, and blind Mr Laurie next door going outside to the loo on his wooden leg, the eyelids stinging with the fumes of camphorated oil, one would fall into a lovely sleep, and in the morning would wake feeling well enough for school (hard luck).
I have digressed somewhat, yet it seems appropriate to put in the little pleasurable bits, for although life was hard, there were many little incidents like the one quoted.
I must make a big jump now and tell you of the times when one of us left this life hoping always for a better one to come, for although very few went to church or chapel, I don't remember anyone who was an Atheist. It was unthinkable then. The idea of God was a very nebulous one but very firmly rooted. People would not speak of God or Christ, but make vague reference to what they would call 'My Maker' or 'The Lord above' or 'Providence', Heaven was a surety.
When someone had been ill for a long time and it was said they were on the way out, groups of women as at the births would gather and wait, children would not be allowed to play near the house.
When Death came at last, no one was carted off to the mortuary as now, but laid out by Mrs Meadows in the front parlour of the house when the blinds would be pulled down, and anyone desirous of paying their respects could do so. Many were the stories of the beauty and peace that could be seen in the dead face. It gave comfort to everyone.
One person would be delegated to make a collection for a wreath, although it was always a Gates of Heaven. Tuppence or three pence would be written on the paper with the name of the donor, never more than three pence as I remember.
On the day of the funeral everyone pulled down their blinds and stood outside, for we were saying 'Goodbye' to our own.
After the procession passed comments would be exchanged about size and cost of the funeral. Our Gates of Heaven would always be in a most prominent position.
When the death was that of a child the whole area mourned, tears would be shed by all the women, and we children went around speaking in hushed voices.
There was a curious tale regarding the burial of stillborn babies. It was profoundly believed by everyone that the undertaker put the baby into a coffin with a dead woman. No one ever doubted this story, and many a grieving mother derived great comfort from the idea of her child in the arms of another Mother in the cold grave.
I don't know how this story arose, but strangely, I spoke to someone elderly here in Westergate recently, and she said it was absolutely true, so it seems pretty general.
When we moved to Battersea all Dad's family were already living there, so we had cousins and uncles and aunts ready made so to speak.
As I have already said, Dad's youngest sister Ginny lived in our house with her two sons Freddie and Tommy. Auntie Hetty lived a short walk from us, in a rather more salubrious part, with her husband Jim and two daughters Phyllis and Lena.
Dad couldn't stand Jim, and would drop his voice to us kids and say he was a blackleg in the General Strike, the most heinous crime in Dad's book, We all liked him though, and there was of course Aunt Fan but she deserves a chapter to herself.
There were many colourful characters around, the most memorable was Sunlight Lou. A tall gaunt middle-aged woman who wore men's boots and an army overcoat, and a large hat with ostrich feathers. I think she was mentally retarded for you couldn't hold a conversation with her. She eked out a living by taking a pram and calling on regular customers to pick up parcels for the pawnshop. She would collect on Monday and return on Friday. She would get a few coppers from each one.
Next door at number 11 lived Mr and Mrs Laurie in the downstairs rooms, these were a lovely old couple. Mr Laurie was blind with a wooden leg. I don't know what had happened to him, it wasn't the war. It was a great comfort on sleepless nights to hear him go out to the loo, tapping with his wooden leg. He could entertain with some good songs and jokes too. In the upstairs rooms lived their daughter and her husband and children. There were Lizzie, Emmy, Louie, Caroline, Lilian, Bertha and Gertrude (twins), Georgie and Harold. I don't know where they all slept as a baby arrived regularly every year. The rooms must have bulged at the seams. No one worried about statutory overcrowding in those days, or for that matter cared. It must have been bloody murder at night when the bugs came out, everyone had them. We did. These loathsome creatures would come out as soon as you got warm in bed, and they would bite, leaving little red telltale marks for the world to see next day. If you scratched in your sleep and were unlucky enough to squash one in your fingers the creature gave off a strong smell of almonds, one quite lost the taste for marzipan etc. Mum waged a ceaseless war against these pests. I vividly remember an incident which reminds me of a horror film. Mum was a very house-proud woman of a good family, and it must have broken her spirit sometimes.
We had beds that had iron supports all round to support a mesh spring. The long side ones slipped into the top and bottom supports. There was a round piece on the end. I came in from play to find Dad holding one of these side pieces. Mum had a lighted taper in her hand, and was shuddering as she put the flame to the end of the iron which was encrusted with these vile things.
Every so often it became too much and Mum would go to the health department at the Town Hall and ask for fumigation. All this did was drive the creatures into the next house, and when they in turn had their places fumigate it drove them back to us.
I suppose it stayed like that until Hitler dropped bombs on the places, and destroyed houses, bugs and all.
I remember the feeling of shame I felt when I had prominent bites on view. I wanted to hide from the world. One felt indescribably dirty.
If after a visit from an Uncle or Auntie we were given a penny to spend, the boys would say 'Let's go round to old Jewboy's'. This was a small sweet shop a few streets away and he sold strange exotic things like Locust, Liquorice wood and Jew's nuts (dried marrow seeds). The boys would like these but I would buy aniseed balls.
When we reached the shop, being a well brought up child I passed the time of day, I said, 'Good morning Mr Jewboy1 and he replied 'Good morning little girl', and I wondered at his smile, and the extra handful of aniseed balls put into my bag.
We left the shop and a boy who was with us said 'You know your sister's bloody barmy?' Not being aware of any particular insanity I gave him a hefty clout and ran off.
A few years later when I became quite a pretty girl, my barminess became more attractive to him, and I would receive little notes handed to me by schoolfellows. These would make assignations and advice not to speak to Bill Burgess, and were signed 'Your loving sweetheart if accepted'. At weekends he would wait near our house and the love call of 'Oi' would fall on deaf ears, I didn't forget the 'Barmy' bit, and I had no intention of playing Beatrice to his Benedict.
By a strange coincidence, I sat next to Mr Jewboy's granddaughter in class. We sat two to a desk, and from her I learned a lesson I have never forgotten. Text books were passed around in pairs. I held the two books, one was tattered with loose pages, the other quite new, I promptly gave Sarah the tatty one, and kept the good one. She waited a minute then said 'Always give to your neighbour of the best' I quickly changed the books over with a feeling of shame. Ever since I have done this, and can only say it doesn't work very well with a pair of kippers, one of which is fat and juicy the other small and dried up, I weaken then. I would wonder why Sarah never came to morning assembly, and one day I asked her. She said 'It's because of the prayers, I'm excused, you see I'm not a Christian'. 'You are', I replied indignantly, 'Who said you're not better than I am'. She said 'I'm a Jewess1 'What's that I asked?"!It means I have a different religion and I belong to a different race.' 'Are you special then?' 'Yes1 she said 'We are God's chosen people'. I thought this a bit unfair, and in direct conflict with what I had learned in Sunday School Chapel where the special people were those who were 'saved'. It was my first encounter with an alternative culture.
Then there was Woody Dear, she called round with a pushchair selling chopped wood. She got her name from knocking at the door and calling 'Any woody dear?'. On Sunday morning she came round with watercress. Heaven knows where it came from, but none of us came to any harm from eating Woody Dear's watercress. This leads me into the next chapter on street traders and others.
'Tuppence a pound, old lady's pears/ this cry came several times a week when a costermonger would bring round his barrow. I asked Mum 'Why old lady's pears?' She said you can eat them without teeth. I tried one once, and nearly wanted a false set afterwards.
Early on Sunday morning the fishmonger came round with kippers at a penny a pair, or smoked haddock for a few pence each. If Mum fancied kippers, one of us would be sent out to get some for breakfast. During the afternoon he came round again with shrimps and winkles and watercress. We would have a pint of winkles. Those delectable sea snails! Yanked out with a pin and popped into the mouth off the pins with bread and butter. I loved Sunday tea. I haven't had winkles though since I left Battersea. On Sunday afternoons during the winter, the muffin man came round, he was rather a slight man balancing on his head a tray with tall sides. This was covered with a green baize cloth, under which were crumpets and muffins. He would have a large hand bell that he would ring calling out 'Muffins'.
As well as the various traders we didn't lack street entertainment just would be miners from Wales, singing their own songs and hymns. What glorious voices they had.
The most outrageous were the men in drag who came round with a barrel organ. We would be allowed to watch until a particularly outrageous remark evoked a giggle from one of the boys in the audience, and we would be quickly taken in doors.
The most impressive performers were an old man with a concertina who accompanied a young man with a glorious tenor voice. He would sing all the well-known ballads. A particular favourite of mine is a song I have never heard of since, Beautiful Island of Dreams. I think if his voice had been trained it would have been worthy of Covent Garden.
There was a young girl dying of TB who lay by the window of a house in Kennard Street. They would sing to her for quite some time. When she eventually died, the young man saw the blind down and poured his heart out in song after song, a fitting farewell to the poor child. They reaped a rich harvest always, but one Sunday they failed to turn up, and we surmised that the old man had died he was very old. The last important visitors were the gipsies with great baskets of lavender, they sang the old song:
Won't you buy my sweet blooming lavender,
Sixteen bunches for one penny,
You buy it once, you buy it twice,
It makes your clothes smell very nice.
It was a sad occasion for it meant the end of summer, and a return to school.
Mum always bought a few pence worth of lavender for the bed linen, and to put in the drawers around our clothes.
As I said in the opening chapter, Dad was a man of integrity and loving kindness. He treated me as though I were his daughter, I remember many instances of his thoughtfulness.
Every Saturday a man would come round selling wooden boxes for Id each. Dad would give me a Id to choose a good one. I would fetch it and Dad and I would decide what he should make for me. A doll's house, dresser, a table and chairs, and other doll's furniture. He was not a good carpenter but I thought they were wonderful.
Mum and Dad, often quarrelled, mostly about trivial things when Mum wanted her own way, and Dad stood firm. I remember one dreadful day when Mum snatched up a knife from the table saying 'I'm going to do myself in' and shut herself in the front room. We kids began to cry and pull Dad's arm,'Oh Dad don't let her'. After a while he went into the front room, came out and threw the knife on the table with a gesture of contempt.
We were always begging Dad to tell us stories of the war, he never liked to do this but would tell us amusing incidents. We would have him repeat these stories over and over again.
Dad was a very happy cheerful man who liked to get drunk at Mum's parties, he was never objectionable.
Dad was often out of work, and he would think of all kinds of ways to raise the wind. He would buy old tar blocks from the roads, hire a barrow and go round selling them. He would find offcuts of wood, chop it and send Len and I out with a pushchair to sell it, I hated knocking on doors and was terrified of dogs.
Sometimes Dad set himself up as a tipster, he had a John Bull printing set, and would print on slips of paper separately every horse in a race. He went round next day selling these slips at Id each. As there was always someone with first, second and third, his fame spread and people watched out for him.
We had trouble keeping our boots in good order, but Dad would repair them for us. Bundles of leather would be put into soak, and he would select the right piece for each boot. He would keep the thinnest piece for mine, and I have seen him with the tongue cut out of an old shoe, repair with tiny stitches the upper of my boot, and I wore them proudly and boasted of Dad's work.
When I was eight I had Rheumatic Fever. This was very painful indeed, and my bed was put up in the front room to be handy for Mum if I wanted anything.
Mum and Auntie Gin were kindness itself, but they didn't have the knack of lifting me out of bed, and I would scream as they let my legs fall because of the pain in my knees when they bent.
I would demand Dad's help on these occasions, for he had had Rheumatic Fever himself, and knew my legs had to be supported when I was lifted up. There were times when I would cry with the pain, and Dad would bake salt until it was hot, put it into old socks and pack it round my knees. I would cry to Dad 'Oh Daddy Daddy, I can't abear to stick it'. This phrase became a standing joke in the family, and if anyone hurt themselves or had a pain the cry would be, 'Oh Daddy Daddy, I can't abear to stick it'. In retrospect though I don't think it was so funny, I was after all only eight, and in severe pain, and letting my feelings out to the one person who knew what I was going through. He would just say 'It will get better cocker, mine did'.
For most of the local men, a high in their lives was to see Chelsea play at home at Stamford Bridge. This of course included Dad, an ardent Chelsea supporter. As this was not included in Mum's Husband's code of conduct, Dad very seldom went. However, sometimes he kicked over the traces, and after finishing work at one o'clock he went off with his mates, and a couple of crates of beer.
On this particular Saturday, we had watched the storm clouds gathering all afternoon and at half-past four we sat down and started our tea. There was a sudden sound in the passage, singing! Blimey, Chelsea had won! We greeted Dad as he came through the kitchen door. 'Hallo Dad', he was looking very much the worse for wear. He endeavoured to give Mum an affectionate kiss, but a shove from her, and he sat down by a miracle at his proper place at the table. Mum doesn't say a word, Dad smiles benevolently round the room. What a lucky man he is, what a day, Chelsea had won. Great team! True loyal mates! The fire burns brightly in the range.
What a wife. Beautiful too! He gives Mum a playful smack on the behind as she passes. He turns his benign blue eyes on us kids, taking us in one at a time. A lovely lot of kids! The old cat Blackie is waving in and out of his legs, he tries to bend down and stroke it, but finding himself unable to do this, gives it a gentle shove with his feet, which sends it flying across the room. He is a perfectly happy man, wanting for nothing. Wait a minute though, something is missing, 'Got me dinner love?' He gets his dinner, succulent sausages, mashed potatoes, fried onions, his favourite! He picks up his knife and fork and peers at it. 'What's this love? No answer. 'It's cold!' It was too, ice cold and covered with thick brown congealed gravy. 'Can't eat this love' 'Oh can't you, the bloody kids can' and with a lightening flick of her wrist Mum shares it out between we four older ones. We stare down in horrified disbelief at the appalling mess that had suddenly appeared in the middle of our plates. We stared at Mum in wordless enquiry, her equally wordless glare made us pick up our spoons and down it. A hastily swallowed slice of bread and jam removed the worst of the effects.
Dad by this time had accepted his fate, and removed himself to his old wooden armchair, and we four kids, traitors all, had grouped ourselves round his chair, while he regaled us with song.
Chelsea on the ball,
Chelsea on the ball.
Never mind the halfback line,
Pass it by them, every time, Pass it with a swing,
Right up to the wing,
Shoot Chelsea, shoot Chelsea,
Goal!
Sometimes the chorus would end with a groan, and at this touching sound, I would be so moved, I defied fate, and placed my hand tenderly on, his bald head and gave it a couple of gentle but hasty strokes. Tea cleared away and washed up, Dad is sleeping off his potations. Mum is frenziedly knitting, row after row, no reference to any pattern, just stitch after stitch, and row after row. I hadn't heard about tumbrels and guillotines at that time. All this is taking place in complete silence, broken only by Dad's snores, Mum's needles, and the tick of the alarm clock on the mantle piece. Len and Tom are strategically placed by having their backs to Mum, and try to liven things up with the Battersea version of gurning. An especially successful one would evoke a muffled giggle, and an arm like the sail of a windmill in a force nine gale, would swing round and knock the offender off the chair.
This would go on until 7 o'clock when Mum put her knitting down and gave us our usual supper, half a slice of bread and dripping and a cup of cocoa. We quickly downed this and Mum said 'Boots off and up to bed'. We didn't need to be told twice, in fact we could hardly wait to get there. Boots placed in a neat row, ready to clean the next morning, we went over to do our duty by Mum, 'Goodnight Mum' we said as we kissed her, and we stood, a hesitant quartet in the middle of the hearth rug and waited for a long moment, 'Say goodnight to your father!' This apparently meant the end of hostilities, so we turned grinning faces on Dad who has woken up looking very sheepish and distinctly unwell. We kiss him 'Goodnight Dad', and we go happily up to bed with his benediction ringing in our ears 'Goodnight cockers.'
Dad didn't make many attempts to escape Petticoat Government but I remember the final one. One Saturday evening he put on his jacket and said to Mum, 'I'm going round the Farmhouse for half an hour' She said nothing, and he was home well before closing time.
The following Saturday when he put on his jacket, he saw that Mum was putting on her hat and coat, 'Where you off to love?' 'Where am I off to? I'm coming with you and I'm matching you drink for drink. What you have I'll have and what I can't drink I shall empty on the floor!' Dad took off his jacket and that I believe was his last bid for freedom. We saw Dad with his wings really clipped, and his joyous spirit slowly quenched. It didn't happen all at once, but he slowly disappeared, bit by bit, like the Cheshire Cat, until only his smile was left.
When he reached his middle years he became dogged by ill-health. He had recurring bouts of Rheumatic Fever, a legacy of his time in the trenches. This brought with it, a slow failing of the heart with its additional discomforts of dropsy etc. When he finally died at the age of fifty-nine, I didn't feel much grief for the man who lay there. My Dad had disappeared long before, and it was he I mourned and who lives in my memory. Tom said to me a few weeks ago, 'We couldn't have had a better father if he had been our own'. I will let that be his epitaph.
Dear Aunt Fan was generous and feckless. A large woman with a heart of gold. Never a penny to bless herself with or a feather to fly with. Her life from payday to payday, was a continual manipulation of cash or kind to get her through. She was bawdy, happy and I adored her.
Uncle Bert her husband was a mild little man, but she liked to present him as a very macho man that she was terrified to let on to regarding her financial state.
His best suit went into Uncle's every Monday morning, and got out on Friday afternoon. Aunt Fan was Uncle's best customer. She would ask Mum in the middle of the week 'Have you got a parcel I can borrow to get a few bob from Uncle?' Mum would look around for a pair of sheets, sometimes one had been turned sides to middle, and Aunt Fan by clever manipulation would so arrange them that unless opened would be undetectable. Uncle always gave her three shillings, he would have known though.
One glorious day the pawnshop caught fire, and of course drew everyone to see the sight, and what a sight it was, to see Aunt Fan clutching every fireman in turn begging him not to bother to put the fire out, but to climb the fire escape to the upper room and rescue Bert's suit.
Aunt Fan was an entertainer par excellence, Mum often gave a party and Aunt Fan would give us a song and dance. One day she had managed to gel hold of some fancy dresses, one of which was a scarlet tutu which she decided to wear. We kids clutched each other in horrified delight at the obscene sight of Aunt Fan's size 22 overflowing a size 12 tutu. Aunt Fan danced and sang:
I painted her, I painted her,
Up her belly and down her back,
Every bole and every crack,
I painted her, down in Drury Lane,
I painted her old tomato.
Over and over again.
Aunt Fan liked nothing better than a charabanc trip with her cronies, especially to Southend-on-Sea, with the Kursaal a must. When she came home, she would do impressions of how she had looked in the Hall of Mirrors, until she had us rolling on the floor.
One day when she was in her fifties, she went on a trip to Southend. Returning to the charabanc wearing a Kiss me quick hat, Aunt Fan danced, skirts held high, a sudden crumbling to the ground, and her friends run up to help her up, but dear Aunt Fan was dead.
Sunday in summer often meant a picnic on Wimbledon Common. Mum would pack our food, and we took a tram to Wandsworth High Street. We would walk up West Hill, and what a walk it was if the weather was hot. Arriving at the common at last, we would sit by Queen's Mere and eat our picnic. Afterwards it was a must to find Caesar's Well, a place supposedly of great antiquity where winds from every direction met and the water was reputed to have many health-giving properties. It was a splendid day in the country for us, and we would return in the cool of the evening glowing with sunburn and the air.
Public holidays meant a visit to Granny Johnson at New Maiden, I loved these visits to see her, Aunt Fan and my cousins on my Father's side. Sometimes I would spend a couple of weeks with them but Mum never liked me doing that.
I have said elsewhere that Mum gave many parties, more of get-togethers really, with lots of beer drunk. There would be no spirits or wine, a barrel of beer for the men and bottles of stout for the women, some lemonade for we children. No food was provided.
We didn't have a piano, but this presented no problem, for we went to Aunt Fan and pushed her piano up Kennard Street to our house. It was very good-tempered and cousin Vi would sit all night banging away at the poor instrument. Most of the music played was Knees up Mother Brown, when everyone vied with the next one to keep it up. Aunt Fan was usually the winner. She would go on and on with glazed eyes like a dervish, I'm sure she was often in a trance-like state. She would carry on despite pleas to stop, Mum would often get alarmed and in the end Vi would stop playing, and Aunt Fan was content, having beaten the pianist.
Dad would get very merry and always sang Micky Dunn's Party with roaring success with us all joining in. Neighbours Bill and Florrie Monks would sing duets and Bill would sing Thora and Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep in a fine bass voice. I would be called upon to sing Danny Boy, This I would do only if the lights were put out.
Having kept those neighbours not invited awake all night, we went proudly to bed, having achieved a kind of notoriety.
I was nine before I saw the sea. Word got round that a train outing to Littlehampton was laid on for the children of the unemployed. No tickets were sent out, for gatecrashers weren't expected as nearly every child's father was unemployed, that the few who might have gatecrashed were negligible.
We met at the top of the road on the following Thursday and linked with the large party which approached from the various meeting points, the band of the local Sea Scouts marched in front with all the kids behind, and we marched to Clapham Junction Station.
The train came, and we all piled in. Auntie Gin who had come with us to see we were alright, found herself pushed into a carriage along with us, they wanted all the help they could get.
We were each given a carrier bag containing a meat pie, sausage roll, a cheese roll and an apple, we were also given three pence each for spending money.
When we left the station at Littlehampton, we marched down the road that runs parallel to the river. We were on the opposite side of the road, and in gaps in the houses I could see the river Arun. With a great feeling of letdown I thought this was the sea. I saw the houses on the other side of the river and thought I could see France.
I said to Len 'That's France over there1 and know-it-all, not to be outdone said 'Yes and that sea is the English Channel'!
If you know Littlehampton, you will know that the sea is hidden from view by a piece of rising ground, topped by a green.
We climbed this and saw the sea at last. It was unbelievably vast, it took my breath away. It was a lovely day and the sun sparkled on the water. With shrieks and shouts according to sex, we rushed down peeling off boots and stockings as we went, and we were in it.
The sand was a great experience, we had no buckets or spades, but we did wonders with our hands.
One of the boatmen took out parties of children at three pence a time. I didn't go. For one thing the vastness scared me, and besides I was thirsty, so I bought a penny glass of lemonade made with lemonade powder, and a tuppenny stick of rock for the unfortunates who weren't able to share in this enormous experience.
At four o'clock we went to a local school where tea was laid on, bread and butter and watercress and fruit cake and plain cake.
We all ate our fill and I took a piece of plain and a piece of fruit cake, wrapped them in a paper serviette, and stuck them up the leg of my bloomers for Mum and Dad.
We went home tired and happy and very sunburned.
The one holiday of the year, which called for long drawn-out preparations, was Christmas. Dad would have bought a couple of cockerels earlier in the year, to fatten up for the feast. Apparently everyone else had done the same, for I vividly recall waking at dawn, to the sound of cocks crowing all over the neighbourhood.
About two months before Christmas, Mum would make the puddings, with the help of all us kids. We skinned almonds, stoned raisins, chopped peel and fought over the hard piece of sugar in the middle. Dad was sent to the Farmhouse for a pint of old ale, I don't know what this was, but it was very potent. L remember on one occasion Dad came in with a jug of old ale, put a poker in the fire until red hot, then plunged the poker in the ale. He have me a sip and a sip was all I could manage, for it made me gasp and my eyes watered. Dad looked quite blissful when he had drunk it. After Mum had mixed everything we were all called upon to stir. This had to be done while you made a wish. This had to be kept a secret, and much time was wasted for we kept thinking of more important wishes. Next day Mum would boil the puddings, which could not be allowed to boil dry. Several kettles of water were kept going on the range fire to top up the puddings. Mum would always make a taster in a cup to be tasted at the end of the day and we would deliver our verdict. What a smell that steam had, it had almost hidden us from each other all day, but out of the fog a disembodied voice would cry 'Oh doesn't it smell Christmassy?'. Round about this time, the important task of sending a letter to Santa Claus came up. Freddie and Tommy, Auntie Gin's two sons always joined us, but Auntie Gin never came down.
We got down to the business of writing the letter. Mum would do it. It started politely enough 'Dear Santa, We hope you are well, I would like if possible' then would follow our requests. Strangely, we always made up our minds to ask for things at Mum's suggestions, which were mostly things that could be made by amateur hands. Our requests always ended with 'And odds and ends please Santa'. These were the things we would find in our stocking, and in some ways the most important. After a polite 'Thank you Santa', Mum would fold up the letter and prepare to send it up the chimney. This was done by opening a little door in the chimney part of the range, and Mum would call out in a loud voice 'Are you there Santa?' and we would hear sleigh bells from up top. It was years later that I connected those sleigh bells with Auntie Gin's absence from the room. Mum being satisfied that Santa was ready to receive our letter put it through the door in the chimney, and the draught from the fire took it up, although either Len or Tom would swear they saw a hand reach down and take it.
Christmas Eve came, a day of pure magic, which I have never lost. All afternoon we kept out of the way because Dad would be plucking the recent crowers and Mum would be up to her elbows making mince pies, sausage rolls, jellies and blancmanges, a large piece of ham would be boiling on the stove, and the whole place smelt of spice and oranges and apples. The place had been decorated a few days earlier with chains made by we kids from strips of coloured paper. Two large purchased paper bells hung in pride of place and holly and mistletoe were everywhere.
As soon as tea was over, about four, we started to yawn and ask to go to bed. We pestered the life out of Mum, and in the end she was glad to see the back of us. We went to bed, but alas, not to sleep, we lay awake until after ten struck, and Dad came up with cups of malted milk and the news that Santa was on Clover's roof. This information frightened me to death, supposing I didn't go to sleep, Santa would be at least annoyed with me and leave me nothing, but there was the terrible thought that I would set eyes on him. This would at the very least turn me into stone. But we slept at last for a few hours, and we woke about 4am to start to undo our things. This would be done in complete darkness. One year I had been given a blackboard and easel and was surprised that Santa had forgotten to bring me any chalk, until some time later Len said 'Cor, that chocolate hasn't half made me feel sick'. As soon as we had made a rough examination of Santa's bounty, we carried everything down for Mum and Dad to see, poor things, they had only just gone to bed and could hear us all talking, and praying that it felt too cold to get us out of bed and down to them.
About 7am we got up and had our breakfast of sausages and bacon. There was no exchange of presents as now, just what was in your stocking. Mum and Dad had nothing.
A Christmas tree with small presents on it, to be drawn for by lots after tea. Auntie Gin and her boys, and Aunt Fan and her family spent Christmas with us and Mum's youngest brother, Harry, usually had leave from the Army and we were a merry crowd.
Dinner was our home-grown cockerels with stuffing and bread sauce, roast potatoes and sprouts, followed by one of Mum's puddings of loving memory and a mince pie. Only beer was drunk, tea was served for the ladies.
The fun proper began after Christmas tea. It was just like Mum's other parties with frills on. The main difference being a plentiful supply of food and there was port for the ladies and lemonade for the children. Apples and oranges were cut into halves before being passed round. Games were played, Blind Man's Buff, guessing games, and a few rather vulgar games, which were played only by the adults. Snap Dragons appeared mid-evening, Dad soaked muscat raisins in brandy and set fire to them. The light was turned out and the room was lit by the blue flames from the raisins. We grabbed at the raisins with cries of fear and bravado according to sex, these had to be grabbed while still alight and eaten. I never did very well at this. Aunt Fan's piano supplied the music, with the indefatigable Vi at the keys. We went to bed very late, most of the children slept on the floor. On Boxing Day all the male members of the party got up from breakfast and took themselves for a long walk until dinner time, leaving all the work, washing up, etc, to the Poor Bloody Idiots, in other words all the females of the party. For the rest of the holidays we would spend weekends and school holidays in Battersea Park.
What can one say of such beauty in the midst of ugliness?
It was a magical place for me. It was no good going in and saying 'I am going to the rustic bridge, deer park, aviary or any other place'. The park hid itself, and the places would pop up when you weren't looking. You would walk down a path and suddenly you would say 'Oh look there's the Old English Garden' and it would wait while you visited it. By the rustic bridge was a waterfall and peacocks, and one of my worst experiences was going with Len and Tom who took off all their clothes and stood in the waterfall, starkers. I dreaded a park keeper appearing. I imagined them being carted off without being allowed to dress, I could imagine no worse fate.
The Aviary consisted of a few cages of pretty birds, but at the side of the cages a kind of cave wherein dwelt a raven of fantastic age. We kids knew for a fact it was over three hundred years old, at least. Not for this creature the friendly poke with a stick to show there was no ill feeling, but to be approached with awe.
Some times he made an appearance out of the shadows, limp forward and utter the doom-laden word 'Allo'. At this fearful sound we took to our heels before we turned into frogs and he ate us.
On Sunday evenings a band would play in the bandstand, and the place would be packed with the whole of Battersea walking round the bandstand to listen to the band. As I reached my 'teens I would walk around with my friends, and we would keep our eyes open for suitable boys to walk with. Their opening words were always the same 'Where are you going?', 'For a walk' 'We'll come with you then' and off we would go away from the crowds and if they were fairly tasty, we would split up into pairs and join the many lovers sitting there while the faint sounds of the band drifted down, and the scent of the heliotrope in the warm summer night, and with the moon like an enormous Japanese lantern, the park was a very romantic place indeed.
More venturesome lovers would walk to the fields by the river where the funfair is now (pity that). What a sight that river was, with boats moored, and the houses on the other side of the river looking like palaces in Venice. It was a scene made for lovers.
Quick meals were always readily available, but not a Chinese or Indian anywhere in sight.
The nearest takeaway to us was the pie shop at the top of the road. You could sit down in pew-like seats if you wished. The pies were strange looking things. The crust was of paper thin pastry slightly grey in colour, and shaped like the pie dishes at home. They were filled with minced meat without any onion or other flavouring, but all the same were very tasty. Mashed potatoes went with them, the whole being covered with a thin parsley sauce, called by everyone liquor. Also available were stewed eels in liquor. Mum often had these when she was confined to bed, also a concoction called leg of beef soup was sold, and you would take a jug and get it filled 1 pint for 3d, pie and mash was 2d and mash Id and eels 3d upwards.
We had several fish and chip shops in the vicinity. The only things that have changed is the advent of fried chicken and other items. Then it was a great variety of fish, Cod, Haddock, Whiting, Skate, Plaice and Rock Salmon, a kind of dogfish, was at 2d a piece plus Id for chips. Our favourite takeaway was faggots and pease pudding or saveloys. One would take a basin with a cloth to cover it, and bring home faggots and pease pudding. There was always a lengthy wait in the shop, which smelt of savory washing-up water. After getting served we went home with the smell of sage and peas coming through the cloth. It nearly drove you mad not to put a finger in and taste it. It was unthinkable to take more than your share, it was a feast to be shared equally by everyone waiting patiently at home. A very suitable sort of Agape.
Which they were not by a long chalk.
I went to Battersea Park Road School. On the ground floor was the infants, the first floor for the girls and the top was for the boys.
I suppose my chief gripe about the school was the inability of most teachers to understand the difficulties brought about by poverty. Certainly in most cases the favourites of the teachers were the well-dressed affluent pupils.
The one big exception was the headmistress, Mrs Goldsmith, a dedicated teacher who tried to bring out every girl's potential, even the dunces she encouraged to do clay modelling. She was far in advance of her time. An ardent Socialist she refused to allow us to salute the flag_on Empire Day. A curtsey was allowed, and songs of a non-jingoistic nature were sung, Land of Hope and Glory was out, Kipling's Ressional and Jerusalem were in. My big problem was the daily lack of a-pencil, none were provided except for drawing. As soon as I got to school I would go round to the other girls and try to cadge this important item. If I was lucky the sun came out, and if unlucky brought out in front of the class as an object of scorn. In spite of this I was a bright kid, usually at the top except for arithmetic. I was not popular with the other girls, I don't know why.
One Christmas a box was put in the classroom for girls to post cards or little presents to their friends, I need hardly say I had no money to buy cards etc, and I had nothing from any of the others. I can still remember how I felt to be the only one who hadn't received at least one card. I know I felt the postbox idea a revolting one. On the way out I was going downstairs followed by Mrs Goldsmith who called me and handed me half- a-crown. She said 'I had meant it to be 5 shillings, come and get the rest after Christmas', of course I never did.
I was badly bullied by a group of girls led by one Ethel Fowler. Don't ever think bullying doesn't occur among girls, it's worse for it consists of verbal bullying. I can't remember what they would say to me, but I was terrified of them, and would try and outwit them on leaving the gates. One day I got out early and ran down a different road to my usual one and thought 'I've beaten them' they were waiting at the end of the road and Fowler said 'So you thought you'd got away from us did you?'. This went on until I left school and started work at Spiers and Ponds Laundry. On the first day I had to take something to another room and I saw a ginger head and saw it was Fowler. I could take no more and went back to my job in complete despair. A few minutes later she suddenly appeared at my side with a bag of sweets which she offered to me. I read her message, the bullying had stopped, and I would be left in peace in the future. I took a sweet and I never saw her again.
Whatever I didn't assimilate at school, it wasn't literature. Mrs Goldsmith gave me an insatiable thirst for reading good books, for this she has my deepest gratitude. I left school at fourteen although I did hardly any schooling for the last two years, I was kept home to look after the kids while Mum went charing.
Our education was very basic arithmetic, geography and history. Girls had lessons in needlework. Sometimes we made garments which on rare occasions I bought and wore. As far as I was concerned I got the most out of what was on offer, it wasn't a lot, but it led to my continual self- education from then until now. Reading has been my first love.
Our games varied from solo ones to those where as many as a dozen or more could play, girls and boys played different. One of the most popular games for a large number was Tag. One person would chase the others and as soon as she touched another, held hands and chased the others until a long chain was formed. This game was frowned upon, now I can see it was quite a dangerous one, for a long chain of girls could knock over little children, or get us run over.
Another popular game played by several girls was All the Boys in our Town. We all stood in a circle holding hands and we sang, if I can remember it properly.
All the boys in our town
Lead a happy life
Excepting ?name
And he wants a wife,
A wife he shall have
A' courting he will go
Down the road along the lane
Because he loves her so
He kisses her he cuddles her
He sits her on his knee
He says my dear Do you love me
I love you and you love me
And next Sunday morning
The wedding shall be
Up comes the doctor up comes the nurse
Up comes a little boy in a white shirt.
One of the most popular solo games was played with a ball. You would bounce the ball to the following words cocking a leg over at the end of every line.
One, two three a'lairy
My ball's down the airy,
Don't forget to give to
Eena Deena diner doe.
I think airy means area or basement. There were many ball games, skipping games and hopscotch played by the girls. The boys had rougher games, one was particularly frowned upon. It was a sort of Hare and Hounds. One half of the players hid their eyes while the other half ran off to hide. The leader of the hounds would have a tin can and would bang it three times on the ground and call loudly three times 'Jimmy Knacker, I'm a'coming'. Then they would go off to hunt for the quarry. The roles would then be reversed.
Sometimes we played more mischievous games. At the beginning of winter when the days started to get short, we would go out after tea until bedtime and get up to tricks. We would sit down under Becket's Wall and watch the lamplighter come round and light the street lamps. There would be a faint halo round each light and a faint mist all round smelling of the usual London smoke. At the end of the road the baked chestnut man's brazier glowed in the dusk. I loved those magical evenings. Our tricks must have annoyed our victims very much.
We took a button, a pin, and a long piece of thread, tied the button to the thread, and with the pin, fastened it to the window frame opposite. We would sit still and gently lift the thread which caused the button to tap the window and a voice would call out 'Mum there's someone tapping at the window' Mum would come out and say 'There's no one there' a few minutes later we would repeat the tapping, and this would go on until we were called into bed at 7pm.
We played many imaginative games, Shipwreck being a favourite. On Sundays Mum and Dad would like a bit of a lie in, and we kids were supposed to keep quiet until breakfast time. On Sunday mornings we would look on the bedroom mantle piece and look for what had been put out for us, perhaps a couple of toffees or biscuits, sometimes a scribbling pad and pencil. We would dispose of these and turn our attention to Shipwreck, Len had a small wooden rowing boat about IV2 inches long. One Sunday Mum and Dad could hear strange sounds coming from our room. Breaking a dead silence would come the words, 'Heave' and 'Save me, Save me1. Mum crept down to our room and quietly opened the door. She saw me and my doll on the boy's bed, Tom and Harry with a sheet over the side were saying 'Heave, heave'. Len was sitting on the tine rowing boat with his bare bottom in the air, clutching the sheet and saying 'Save me, save me1. Mum lifted her hand and brought it down on Len's bare bottom saying 'Save that you bugger'. Len leapt in the air like jet- propelled and landed on the bed. For the rest of the day Mum and Dad appeared to be having attacks of hysterics.
Sometimes all the boys would get together and stroll around the streets singing:
We are the Battersea Boys,
We know our manners,
We spend all our tanners,
We are respected wherever we go,
Always playing on the old banjo,
All the windows open wide,
I ti iddly I ti I
All the girls began to cry
We are the Battersea Boys.
About once a month we would chalk on the fence in our backyard a
A Grand Concert
Saturday at 3pm
Billing as follows:-
With a Song and a dance, Florrie Johnson (me)
Jokes and riddles by Tom Johnson and Len Poole.
Finale a stirring story of Falcon Swift the sporting 'Tec and Chick Conway his assistant.
Admission Id.
The audience went into the yard next door and paid us their halfpennies. Those who couldn't pay were let in anyway. I started off the programme, singing and dancing through Peggy O'Neill to I'm One of the Knuts from Barcelona.
No mean soubrette. I would finish my act with an exhibition of the Charleston and Black Bottom. If I was too enthusiastic on the latter the kids cheered and Mum would come out and yank me indoors and everyone asked for their money back. For the final item a stirring cops and robbers chase had to be cancelled as I always insisted on being Falcon Swift, with hair tucked inside an old trilby and a curtain ring for a monocle. We would climb on top of the outside loo and jump into a strategically placed zinc bath full of straw. We did this many times until the audience tired. One day Freddy, Auntie Gin's elder son was playing Chick Conway and missed the bath and hit his head on the concrete yard. We carried an unconscious Freddy indoors where Dr Voller was hastily summoned. Concussion was diagnosed and this ended thereafter the Adventures of Falcon Swift the Sporting 'Tec.
To replace this we would act out what we saw at the tuppenny rush at the York Radium cinema. This was a serial called The White Rider with Ruth Roland left in a perilous situation each week. This was a Western with a shootout hiding behind the dustbins.
The York Radium was situated in York Road just past The Prince's Head. The outside was no more than a shop front really, with a roll-up shutter opened and shut by means of a long pole. I don't recall how we managed to get our tuppences but there were many ways for me, taking someone's baby for a ride in its pram, cleaning a door step or running errands. I expect it was similar for the boys.
It was well named the tuppenny rush. Hordes of children were waiting for it to and as soon as the man appeared with the pole to lift up the shutter, everyone rushed in to get the best seats. If the rush was too great the shutter was pulled down again, trapping some of the kids halfway in. Len was always one of these. He would lie with his head and arms inside the cinema with his bottom half outside, he wriggled like a fly on a pin. However, at last we were all admitted, and rushed to find seats while the pianist played appropriately The Entry of the Gladiators. We settled in our seats, and there was much peeling of oranges and throwing of peel, most of which landed on the pianist, who undeterred carried on playing to cheers and slow handclaps. After a lot of jeering about delays the show commenced at last.
There was always a Felix the Cat cartoon, a main picture and the serial The White Rider. We couldn't go every week and we lost track of the story, but it never spoilt our pleasure.
More sedate entertainment came our way during the winter months. Concerts were put on by the local Conservatives in aid of party funds. These were held in St Saviour's Church Hall and tickets were three pence. We never ever paid for these tickets, but some would come into our possession, and Tom, Len and I would patronise them. The Hall would be filled with kids and a smattering of well-dressed, well-spoken adults. Some of the turns were alright, then appeared a large lady, 18 stone at least, wearing a very low-cut evening dress of black lace, and a chiffon handkerchief clutched between her hands. With heaving bosom she informed us she had Fairies at the Bottom of her Garden. As the song progressed the heaving bosom became more pronounced, and from the audience came a plebeian, juvenile voice, 'Look out Missus, your dumplings are boiling over'.
Our only visit to the legitimate theatre was when Auntie Gin took us to the Grand, Clapham Junction, about 1920, we saw Cinderella. It was an occasion full of contrasts for me, disappointment and ecstasy.
My first disappointment was the appearance of Prince Charming. Instead of a handsome prince an obviously very buxom girl whom instead of singing romantic songs to Cinderella, sang things like How ya gonna keep 'em down on the farm? after they've seen Paree. However, the Ball was all that I could desire.
Up until now I have told of the more congenial times in our lives, Christmas and parties, but life was not always like that, I have mentioned that Dad was often unemployed either through a lockout or his job suddenly ending, it was the 20's.
One of the most iniquitous things in those days was that when a man had been drawing dole for a while he had to come off for about a week to encourage him to find work. Dad didn't need coercion of that kind. During that period of no money we asked for Parish Relief, how reluctantly it was given! Mum would get a 5 shilling grocery ticket with stamped across it Not to be used for Bread. On one occasion the day after my brother Jim was born, when Mum saw the particularly small amount we'd been given and took us all, baby as well, round to the relief office, threw the ticket back at the officer and demanded admittance to the House (The Workhouse). At these dire words, we kids clung to Mum's skirts and howled 'We don't want to go, Mum don't make us1. Mum knew what she was doing however, and the relieving officer coughed up a little more. It was sometime after this, that this particular officer was sent to prison for feathering his nest at the expense of those who should have had relief. One really uncomfortable thing would happen when we were on relief. On Mondays Mum drew a pension for Tom and I as war orphans. A small amount, I can't remember how much, and Mum would send us round to old Cousin's in Sheepcote Lane, a filthy place but he sold pennyworth's of jam. His shop was the front room of his cottage and unbelievably dirty. On the counter would be several 7lb stone jars of jam with a wooden spoon stuck in each one, flies encrusted the tops of the jars and flew up in a cloud when he served from each one. He had a curious habit of making a sucking noise with his teeth as he served which quite put one off. However, we would get our 2d worth of jam and take it back home where Mum had laid a white tablecloth. She was always house proud even in the worst times. Waiting on the table at each place was our ration of bread and marge. We always had cottage loaves and our ration was 2 slices off the bottom and one off the top. I hated having my bread doled out to me and would hide my ration behind the teapot so I could take one slice at a time. This practice of rationing offended me deeply. The jam would be transferred to a dish and put on the table.
Sometimes during teatime we would have a visitor. This usually took the form of a youngish well-dressed woman, I beg her pardon, Lady, sweetly scented with charming manners. She had come to see we were not squandering our relief I suppose. She would look all round, remark on the fire in the range, then she would transfer her look to the table and would say 'A nice white tablecloth and jam. I can't afford jam for my tea'. Her words and attention would make the bread and illicit jam stick in my craw. One of Mum's worries was keeping us reasonably clothed. New clothes were out, but at the end of some of the roads would be a barrow containing old clothes. We called them old tot barrows. Mum would take us to these and try garments up against us for size. I resented this especially when the garments were of a more intimate kind. However, I have known Mum to rig us all out for ten bob.
She also knitted in every spare moment, jerseys for the boys, jumpers for me. There was never a pattern, they were quite shapeless, nevertheless they were warm for the winter. As I have described elsewhere Dad mended our boots.
Sometimes they fell apart and a major disaster occurred. Our Sunday school teachers were paying for us to go on the treat, but on the Sunday we should have attended and got our tickets, it was raining so we didn't go, in any case Mum didn't want us to go with holes in our boots. Looking out of the front room window the following week we called to Mum 'Here comes Mr Cooper'. He and the other three teachers came up Kennard Street and saw us looking, so Mum had to open the door. They had plimsolls for us all.
Mum's ability to feed us was a miracle almost as great as the loaves and fishes at this time she and Dad had six children, one more came later. I would be sent to the butcher to ask for fourpenn'orth of pieces for the dog. I'm sure the butcher knew there was no dog, for he would cut off quite choice pieces as well as the dried up pieces he trimmed off the joints. Mum would stew these pieces, a mixture of beef, pork and lamb with a pennyworth of herbs, this was one onion, one carrot and one turnip, a tasty stew would be the result. I always enjoyed it, especially as we were able to run to dumplings. Sometimes we would buy a cod's head for twopence. Mum would cook it and remove all the edible flesh and cover with a watery parsley sauce. A joint for roasting would be a breast of lamb for four pence.
Breakfast was always the usual ration of bread, and tea was the same. On occasions when Dad was in work we had little treats for tea, like a smoked haddock shared among us all, or half a kipper, or on Sundays watercress or winkles.
There were many times I would have liked another slice of bread, especially when the weather was cold.
We always had a nice fire for Mum earned a few bob charing, so our evenings were pleasantly warm. Our bread was bought from a shop some miles away.
It was stale and therefore cheap. We older kids would get it after school, and the baker always gave us a bag of stale buns, this was our perks and we were allowed to eat them on the way home.
Mum would sometimes buy a marrow bone, and boil it for hours on the range, when enough nourishment had been extracted, Mum strained the broth, added a packet of Pearce Duff's pea flour, and we had a bowl of that with a slice of bread for our dinner.
We all looked well-nourished except me who was a skinny, lanky thing. The worst deprivations were spared us, we had warm food inside us, a warm house, and although poorly, warmly clad.
Things got much easier as we grew up and went out to work. In 1933, Mum decided the time had come to get away. Ably abetted by me who had had enough of squalor and bugs, and yearned for more gracious living, Mum and I visited estate agents in Cheam to rent a house, there were plenty in those days. We found one but it was half-a-crown a week more than Mum wanted to pay, I recklessly offered to give Mum this sum each week in addition to the pound I was giving her.
We moved in August, exactly 16 years to the month when we arrived in Battersea. It was with deep thanksgiving that I moved I didn't realise until much later that when we threw the bath water away the baby went with it. Never again were we to know the friendship and neighbourliness of our former life.
Mum decided we should have all new furniture on the never-never she didn't want to take any b-flats with us.
Our living room was no longer the kitchen but a dining-cum-living room. Our front room was promoted to a lounge and contained a pale Indian carpet, and the suite covers were of chintz. It delighted my heart and of course Mum's.
We would get election fever even at the local elections, but for me, the whole election scene is condensed into the 1924 election when Battersea returned a Communist MP. This was Sakalavala, he also made history by being the first coloured MP.
In some ways this is the only election I remember although I do recall political happenings at a later date. During the General Strike 1926. I had to go to Battersea High Street. Gathered in a large crowd were men listening to a speaker. They were quite orderly. At the end of the High Street were mounted police, and at a signal they rushed down the road. I was in the middle of the road bewildered at what was happening, when one of the men grabbed me and pulled me into a shop doorway. He not only saved me, but as it happened saved himself for the police were hitting out with their truncheons and arresting people.
It soon all died down, and the man said 'It's all right now Cocker, go straight home'.
The 1924 election is particularly memorable for the jingle we used to sing:
Vote, Vote, Vote for Sakalavala,
Hogbin's knocking on the door,
When we get old Sakki in,
Then the good times will begin,
And we'll never vote for Hogbin any more.
Hogbin, the Conservative candidate, lived in Battersea Park Road, right in the middle of our area. I'm ashamed to confess he suffered a great deal from we kids. Ranging from simple Knocking down Ginger to having his keyhole filled with tar. We meant no harm to him as a person, it was just our way of being in the fight, to make the poor man's life as miserable as possible. I'll say this for him, he bore it all with patience, and none of us reaped the harvest of our misdeeds.
Mum, Dad and Auntie Gin enjoyed the election enormously. They went out one evening to a Conservative meeting at the Town Hall. They came home laughing their heads off, Mum and Aunt Gin smelling strongly of gin and cloves. I kept asking them what had happened but their hilarity stopped them from replying.
I pulled Dad's sleeve and said 'Yes, but what did you do?' 'We told bloody old Beaverbrook where to get off Dad said quite soberly.
At one point in the election or was it when he was returned, I can't remember, I was in a procession with Sakalavala in the middle, I think he was going to take his seat in the Commons. There was a brass band at the head, Sakalavala in the middle, and a motley crowd of men, women and kids marching along behind, we were all singing.
We thought the Millennium had started, I thought it again in 1945 but I look at our country today, self-interest, and the devil take the hindmost attitudes, and it just about breaks my heart. No one hardly thinks of the less fortunate, in those days most of us cared, now it's appeal to the basest instincts. I hear those instincts with voices now 'flog 'em' 'Hang 'em' 'Scrounger' 'Malingerers' 'Send 'em back where they belong', I'm fed up with the parrot cries.
I feel it will be a mistake if the Labour Party ever begins to pander to those instincts. I suppose in a way Labour is the victim of its own reforms. I remember reading something like that some years ago. It was dear old Bernard Shaw who said, I can't quote verbatim, but it was to the affect that as people's living standards improve and they can become more successful they automatically become Conservatives. I never shall. I remember the sacrifices we all made. Even living through those times and conditions was i sacrifice in itself. I think of Mum's struggle to raise a family of some quality. What a waste. I can't think of an answer. Perhaps some great calamity to hit the Nation might do it - another war perhaps - for I firmly believe man can only rise on the wings of suffering.